The beginning of the James Bond stories.

And what an odd beginning.

Yes, we are introduced to Bond and provided some backstory, we know that his 00 nomenclature is because he has killed and is licensed to kill again in his service to Queen and country. We learn that he is a spy and a gambler, a heavy smoker and likes his vodka martini (shaken not stirred).

But this is almost more of a romance. Fleming describes a decidedly more vulnerable and human Bond than has been portrayed in films. Fleming, then a 45-year-old first time writer, drew from his experience as a British naval intelligence officer during WWII and journalist to color his narrative about a secret agent. I imagined Fleming writing in the early 50s, the war with Germany still fresh on his mind and the paradigm shift to the cold war with communism ongoing, before the films and the popular success.

The short novel is fairly straightforward. Bond, a talented card player, is sent to beat and discredit a rogue Russian spy in a high stakes baccarat game. He is accompanied and supported by a beautiful English operative and Felix Leiter, an American CIA agent.

A good beginning, not what I expected, but entertaining and drawing the reader on to more Bond adventures.

Casino Royale by Ian Fleming was a truly marvelous classic.

I can totally understand why this book is considered one of the classic and first spy novels. It felt exactly like what I would expect a James Bond book to be - full of thrills, surprise twists and turns, double agents, alcohol, gambling and pretty women.

My favourite part of this book is that it wasn't exactly like a James Bond film - this James Bond made errors along the way and wasn't the perfect spy. He was headstrong and did what he thought was best (even if it wasn't the best plan). It made Bond feel like a real person.

I also really enjoyed the writing style. Mr. Fleming's writing felt elegant and perfectly placed for a spy thriller. I was enchanted along the ride and loved the word choice. It felt more royal, like the English Secret Service should be. On top of that, the heroes, heroine and villain all feel like actual people instead of characters. It was the way and tone of Ian Fleming's words that made it feel so real instead of just written words.

That being said, it was a lovely read. I would highly recommend these books to those who love thrillers and want to see the history of the genre. I found the book really intriguing. I might not continue reading the series but I did really like it book. It was a nice change from my normal read.

Three out of five stars.

Rating: well, why not? 3* of five

Oops! Forgot one. This is 1967's film version I'm discussing, not the book, which was *awful*. That's not fair...it's not horrid writing, it's just so very very very dated and not in a good way. Kind of a time capsule of what was wrong with 1954.

Ya know...this film version was pretty damn lame, too. What redeems it is the sheer balls-out what-did-I-just-watch comedic pace of the thing. David Niven is LUDICROUS as Bond, but good as this character who isn't Bond but is called Bond. The return of Ursula Andress, this time as superspy Vesper Lynd (not to be mistaken for 2006's Vesper, completely different character), is notable; but the turn to the comedic and ridiculous is signalled by Bond having a child by Mata Hari, yclept Mata Bond.

It was one of the many moments where I rolled my eyes so hard I think I saw my brain. There's a bit with a flying saucer in London that convinced me I was having an LSD flashback.

Don't go into the film thinking it's a Bond flick and maybe it's okay...but frankly, it feels a little too Sixties-hip-via-Hollywood for me to do more than smile faintly.

Why watch it, then? Because David Niven is very good at being urbanely nuts. It's a meta-performance. If he arched his eyebrow any higher, he's lose it in his receding hairline. Because Ursula Andress is classic as Vesper. Because Orson Welles is endearingly baffled as Le Chiffre, seeming not to have seen a script before being shoved in front of the camera. It's like a Warhol-movie moment. If you're a straight guy, Jacqueline Bisset and Barbara Bouchet are pneumatically endowed. But Peter Sellers was a major disappointment to me. Clouseau was his only character at that point, I guess. Blah.

Fun. Not Bond, but fun. Sort of.

I give Casino Royale a low rating because it wasn't by any stretch of the imagination compulsive. I sort of enjoyed it, but I could live without it. Which doesn't mean I'm not going to read the other Bond books -- I am, at least a few, because Bond is this huge cultural thing that I've absorbed by osmosis, but only to some extent. The books are actually my first direct encounter with Bond.

(Yes, I lived to the age of twenty-two years and two days before I ever had a direct encounter with James Bond. Seriously.)

It's misogynistic and melodramatic, and the number of monologues is ridiculous, but there's something compelling about Bond and the world he inhabits. Part of it is trying to see what so many have seen before me.

I completely love the James Bond-movies; I've seen all of them and my boyfriend and I even went to the movie-exposition in Amsterdam last year (very awesome). When I came across a beautiful collection of all the books on the BookDepository, my interest was caught (yes, I'm a sucker for packaging thát much). As a bookworm, why not read the books by Ian Fleming, where the movies were originally based on? And so I did, starting with the first book in the series, published in 1953, Casino Royale.

"Mine’s Bond – James Bond."

In Casino Royale we get introduced with the character of James Bond; a 00 agent ("double o"), namely 007, working for MI6. The 00 Section is the elite of the secret service with agents that hold a licence to kill. Bond receives an assignment: he is to out gamble Le Chiffre, an agent of SMERSH and the villain in this book, in the Casino Royale in France. To complete this mission, he gets assistance of Mathis, from the French secret service, and Vesper Lynd.

"The villains and heroes get all mixed up. Patriotism comes along and makes it seem fairly all right, but this country-right-or-wrong business is getting a little out-of-date. Today we are fighting communism. Okay. If I'd been alive fifty years ago, the brand of conservatism we have today would have been damn near called communism and we should have been told to go and fight that. History is moving pretty quickly these days and the heroes and villains keep on changing parts."

For me, the beauty of Casino Royale was the atmosphere. Ian Fleming describes every detail in a scene; from the suit James wears, to the curtains hanging in the room, to the rules of the game of baccarat. I understand that for some people this seems really slow and boring, but for me this was a delight to read. I just absolutely loved the atmosphere. Also, all the little "spy"-details, which I doubt are based on true facts, are quite funny. Like the hair Bond lays over his drawers, so he can see if someone opens it when he is out.

“A dry martini,' he said. 'One. In a deep champagne goblet.' ...
Just a moment. Three measures of Gordon's, one of vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet. Shake it very well until it's ice-cold, then add a large thin slice of lemon-peel. Got it?”

What I didn't like, was the extreme sexism and women-unfriendly side of Bond. James has several rants in his head about the stupidity of women, especially Vesper. At one point, when she is kidnapped, he has a sort of conversation with himself stating that it is her own fault and that he will most definitely sacrifice her for the sake of the mission, if it would come to that. James Bond may seem like an charming womanizer in the movies; in the book(s) he is a harsh, cold and cruel sexist. Considering the fact this book was published sixty years ago and women weren't at the point they are now, I took the sexism for granted. But I can't say that I think that Ian Fleming was an enjoyable man.

"And then there was this pest of a girl. He sighed. Women were for recreation. On a job, they got in the way and fogged things up with sex and hurt feelings and all the emotional baggage they carried around. One had to look out for them and take care of them.
"Bitch," said Bond, and then remembering the Muntzes, he said "bitch" again more loudly and walked out of the room."

Casino Royale was an enjoyable and easy to read book. I flew through it. I loved the atmosphere, the story was catchy and I'm definitely curious for the next part in the series. The torture scene that is also shown in the 2006 movie adaptation is absolutely epic. The only thing I disliked was the sexist side of Bond, which made me doubt the character of writer Ian Fleming himself. Yet, this remained a very fun read.

"People are islands. They don't really touch. However close they are, they're really quite separate."

When I finally got around to reading this book I was in for more than a few surprises. And it was not as if I went in blind. I was aware that the movies--even the Daniel Craig vehicles--were different from the books. And I had read Thunderball years ago, though it was during the observation period after a car accident; it was the only book of fiction in the room and all I can remember is that I didn’t care for it.

My first surprise was at how well written Casino Royale is, particularly since I had heard of Ian Fleming’s lack of critical respect. I can only assume it was more a question of subject matter and tone than his narrative prowess. Another surprise was that while we share thoughts with Bond, there remained a certain lack of intimacy. I felt we never got much insight into 007. Fleming painted more vivid pictures of the supporting players: Vesper Lynd certainly, and to a lesser extent Mathis and Felix Leiter. Perhaps this was intentional in order to give Bond’s final scene--and the last line of the book--more impact. If that was the goal, at least that part was successful.

As was the main casino sequence. Fleming loved sports and games and endeavored to include them in his work whenever possible. That showed here. Bond’s showdown with Le Chiffre at the baccarat table was everything it could be.

But there were plenty of negatives, some serious. First of all, I kept waiting for something to happen. A lot of time--for me, too much--was spent inside Bond's head. Again, because I felt we didn’t learn much about the man, this compounded the feeling that there was too much “waiting around.” And then there is the matter of following a protagonist who never once manages to save himself. He was saved from a bomb by luck. He was saved from another bitter loss by Leiter’s care package. And he was saved one other time [from Le Chiffre’s torture by SMERSH]. Actually, Bond did manage to save himself once, but even then there lingered this feeling that if the confrontation had not happened in full view of multiple witnesses, Bond would have been left dead on the floor.

I don’t mind mistakes by the hero. They should all make some, whether the series is realistic or fantastic. But by the time a villain says to Bond, “You are not equipped, my dear boy, to play games with adults,” I find myself agreeing with him.

My last complaint is muted to some extent by the fact that the book is sixty some-odd years old. It took place in an era when the only reason characters’ needed to fall in love (in any medium) was that they were alone together in a story that required it. While the attraction between Bond and Vesper was ever-present from the beginning, love seemed unlikely, particularly as they were never on the same wavelength for any period of time. This is particularly true at that beach resort, where, again, there seemed to be a lot of wasted time; I again found myself “willing” for something to happen.

Was it worth the read? Maybe as a curiosity. Will I follow up? I was somewhat intrigued by the character and those who have read the series have promised more evolution to Bond, at least in the first couple of books. And it might be interesting to see how the movies and the accompanying fame affected Fleming’s work. But somehow I doubt I’ll be back. It didn’t do enough for me.

n  [Reprinted and updated from a message board post I’d written in early 2006.]n

I got back into Bond from the comics adaptations that are being made by Dynamite, meant to be in keeping with the original tone of Ian Fleming's novels. I had read some of them over the years, but like most people, when I think of Bond I think of Sean Connery: Suave, sophisticated, urbane, vodka martini (shaken, not stirred), fast cars, the latest guns and gadgets, great clothes, and hot women. My sister and I used to watch all the movies again and again and we assessed the hotness of the women and their worthiness for Bond. The look had to be right, and increasingly, they had to have physical skills in addition to sexual ones (of which you actually never saw evidence, really, in the PG movies).

In rereading (through listening to) Casino Royale today for five hours in the car, I was struck by how dated and sexist the (1953) book is with respect to women, but if you like Bond films, even today's versions, you don't expect deeply feminist stories. Casino Royale is basically divided into three parts: 1) Bond teaching us to play Baccarat at the Casino Royale; 2) Bond being (extensively) tortured by the guy whose money he won, and 3) a romance Bond has with a woman named Vesper. There's also a kind of philosophical discussion in which Bond reveals he is burned-out, a sort of nihilist/existentialist, and a sophisticated by hard, unsentimental spy who has murdered to achieve the 007 designation but who is decidedly not in favor of working with women.

The mainly surprising part is the way Bind falls for Vesper, to a consideration of marriage. The surprising turn of events in the end may have something to do with Bond's cooly aloof relationship with women in the later works of the series, but my impression is that the first Fleming glimpse of Bond is both tougher (the torture, the murders, the unsentimental hard edge to his talk and demeanor) and then softer (he speaks of love and marriage in a matter of days?! Is this Romeo and Juliet?) than the Bond we meet in the movies, with the possible exception of the brooding Daniel Craig version.

Surprisingly most of the plot of the movie is in the book minus the parkour scenes in Africa. Bond is a cold ruthless bastard. It's hard to get past the sexism of the era (The book was written in 1953.), and there's a lot of it in here. The plot is slow and plodding in places, especially the beginning. The excitement picks up after the baccarat scene. It's definitely a cold war era spy novel with lots of double crosses and twists and turns. Definitely not the best Bond novel, but first books for a character rarely are.

The movie is way better. The spy story is good, but the casino scenes and the romance are terribly boring. Clearly, what constitutes cool has changed a lot since 1953. I rather doubt that smoking 70 cigarettes a day and guzzling stiff drinks would keep your mind sharp and your body in shape enough for spy work.

I expected misogyny, but not the bloodcurling levels of it:

"These blithering women who thought they could do a man's work. Why the hell couldn't they stay at home and mind their pots and pans and stick to their frocks and gossip and leave the men's work to the men? "

Vesper is incredibly beautiful, but alternately cold, or feeble, emotional and submissive. Bond wants to screw her from the start (apparently this was ok in work situations in the fifties). Fleming's idea of a sex scene is crude, and he thinks rape is something to spice up your love life with:

"And he knew that she was profoundly, excitingly sensual, but that the conquest of her body, because of the central privacy in her, would each time have the tang of rape".

I enjoyed the action, and the writing was pretty good, but the rampant misogyny, Vesper's stupid characterization, and the insipid, creepy love story really turned me off.

Ma che triste questo romanzo. :-(

Vabbè, partiamo dall’inizio. Non avevo mai letto nessun libro di Ian Fleming, nonostante il fatto di aver visto moltissimi film tratti dalla serie di “007”. La molla è scattata due giorni fa, quando una conoscente mi ha prestato il DVD di “Casino Royale”, nel quale il celebre agente è interpretato da Daniel Craig, che sarebbe questo qui:



Già un bel vedere di suo, direi. :-D
[Arwen, per favore, ricomponiti.]
(Ok, ok, come non detto.)

Dicevo … ho guardato “Casino Royale” e mi sono divertita una cifra. Era tanto tempo che non vedevo un film così genuinamente di svago, con situazioni esagerate e del tutto inverosimili, ma al contempo accattivanti. Avevo bisogno di tirare un po’ il fiato e non pensare.

Anche se, alla fine, mi sono sentita un po’ stremata io al posto James Bond, che:
1) va su di corsa dalle impalcature da far invidia a una scimmia;
2) salta da una trave all’altra meglio di un saltamartino;
3) si arrampica su una gru come neanche King Kong avrebbe saputo fare;
4) si catapulta giù da montacarichi, ascensori e scale tipo Tarzan;
5) scavalca siepi e recinzioni più agile di un canguro;
6) si scazzotta a ripetizione con chiunque, tanto che Cassius Clay gli fa un baffo, gli fa;
7) ammazza come minimo una ventina di persone, ma questo è ovvio, perché lui ha la licenza di uccidere;
8) viene avvelenato con la digitale, rianimato col defibrillatore e, fresco come una rosa, dopo dieci minuti torna a giocare a poker, puntando milioni di sterline, contro un delinquente che ha una espressione tanto serena e rassicurante quanto quella di una iena ridens;
9) viene torturato in parti, diciamo così, un tantino sensibili sia per il corpo in generale, sia per l’orgoglio propriamente maschile in particolare, eppure lui niente … riesce a fare un sorrisino di quelli che ti fanno sentire una vera merda anche se sei sicuro di avere il coltello dalla parte del manico;
10) nel bel mezzo di tutti questi casini, ha il tempo di “consolare” (eufemisticamente parlando) le belle di turno, in modo tale che a Casanova sarebbero venute le convulsioni per l’invidia.

Ecco, il film è così, evidentemente poco credibile, come dicevo, ma comunque simpaticamente divertente. Perché lui è Bond … James Bond. E Daniel Craig è il primo “007” convincente dopo quello che è stato sicuramente il migliore, ossia Sean Connery, che sarebbe questo:



Anche lui, indubbiamente un bel vedere. ;-)
[Arwen, ancora?]
(Ok, ok, di nuovo come non detto.)

Tornando in carreggiata, stranamente solo stavolta, per la prima volta, mi sono chiesta come potessero essere originariamente i romanzi del “papà” del famoso agente britannico. Intendo dire, dietro tutte le “americanate” dei film c’era qualcosa di diverso?

Bé, in questo caso credo di sì. Gli altri non so come siano e quanto siano stati influenzati dal progressivo successo, ma il primo libro di Ian Fleming è molto amaro e percorso da un senso di struggente perdita. Non è che sia scritto particolarmente bene, ma si percepisce una specie di dolore di fondo che fa di questo Bond un essere molto più umano e molto meno supereroe di quanto si sia portati a pensare. E quel dolore deriva sicuramente da un disagio provato dal suo autore che, forse senza volerlo, lo ha comunicato lo stesso.

I love the James Bond movies for the adventure and thrills so I thought I would read the first Bond book. I was expecting a boring read and was pleasantly surprised by the revelation of Bond's motives and thought processes behind what he does. The movies paint him as an indestructible superhero. Ian Fleming brings out his humanity and character.

Call it a guilty pleasure, this book was just fun to read, mostly because I a) love Bond movies anyway and b) delight in sexist jokes, which made it easier for me to read Bond's anti-feminist rants and just giggle to myself. Here's one of my favorites, when Vesper Lynd gets herself kidnapped by the bad guys and Bond has to take the trouble to chase after them:
"This was just what he had been afraid of. These blithering women who thought they could do a man's work. Why the hell couldn't they just stay at home and mind their pots and pans and leave men's work to the men. And now for this to happen to him, just when the job had come off so beautifully. For Vesper to fall for an old trick like that and get herself snatched and probably held to ransom like some bloody heroine in a strip cartoon. The silly bitch."

Mmm. I love the smell of misogyny in the morning.

In Bond's defense, Vesper doesn't do much too much to change his opinion of women and their overall uselessness. She's supposed to be some kind of radio technician, but never gets to demonstrate any shred of intelligence that elevates her above the average 7th grade girl. Her only good bit of dialogue comes towards the end of the book, when she and Bond are safe and on vacation together:
"The bath had been filled for him and there was a new flask of some expensive pine bath-essence on a chair beside it with his towel.
'Vesper,' he called.
'Yes?'
'You really are the limit. You make me feel like an expensive gigolo.'
'I was told to look after you. I'm only doing what I was told.'
'Darling, the bath's absolutely right. Will you marry me?'
She snorted. 'You need a slave, not a wife.'
'I want you.'
'Well, I want my lobster and champagne, so hurry up.' "

That's about as interesting as Vesper gets. The rest of the time she's busy running around after Bond, being referred to as "the girl" and saying things like, "Do you mind if we go straight into dinner? ...I want to make a grand entrance and the truth is there's a horrible secret about black velvet. It marks when you sit down. And, by the way, if you hear me scream tonight, I shall have sat on a cane chair."

Fascinating.

Bond, for his part, didn't say anything especially intelligent either and made me thank god for Daniel Craig and his writers. I couldn't decide which was more annoying: Bond and Vesper during the assignment when they made banal small talk and Bond speculated on how soon he would sleep with her, or after they survive and decide they're in love and go on vacation together. (and don't look at me like I gave the plot away, you knew it was going to happen.) I think it's the latter - once Bond and Vesper survive the kidnapping, all potential of being cool vanishes as they become the most irritating couple ever. Having to read about them schmooping their way across France, eating caviar, and calling each other "Darling," "My love," and "Dearest" was enough to make me vow never to read another Ian Fleming book again.

Anyway, point of review: movie version = awesome, book version = a delightful misogynist romp. Pick whichever you'd prefer.