I think everyone who appreciates the 007 canon wishes–to some degree–to be James Bond regardless of gender. I’ll admit it, if I could hold my own at a Monte Carlo casino or if I could simply join the British Secret Intelligence Service, I would be well on my way to having my own spy franchise. I think the appeal of Fleming’s dapper character goes beyond the obvious bank-breaking bottles of champagne, bedroom conquests, and infinite heroic escapades.
I think the appeal is more basic. What separates James Bond from the rest of us are the character’s almost effortless successes–yes, even an aging Roger Moore can paddle out of a flooded, bomb filled mine shaft. For Bond, there is always an answer, always an escape plan, and always a victory within roughly two hours of screen time.
Take Moonraker for example, a mind blowingly outlandish film in which James finds himself on a space station that is one part Death Star, two parts Nazi breeding scheme. Laser beams fly and in the end, the station is annihilated; however, James and his Bond girl escape in a space pod and glide back to Earth and vodka martinis.
Of course I am aware that this world isn’t real. That movies are fantasy and James Bond’s actual life span would be shorter than Timothy Dalton’s MI6 career. Let’s just pretend. Wouldn’t life be easier if we had a Q in our corner who could conjure up some gadget that could destroy all of our problems in one go? Bond represents an ease in life that we aspire to seize, but can’t ever attain. Well, that is for all of us who do not have an Aston Martin replete with missile rockets in our garage.
On that note, I will be seeing the Fleming exhibit in London later this week, followed by a martini–shaken not stirred for certain.
