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Novels. Bond Novels.
Even as I was putting together a post that dwelt somewhat on "I don't read as much prose fiction as I could, caught between supposing I'm overwhelmed by the subtle complexity of anything 'respectable' and looking down on everything else," I was working through some novels I'd found in a somewhat unusual way. A few years ago, I heard that "life plus" copyright terms on novels are shorter in Canada than in some countries, and that Ian Fleming's James Bond novels were now in the public domain. An anthology of new, unauthorized stories marked that news, but I suppose that, along with wondering about "fanfiction" being one of those things I don't read much any more such that it threatens to feel about the personal hangups and dissatisfactions of others on display, I wasn't familiar with the original work to begin with. Then, I happened on an offbranch of "Project Gutenberg" that did offer ebook versions of most of the original novels, and other works from authors who died as late as the 1960s. (I've also managed to read Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar, and found it interesting. Since then, however, I've been ordered to take umbrage at the revised continental trade deal threatening to extend copyright terms up here. Although concerned, I'm also just trying to save what's available now to my own computer.)
James Bond seems one of those fictional characters everyone knows something about just by reputation, but perhaps the old, oft-expressed undercurrent "they may keep making movies, but I only like the ones with Sean Connery" might have pushed me away a bit. My parents collected DVD sets of the James Bond movies a while ago, but out of them I only watched Goldfinger, Thunderball, and You Only Live Twice, just perhaps intent on getting a better handle on the "James Bond ripoffs" in the Mystery Science Theater 3000 canon. When I started into the first novel in the series, though, even aware as I was that Casino Royale had given the movie franchise a shot in the arm a while ago I started thinking the book of that title was more serious and less "camp" than I'd supposed. The assorted sensual pleasures, action, and bursts of rough stuff had something compelling to them even as I kept working into the books that followed, noticing their travelogue component as well.
One thing I did think about a bit was that there didn't seem any great exploration of character, which does seem one place where fiction gets high marks for "respectability." Even so, where I have wondered a bit in the past about "overcompetent characters" in fiction, Bond himself didn't feel overbearing. It might have been as simple a matter as him having enough of an implied past to suppose he'd come by his skills through practice, which could point out how "some" to "a good number" of the stories I've been taking in through other media have younger characters. Too, there didn't seem to be that especially tripping-up sense of "fictional characters are supposed to triumph over challenges, but those who become especially infamous don't seem to find anything a challenge."
If I did get to wondering about anything, it was whether I was managing to find the books as unregenerate as I might have thought them to be beforehand. Even I now find myself looking back at certain works of science fiction with a feeling of "they could imagine anything except that men like them (or, at least, the men they wanted to be) might have to treat people different than them in race or gender as equals"; I could almost wonder if these novels, merely "of a time," risked drawing some into unpleasant territories. It was almost a relief to get to From Russia With Love and think "yeah, that seems misogynistic." The cliffhanger of that novel, with Fleming not the first author to try and dispose of a character only to return to him later, did have me thinking about the books ahead even so. Still, with a vague sense they would keep drifting from "lurking Soviets" to "Bond villains" I was wondering whether I really had heard the fifth novel in the series marked a point of inflection.
James Bond seems one of those fictional characters everyone knows something about just by reputation, but perhaps the old, oft-expressed undercurrent "they may keep making movies, but I only like the ones with Sean Connery" might have pushed me away a bit. My parents collected DVD sets of the James Bond movies a while ago, but out of them I only watched Goldfinger, Thunderball, and You Only Live Twice, just perhaps intent on getting a better handle on the "James Bond ripoffs" in the Mystery Science Theater 3000 canon. When I started into the first novel in the series, though, even aware as I was that Casino Royale had given the movie franchise a shot in the arm a while ago I started thinking the book of that title was more serious and less "camp" than I'd supposed. The assorted sensual pleasures, action, and bursts of rough stuff had something compelling to them even as I kept working into the books that followed, noticing their travelogue component as well.
One thing I did think about a bit was that there didn't seem any great exploration of character, which does seem one place where fiction gets high marks for "respectability." Even so, where I have wondered a bit in the past about "overcompetent characters" in fiction, Bond himself didn't feel overbearing. It might have been as simple a matter as him having enough of an implied past to suppose he'd come by his skills through practice, which could point out how "some" to "a good number" of the stories I've been taking in through other media have younger characters. Too, there didn't seem to be that especially tripping-up sense of "fictional characters are supposed to triumph over challenges, but those who become especially infamous don't seem to find anything a challenge."
If I did get to wondering about anything, it was whether I was managing to find the books as unregenerate as I might have thought them to be beforehand. Even I now find myself looking back at certain works of science fiction with a feeling of "they could imagine anything except that men like them (or, at least, the men they wanted to be) might have to treat people different than them in race or gender as equals"; I could almost wonder if these novels, merely "of a time," risked drawing some into unpleasant territories. It was almost a relief to get to From Russia With Love and think "yeah, that seems misogynistic." The cliffhanger of that novel, with Fleming not the first author to try and dispose of a character only to return to him later, did have me thinking about the books ahead even so. Still, with a vague sense they would keep drifting from "lurking Soviets" to "Bond villains" I was wondering whether I really had heard the fifth novel in the series marked a point of inflection.