All these years later and she still looked like Greta Garbo. Made her stick out like a sore thumb in that endless sea of typists, some of them homely, some of them not, none of them as beautiful as her. He was hiding behind a pair of thick glasses, stock to the brim full of Q's technologies (invisible to everyone else, of course), and trailing behind the man in charge. She would only need to look up to ruin this charade, but she kept her eyes fixated on the typewriter, on her work, as dedicated as she always was to the service of Mother Russia regardless how humiliating, how menial...

But he wondered if she still as loyal to her country as she had been when she met him. Or was this new job, and the thousand-yard stare she gave to the typewriter, a sign that she had sank into cynicism? She didn't work for the KGB anymore. That was a sign. Or maybe she couldn't take the intelligence business anymore. Or maybe, or maybe--

He smiled to himself. Good old 007, distracted by his thoughts again. It wouldn't happen again. He had a job to doHe looked ahead and Tatiana Romanova to the back of his mind, where the memories of his former lovers resided.

I can’t say I want to leave behind any sort of legacy. Outside the Service, I’m quite reluctant even to be known in any sort of congratulatory manner. I hate the attention. It’s deadly in my business; quite poisonous in my opinion. Many bad deeds and many bad men have been motivated by the need for immortality, to have one’s name inscribed into history—an eternal act of validation. I don’t want it. I don’t want the accolades. Never did. The only thing I was ever interested in was living my life and doing my job, damn the fanfare. So many men miss the simple pleasure of just living when they jostle for glory. Perhaps this is why I find myself gravitating towards men who enjoy life and, at best, merely admire the men who want their names inscribed in the history books. They make for interesting reads but probably weren’t all that wonderful to know in person. Too-single minded.

I’ll pass on all that. I’d much rather be remembered fondly by my friends, or hated by an enemy, or cherished by a lover. I don’t need immortality, a legacy, to prove that I lived. My life is proof enough for that. Whether it is remembered by the whole world and documented in the books of history is irrelevant.

James Bond walked down the beach at dusk. He was biding his time until next morning’s flight back to London. He was smoking, barely conscious of the sunset. His mind was fixed on the memory of his parents. He remembered their voices, their warnings, their laughter, the obligatory wonder they shared with him as he brought something new out of the water: first a rock, then a shell, then a dead starfish. When he tried to pull a live fish out of the water, they would command that he put it back. They’d buy him a fish when they got back home. They did, in fact, do this, and James tended to the fish devotedly until it died. He did the same for the next one, and the one after that. He did this until his parents died. Then he no longer saw the need for a pet. They always died in the end, so what was the point of growing so devotedly attached?

Bond exhaled a plume of smoke. He didn’t like thinking about his parents. It always lead him down a spiral to the bitter truth of his life: everything dies. That starfish, when he pulled it out of the water, was already dead. He was too young to know it, too young to care. To him it was a precious treasure. Bond pulled the cigarette butt from his lips and flicked it into the sand. He started to trail his way to the boardwalk, to one of the various restaurants or pubs where he could sit, eat, drink, and forget. It was time to throw himself back into life so he could ignore that it was quickly coming to an end.

The knowledge of the mind and the desires of the body can combine to form a phenomenon called a craving. The body, demanding sustenance, relays this message to the mind, which interprets this message through the individual’s specific dietary preferences. These dietary preferences can rage from a very specific flavor of ice cream to, in the case of James Bond, the subject of this brief study, a very specific drink: a vodka martini. Thus, a craving is born, and it is up to the individual to combat or surrender to it.

Cravings tend to be very strong, difficult to combat, and may occur during unexpected and inappropriate times. James Bond experienced a such a strong, unexpected, and inappropriate craving as he was escaping the police, using a cello case as transport. He took the craving as a sign of weakness. He preferred, in the midst of danger, to focus strictly on getting out of it. He did not want to focus on frivolous matters of appetite and thirst. He would tend to those later in Vienna. Yet, as always, he could not talk himself out of the craving. He did not think it was addiction, so he could not call it a damnable vice. He once tried to reason that one reaches for liquor when things got rough and reached for the familiar when things got unusual, but that did not make much sense in light of his life and career. A cello case certainly was an odd transport, but this was not the first time he had to improvise his means of mobility. He had been in this situation dozens of times before. This was not a rough situation at all. He was confident they would escape alive. So why the need to hydrate with liquor? His inability to explain it away made it more frustrating.

As annoying as the craving was, Bond found, as he finally took a sip of that much desired nectar, that the irritation and longing inherent in a craving made the drink taste better and feel like a soothing exhale. He wondered if pleasure should always have that preceding agony of waiting. Then the liquid was gone, the glass empty, and Bond, completely satisfied, rose to tackle the next leg of his mission.

Of course, when he found himself craving another vodka martini in another unexpected and inappropriate time, Bond went through the same bout of futile combat and eventually, inevitably, surrendered. It was just a shame that Kara made bad vodka martinis.

[ Contains references to the film The Living Daylights.]

Bond paused on the sidewalk outside his Chelsea flat and wondered if he should move out of it. He was its only resident ever since May died two weeks ago. He rarely invited anyone over and rarely stayed there himself except to sleep. Hands in his pockets, he bent his head down and regarded the sidewalk. As if in response to an urgent thought, Bond dashed up the stairs towards the door.

The inside of his flat was, expectedly, quiet. All the furnishings and decorations meant to make the flat cozy did not make it feel less empty. Not even his own presence alleviated the emptiness; it was as if he were a phantom moving amidst the shadows of an abandoned home. He supposed this was why he kept May: to save the flat from feeling neglected. He paced, then sat on a chair, feeling like the sole attendee to a lifeless party.

Abruptly, Bond rose to his feet and crossed over to the cupboard where he stored his liquor. He had to remind himself that he wasn’t stealing. It was his own liquor, bought with his own money. Why did he feel like a stranger in his home?

Bond poured himself a glass of whisky and sat back down. He swirled the glass and stared at nothing. The quiet bothered him. To stay sane, he would have to leave soon. To where? He didn’t know. A nightclub, a pub, a friend’s house—or perhaps he could visit Blades. He scoffed, sipped the whisky and craned his neck so that he stared at the ceiling. Too damned quiet. Too damned empty. He ought to move out.

After his Bentley was wrecked in Moonraker, Bond has been stuck with Aston Martins ever since. [A concession both to Bond driving a Bentley in the books and Bond driving an Aston Martin in the films, or at least being primarily associated with Aston Martins as a cinematic character. Bond probably did not drive the exact make mentioned in the books because it doesn't exist. Will have to do research to see which Bentley he did drive.]

Piggybacking off of this, because I like explaining how I perceive Bond in my head to the audience who may largely be going "WTF?", my favorite movie moments?

--that requires remembering, and I'm still rotten at it despite taking ginkgo biloba daily. There is, however, a moment I can speak of, which defines what James Bond is to me, as a spy: The Living Daylights, when Bond has to shoot the "sniper" to save General Koskov. Everything relies on that moment, doing everything right, precisely, because everything relative to that moment is on the line. The mood of the scene implies that it's not just everything at that moment: the world is resting on Bond's shoulders, and he has to do the right thing---in secret. Nobody will notice if someone in a room high above the street stops moving because of a bullet. Nobody will notice that the man crossing the street is crossing over to safety, defection, betrayal--win one for the Western team, lose one for the East. Of course we know James Bond isn't always the covert agent he's supposed to be, and that that moment in The Living Daylights is a rare one of actual secrecy, but something about that moment rings more true to me than any other moments in the Bond series. That is him, for me. That is what he does. He's under a lot of pressure to get it right or risk jeopardizing everything, and because he is Bond, you know that he will get it right, but not in the way he's supposed to (he'll always do his own thing, a constant improviser).

And the music from that scene sums it all up pretty well, too. I think that's my favorite Barry track.

These are all of my favorite passages from Ian Fleming's Bond novels, here for my, and your, convenience. Yay!

(NOTE: Not all of my favorite passages are up yet, not as long as this note is here. I still haven't finished all of the books, and I didn't earmark my favorite bits of some of the books I did finish.)

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Casino Royale: ( Read more... )

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Moonraker: ( Read more... )

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Doctor No: ( Read more... )

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Goldfinger: ( Read more... )

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"The Living Daylights": ( Read more... )

Anti-smoking laws? Pro or Con?

Con. I don't bloody care if you think smoking can kill you. Walk out the door and a car could kill you. Fly in a plane and the damned thing could crash. Should we ban both cars and planes, then? Won’t fare much better with horses and boats. Horses can throw you and boats can sink. Then there’s any number of things that could kill you just by walking. Let’s ban lightening! Inclement weather! But not unhealthy food. Never that. Keep what the people love and ban everything else they find disagreeable.

I’ve heard the reasons why I should quit. Several times. I’ll take my chances. That’s what I do, and damn if other people shouldn’t do it, too. You've got to accept the dangers out there, otherwise there’s no point in living.

He planned it all, this surprise. She’d fly in, unaware, blindfolded in the taxi, escorted by arm to the wide, modern, luxurious room. The blindfold removed, she would first see the room’s breathtaking view of the city. The room was theirs for two days, he would say: today, New Year’s Eve, and tomorrow, New Year’s Day. They’d go out and eat at his favorite restaurant, go down to Times Square and pack themselves in with the other celebratory sardines, kiss at midnight, and go back to the room. They’d make love. They’d stay up and watch the sunrise and fall asleep in each other’s arms.

Yes, he would have liked to celebrate the New Year this way, but the truth was that this room, with its breathtaking panorama, contained only him. Where was she? At home in another world, with her daughter and husband, not thinking of him as he was of her. His forehead pressed against the cold glass, he watched the glow of the rising sun scale the sides of buildings, turning them all into a brilliant, beautiful shade of red-gold. He stepped away from the window, crossing over to the drawer where the liquor was stored, and poured himself a stiff drink.

“Happy New Year, you bastard,” he muttered, then downed the drink in a single gulp.

Based on roleplay at milliways_bar.

Heh, well.

I've been playing Mr. Bond at Milliways for a year. It's been interesting, this year. No idea what the next will have in store. But, at the very least, I'm glad playing this muse has brought me closer to a few friends who have, in essence and fact, saved my life. Playing this muse has introduced me to friends who've made me laugh, who made it feel OK to geek out in an unholy way over Bond. Playing this muse has got me hooked on a literary canon, an installment of which I bought with the money I got back on a CVS return. That CVS return being the sleeping pills I was going to kill myself with.

This muse has probably done a lot more for me than I realize, despite all my whining and moaning about the stress and the insecurity, the uncertainty that I'm doing him justice and the abject terror, real or imagined, of the hoards of (real or imagined) people sitting behind their computer screens yelling "you're doing it wrong!" Maybe it's a bit much--he is a fictional character, after all--but hobbies, and the communities you practice those hobbies in, have a peculiar way of keeping you alive even if you don't want life at the moment. And hobbies, and the communities supporting those hobbies, have a peculiar way of teaching you to appreciate the little things--the little things that keep you alive. Even if it's as frivolous as a playing fictional super secret agent and gobbling up every single bit of trashy, cheesy, corny, poorly written canon you can. Because it's fun. Because it makes you laugh. Because it makes you roll your eyes and criticize and nitpick and theorize. Because it makes you realize there's more to life than just the horrible things your body chemistry tells you is true.

It makes you realize you can have fun. And laugh. And live. And have friends to have fun and laugh and live with along the way.


I think that might just be worth the stress this muse has given me.

Happy New Year's, guys.

♥

I would like to start exploring the other Bonds more often. I've already begun doing that by switching to Timothy Dalton's as a default (although he has been a non-official character at mixed_muses and its assorted continuities for a few months). What I would most like to achieve in this vein, however, is trying my hand at Sean Connery's and Roger Moore's Bonds. I think I might have an easier time of it with Roger Moore, as he and I share similar views on canon: namely, that a lot of it can't be taken seriously, and it's better to laugh at it than treat it as serious business. Yes, yes, even though I've defaulted to Timothy "Srs Bsnss" Dalton.

Sean Connery, I suspect, will be more of a challenge, largely because it is a chore for me to sit through a lot of his movies (it took me three attempts to sit through the entierty Thunderball, despite it being my ex-coworkers favorite Bond movie evair [though he won't admit to it, but he can quote long portions of it by heart]), and largely because I don't believe there's much to work with for his Bond, character-wise. High blasphemy, I know, but Sean Connery's Bond doesn't exhibit any qualities that appeal to me as a writer. Roger Moore's Bond had his humor. I enjoy writing humor. Timothy Dalton, Pierce Brosnan, and Daniel Craig all presented more emotionally complex interpretation of the character, in that their characters showed genuine human emotion as opposed to Connery and Moore's "rar, I r aktshun hero, I r only nonchalant or righteously indignant." I suppose what I'm saying is that Sean Connery's Bond comes off more as a concept to me (the ultimate 1960's playboy) rather than an actual human being, and I would have a difficult time writing that seriously without getting stumped or bored. At least with Roger Moore, I can laugh at him--although I doubt I could write him frequently unless I add a few human touches to his Bond. Which, perhaps, I should do with Sean Connery's Bond, too.

As for George Lazenby...I think I may need to watch On Her Majesty's Secret Service again.

What else would I like to do differently? Possibly either be more thoughtful of the places I'm taking him, or be less worried about how other people are going to react if I do this or that. There are moments I can point to in canon when either Ian Fleming or the EON filmmakers got too carried away with the concept of James Bond rather than the character, and wound up creating over bloated tripe (granted, if you were so inclined, you could say that about the entire James Bond series). I think that, when you are writing a character, you should be focused on the character internally rather than externally. Externally, you start to attribute your assumptions on him without understanding how he operates from the inside. You start to assume that he would do this, own that, go here, because of who you perceive him to be, rather than who he is. When you're writing a character, you've got to write that character from the inside out, otherwise that character won't ring true. That's something I strive to do with all of my characters. However, it is far too easy to get caught up in worrying whether I'm doing the character justice, and therefore far too easy to look at him on the outside and try to attribute everything people think of when they think of the concept of James Bond and thus lose sight of his character. Oh, yes, he might say all the catchphrases and drink all the vodka martinis and do everything he's expected to do, but he wouldn't ring true as a character. I'd rather write a character than a cliche. So, next year, hopefully I will be more focused less on what I think people expect of him and more focused on just writing him, taking into account any comments I may receive.

James Bond is in his room, smoking like a chimney.

He was mean to Sarah Jane. In retrospect, he realized it was on purpose. Cruelty was a good way to keep someone at arm's length. He wasn't normally that cruel towards women. Oh, he could sometimes be an ass, and a few of his ex-girlfriends were fond of the phrase chauvinistic pig, but he generally tried to be as charming as possible. But he had issues with love. He had issues with long-term relationships. He had issues with marriage. And Sarah Jane represented all three.

She'd already crept into another James Bond's heart (it doesn't make sense, these alternate Bonds, and part of him refuses to believe it's possible). Who's to say she wouldn't creep into his? What if that was the whole point of his being here, as he suspects? He doesn't like the idea any better than she seems to. She's not looking for a second husband; he's not looking for another wife. He's not looking for somebody to love and lose again.

So he sits in his room, and smokes, and thinks.