If someone had told me that the new James Bond novel had been written by a food and fashion critic rather than a novelist, I would have believed it.
In honor of the 100th anniversary of 007 creator Ian Fleming's birth, a new Bond novel was commissioned by his estate and Ian Fleming Publications (his literary business) and it's the first published in six years. Sebastian Faulks was chosen--a curious choice, as he is known mostly for "literature" and not thrillers. It's now apparent why he appeared to be a good selection, because he has the ability to mimic Fleming's style... but unfortunately he is not able to reproduce Fleming's flair for storytelling. The cover legend "Sebastian Faulks writing as Ian Fleming" turns out to be a joke, really, because DEVIL MAY CARE straddles the fine line between pastiche and parody. It was as if Faulks sat down with a checklist of "Bondian Stuff" and proceeded to make sure every page was full of it--so much so that the work becomes annoying and, frankly, laughable. Fleming was often accused of "sex, sadism, and snobbery," but in Faulks' book, only the snobbery is apparent. There is way too much brand-name-dropping and food description. Fleming did this but he made it an art and used it sparingly. Here, there seems to be a meal or a drink or clothing described in painstaking detail in every sequence--all to the detriment of plot and characterization.
Hardcore Fleming fans will be quick to point out the various errors Faulks has made with regard to the Bond canon, but these are minor and can be forgiven. After all, other continuation authors have made mistakes as well, and even Fleming committed the occasional factual error. What is more problematic is that Faulks has written a by-the-numbers Bond story that feels more like a treatment for an unproduced Roger Moore-style Bond movie. The tone and attitude in the book is too flippant and light. One can feel the author winking at us, as if to say, "See what I'm doing? I'm writing a *James Bond novel*!"
The plot is silly. There is no good reason why M sends 007 out to shadow the villain (who has what the author must have thought was a Fleming-esque deformity--a monkey's paw--but that really is parodic!). Events happen without cause and effect. Bond is suddenly a tennis champ but there is no evidence in the 007 canon that Bond ever played tennis. He walks blindly into suspicious scenarios as if he had the brains of a rookie (he's probably thinking about what he's going to wear and what he's going to have for dinner!). The villain, Dr. Julius Gorner (couldn't the author have come up with a better first name, since we've already had a "Dr. Julius"--Dr. Julius No?), is ineffectual and provides no real threat that we, as readers, can feel. Fleming, known for his "Fleming Effect," could write a story that compelled readers to keep turning the pages. Faulks fails miserably in that regard. There is no suspense whatsoever.
It is sad that this poor excuse of a Bond novel was chosen to celebrate Fleming's centenary. What is more remarkable is the amount of money spent to promote it. The former authors--Kingsley Amis, John Gardner, and Raymond Benson--never benefitted from this kind of promotion. This book is simply not worth the hoopla. Raymond Benson came up with infinitely better plots and villains; John Gardner captured the page-turning sweep of Fleming's storytelling; and Kingsley Amis was a better imitator of Fleming's style. But no one can top Fleming himself.
The worst sin that Faulks has committed, though, is producing a "James Bond thriller" that has no thrills. And that is unforgivable.