Thunderball
Lazenby880
LondonPosts: 525MI6 Agent
I read Thunderball for the first time quite a while ago, and have not properly revisited it until now. The first time I read it I recall thinking the novel a humorous and enjoyable excursion to the tropics of the Bahamas, yet this time, reading it more seriously, I enjoyed it substantially less. Thunderball, published after the collection of short stories For Your Eyes Only, is a novel of two parts: not in the sense of being a novel of two halves, but in the sense that the novel illustrates both the very best and the very worst in Fleming’s writing. It is, therefore, a fairly revealing work, although one which is not as satisfying as most of Fleming’s other novels.
Bond is sent to Shrublands, a nature clinic for recuperation in Sussex, as M feels that he is not one hundred per cent fit. There he runs into Count Lippe, who has a sign on his arm which represents a criminal society in Hong Kong. Phoning Headquarters to receive this information Bond’s conversation is overhead by Lippe, who takes his revenge by turning the dial up on the ‘rack’ (a stretching machine) and thereby nearly paralysing Bond. After this Bond retaliates by turning the heat right up in Lippe’s sweat-box. This ‘childish trial of strength’ was to upset very slightly a plot to blackmail the Western world.
It is after the events of Shrublands that demonstrate Fleming at his best. The detail with which Fleming describes SPECTRE adds to that organisation an especially shadowy and sinister air, lending to it a degree of realism. Obviously the reader has to suspend disbelief while reading the Bond books, but the authority in Fleming’s writing here ensures that such suspension is not too difficult and the notion of the organisation is just on the right side of the fantastic. Blofeld does not play a central part in the novel, instead remaining ominously distant which adds to the character’s menace. The plot of SPECTRE is to steal two nuclear warheads and hide them, threatening to destroy major cities unless a ransom is paid.
Events are set up exquisitely, but throughout the novel these illustrations of the very best and the very worst pop up intermittently. Fleming’s journalistic fetish for detail is usually used to great effect in the Bond novels, including in Thunderball, but there are instances when Fleming descends to near parody. Take this, for instance: “He masticated each mouthful thoroughly. Saliva contains ptyalin. Thorough mastication creates ptyalin which helps to convert starches into sugar to supply energy for the body. Ptyalin is an enzyme. Other enzymes are pepsin, found in the stomach, and pepsin and erepsin found in the intestine. These and other enzymes are chemical substances that break up the food as it passes through the mouth, the stomach and the digestive tract and help it absorb it directly into the blood-stream”. Apart from the woeful medical textbook connotations, ‘masticate’ is a verb which should be used sparingly, if at all. There is no warmth in this passage, no life. It reads as though Fleming had just read about enzymes and regurgitated the information in a thoroughly straightforward manner. In this instance Fleming’s eye for detail failed him, as it encouraged him to write with little flair or imagination.
There is another shortcoming to add to the ‘worst’ column and that involves the plot of the novel. Fleming was never a great plotter: his strength was as a stylist. Yet Thunderball is a particularly useful example of that fact. As a reader of unfashionable adventure thrillers, I am aware that so much in thrillers is put down to luck and chance. The problem with Thunderball is that far too much is based on coincidences and lucky guesses: from M’s ludicrously lucky gamble that the bombs have been stashed in the Bahamas (a gamble based almost entirely on a simple hunch) to Bond’s suspicion that Largo, the villain of the piece, is not floating around the islands for the purposes of a treasure hunt (Largo’s declared intention) but for a more evil purpose. There are so many instances of ‘Just supposing’ or ‘Let’s assume’ that, after a while, the suspension of disbelief in this respect becomes increasingly difficult, and it does become a bit grating that the plot is foiled through so many suppositions and frankly verbalised assumptions (at one point Bond even says “Just assuming, and it’s the hell of an assumption…”).
On the other hand, there is much in Thunderball to enjoy. The characters are strong. Felix Leiter, who contributes very little to the actual success of the operation, nevertheless emerges once again as a worthy character, infusing the novel with a great deal of humour. While flying low in an aeroplane Bond and Leiter notice a blonde woman sunbathing naked on a roof. Leiter comments that she is an “Authentic blonde”. Moments like this ensure that Thunderball can be an extraordinarily entertaining novel, and the presence of Felix Leiter is responsible in quite a large measure for this. Leiter is fairly sceptical of Bond’s suppositions, and although Bond of course turns out to be right it is easy to sympathise with Leiter.
Largo is one of Fleming’s most memorable villains. He is not a ‘larger than life’ villain, although this is not to the detriment of the character as Fleming draws him well. The outward respectability displayed when Bond and Leiter go to visit the Disco is revealed as a pretence during what must be one of the novel’s stand out scenes: in the casino at Nassau. Here Fleming’s sure hand in crafting tension is evident, and the dialogue is sharp and brusque. The reader cannot help but admire Bond’s cunning and cockiness in using the word ‘spectre’–twice–to see if Largo will react. It is a clever device, and of course Largo’s reaction, the loss of the jovial and friendly mask, confirms to Bond that something is not quite right. The tension his heightened by a tough moment: “‘We have a way to deal with that where I come from’. He lifted a hand, and with only the first and little fingers outstretched in a fork, he prodded once, like a snake striking, towards Bond’s face. To the crowd it was a playful piece of theatre, but Bond, within the strong aura of the man’s animal magnetism, felt the ill-temper, the malevolence behind the old Mafia gesture”. Largo leaps off the page as a truly charismatic character, and the notion of these two men, Bond and Largo, wearing masks to hide their true intentions is something Fleming develops with seeming ease.
The girl, Domino, is less successful and not one of Fleming’s strongest women characters. Part of this is because she is absent for much of the book, however her appearances do not add a great deal, and she is not as alluring as Dr No’s Honeychile Rider. Admittedly, Bond does give her a Geiger counter, disguised as a camera, to find out of the warheads are onboard the Disco. Unfortunately the girl is found out, and Largo uses a ‘hot-and-cold’ torture to get to the truth. The ending of the novel is rather disappointing: Domino kills Largo just after the latter puts an octopus on Bond’s facemask and mouthpiece. Without Domino’s intervention, we are led to believe that Bond would not have won his battle with Largo. This could have been an interesting angle, and yet the whole affair is finished off with unsettling rapidity. Bond wakes in a hospital–Domino is in a nearby room–and it is revealed that “when the team was under way, she [Domino] somehow got herself out of the cabin porthole, with her gun and aqualung, and went to get him”. Somehow indeed. Gaps like these let the novel down.
One of the elements demonstrating Fleming at his best is in the creation of atmosphere and a sense of place. This was always one of Fleming’s strong points as a writer: his journalistic background seems to have given him a flair for capturing the feel of a place. And the Caribbean is a place that was close to Fleming’s heart, and this is shown in the novel. The diving, the boats, the beach, the tropics, the underwater stuff; all of it combines together to give the air of a thoroughly attractive and languid place to spend some time. Conversely, another of Fleming’s strengths, the element of the bizarre, is almost entirely absent. This is unfortunate as it is one of the areas that made Fleming such a distinctive stylist. The lack of this element and the inconsistency in terms of quality means that Thunderball cannot occupy a place alongside Dr No, that other Caribbean jaunt which is superior in every way to Thunderball.
This is not to say that Thunderball is a poor book. Compared to most it is a compelling and entertaining tropical adventure novel. There is much to recommend it, and at places it does show Fleming’s deft touch. However, as a Fleming novel it is somewhat disappointing. It does, in my view, show the brilliance of Fleming, but also the deficiencies that were sometimes apparent in Fleming’s writing. I would argue that its proper place is as a second tier Bond novel: far better than The Spy Who Loved Me or Live and Let Die (two novels I am not fond of), but nowhere near You Only Live Twice (haunting, poetic and frankly weird) or Casino Royale (harsh yet elegant; concise yet memorable).
Bond is sent to Shrublands, a nature clinic for recuperation in Sussex, as M feels that he is not one hundred per cent fit. There he runs into Count Lippe, who has a sign on his arm which represents a criminal society in Hong Kong. Phoning Headquarters to receive this information Bond’s conversation is overhead by Lippe, who takes his revenge by turning the dial up on the ‘rack’ (a stretching machine) and thereby nearly paralysing Bond. After this Bond retaliates by turning the heat right up in Lippe’s sweat-box. This ‘childish trial of strength’ was to upset very slightly a plot to blackmail the Western world.
It is after the events of Shrublands that demonstrate Fleming at his best. The detail with which Fleming describes SPECTRE adds to that organisation an especially shadowy and sinister air, lending to it a degree of realism. Obviously the reader has to suspend disbelief while reading the Bond books, but the authority in Fleming’s writing here ensures that such suspension is not too difficult and the notion of the organisation is just on the right side of the fantastic. Blofeld does not play a central part in the novel, instead remaining ominously distant which adds to the character’s menace. The plot of SPECTRE is to steal two nuclear warheads and hide them, threatening to destroy major cities unless a ransom is paid.
Events are set up exquisitely, but throughout the novel these illustrations of the very best and the very worst pop up intermittently. Fleming’s journalistic fetish for detail is usually used to great effect in the Bond novels, including in Thunderball, but there are instances when Fleming descends to near parody. Take this, for instance: “He masticated each mouthful thoroughly. Saliva contains ptyalin. Thorough mastication creates ptyalin which helps to convert starches into sugar to supply energy for the body. Ptyalin is an enzyme. Other enzymes are pepsin, found in the stomach, and pepsin and erepsin found in the intestine. These and other enzymes are chemical substances that break up the food as it passes through the mouth, the stomach and the digestive tract and help it absorb it directly into the blood-stream”. Apart from the woeful medical textbook connotations, ‘masticate’ is a verb which should be used sparingly, if at all. There is no warmth in this passage, no life. It reads as though Fleming had just read about enzymes and regurgitated the information in a thoroughly straightforward manner. In this instance Fleming’s eye for detail failed him, as it encouraged him to write with little flair or imagination.
There is another shortcoming to add to the ‘worst’ column and that involves the plot of the novel. Fleming was never a great plotter: his strength was as a stylist. Yet Thunderball is a particularly useful example of that fact. As a reader of unfashionable adventure thrillers, I am aware that so much in thrillers is put down to luck and chance. The problem with Thunderball is that far too much is based on coincidences and lucky guesses: from M’s ludicrously lucky gamble that the bombs have been stashed in the Bahamas (a gamble based almost entirely on a simple hunch) to Bond’s suspicion that Largo, the villain of the piece, is not floating around the islands for the purposes of a treasure hunt (Largo’s declared intention) but for a more evil purpose. There are so many instances of ‘Just supposing’ or ‘Let’s assume’ that, after a while, the suspension of disbelief in this respect becomes increasingly difficult, and it does become a bit grating that the plot is foiled through so many suppositions and frankly verbalised assumptions (at one point Bond even says “Just assuming, and it’s the hell of an assumption…”).
On the other hand, there is much in Thunderball to enjoy. The characters are strong. Felix Leiter, who contributes very little to the actual success of the operation, nevertheless emerges once again as a worthy character, infusing the novel with a great deal of humour. While flying low in an aeroplane Bond and Leiter notice a blonde woman sunbathing naked on a roof. Leiter comments that she is an “Authentic blonde”. Moments like this ensure that Thunderball can be an extraordinarily entertaining novel, and the presence of Felix Leiter is responsible in quite a large measure for this. Leiter is fairly sceptical of Bond’s suppositions, and although Bond of course turns out to be right it is easy to sympathise with Leiter.
Largo is one of Fleming’s most memorable villains. He is not a ‘larger than life’ villain, although this is not to the detriment of the character as Fleming draws him well. The outward respectability displayed when Bond and Leiter go to visit the Disco is revealed as a pretence during what must be one of the novel’s stand out scenes: in the casino at Nassau. Here Fleming’s sure hand in crafting tension is evident, and the dialogue is sharp and brusque. The reader cannot help but admire Bond’s cunning and cockiness in using the word ‘spectre’–twice–to see if Largo will react. It is a clever device, and of course Largo’s reaction, the loss of the jovial and friendly mask, confirms to Bond that something is not quite right. The tension his heightened by a tough moment: “‘We have a way to deal with that where I come from’. He lifted a hand, and with only the first and little fingers outstretched in a fork, he prodded once, like a snake striking, towards Bond’s face. To the crowd it was a playful piece of theatre, but Bond, within the strong aura of the man’s animal magnetism, felt the ill-temper, the malevolence behind the old Mafia gesture”. Largo leaps off the page as a truly charismatic character, and the notion of these two men, Bond and Largo, wearing masks to hide their true intentions is something Fleming develops with seeming ease.
The girl, Domino, is less successful and not one of Fleming’s strongest women characters. Part of this is because she is absent for much of the book, however her appearances do not add a great deal, and she is not as alluring as Dr No’s Honeychile Rider. Admittedly, Bond does give her a Geiger counter, disguised as a camera, to find out of the warheads are onboard the Disco. Unfortunately the girl is found out, and Largo uses a ‘hot-and-cold’ torture to get to the truth. The ending of the novel is rather disappointing: Domino kills Largo just after the latter puts an octopus on Bond’s facemask and mouthpiece. Without Domino’s intervention, we are led to believe that Bond would not have won his battle with Largo. This could have been an interesting angle, and yet the whole affair is finished off with unsettling rapidity. Bond wakes in a hospital–Domino is in a nearby room–and it is revealed that “when the team was under way, she [Domino] somehow got herself out of the cabin porthole, with her gun and aqualung, and went to get him”. Somehow indeed. Gaps like these let the novel down.
One of the elements demonstrating Fleming at his best is in the creation of atmosphere and a sense of place. This was always one of Fleming’s strong points as a writer: his journalistic background seems to have given him a flair for capturing the feel of a place. And the Caribbean is a place that was close to Fleming’s heart, and this is shown in the novel. The diving, the boats, the beach, the tropics, the underwater stuff; all of it combines together to give the air of a thoroughly attractive and languid place to spend some time. Conversely, another of Fleming’s strengths, the element of the bizarre, is almost entirely absent. This is unfortunate as it is one of the areas that made Fleming such a distinctive stylist. The lack of this element and the inconsistency in terms of quality means that Thunderball cannot occupy a place alongside Dr No, that other Caribbean jaunt which is superior in every way to Thunderball.
This is not to say that Thunderball is a poor book. Compared to most it is a compelling and entertaining tropical adventure novel. There is much to recommend it, and at places it does show Fleming’s deft touch. However, as a Fleming novel it is somewhat disappointing. It does, in my view, show the brilliance of Fleming, but also the deficiencies that were sometimes apparent in Fleming’s writing. I would argue that its proper place is as a second tier Bond novel: far better than The Spy Who Loved Me or Live and Let Die (two novels I am not fond of), but nowhere near You Only Live Twice (haunting, poetic and frankly weird) or Casino Royale (harsh yet elegant; concise yet memorable).
Comments
I agree that "Thunderball" is an uneven work, I believe this is because the source material for this book is the screenplays Fleming, McClory and Whittingham dreamed up, so the uneven quality results from IF incorperating senarios for what would have been a "blockbuster" film.
Fleming was a "stream of consciousness" writer, plowing through a first draft at Goldeneye, and making only minimal revisions back in the UK. Seems like most of the revision was dedicated to getting details like "Shertel-Sachsenberg" and "Berns-Martin(oops!)" right. Fleming was concerned that attempts to smooth out the plot would result in derailing the flow of the narrative.
Fleming's limited attitude to making revisions made getting the novels published on time easier, and I think adds an "unpolished" element to the books that is part of the Fleming charm. Surely if Fleming ever seriously attempted to iron the kinks out of novels like "The Spy Who Loved Me" they might never have been published.
All that said, his novels end up suprisingly cohesive, and entertaining. Fleming often said his target audience was commuters, travelers and other light readers - he lacked the confidence to really pull out all the stops and go for a big time "serious" book. Had he not been so driven to self destruction it seems likely that he would have eventually made the attempt.
Despite any shortcomings I think Fleming was a masterful writer, able literally to make diamonds out of coal. Writers like Fleming are rare gifted animals - he may never have reached the complexity or the faultless syntax of a Hemingway, but Fleming's writing is more fun to read (for me anyway).
Bond’s Beretta
The Handguns of Ian Fleming's James Bond
I'm with you on this, 7289. The fact that there was more than one cook in the kitchen this time round might well have affected the overall presentation of the material; there is an almost intangible sense of bits being cobbled together, IMO.
I'm reminded specifically of a moment, immediately following Bond's Shrublands revenge on Lippe, in which Fleming completely steps out of the narrative and pronounces:
"James Bond was right. The outcome of this rather childish trial of strength between two extremely tough and ruthless men, in the bizarre surroundings of a nature clinic in Sussex, was to upset, if only in a minute fashion, the exactly timed machinery of a plot that was about to shake the governments of the Western world."
I've always thought this bit of ominous foreshadowing was slightly jarring to the flow of the book, and out of character for Fleming as a writer.
Agreed; though I'm a lifelong admirer of Hemingway (The Sun Also Rises and For Whom The Bell Tolls in particular), if I'm after pure escapist fun I'll always reach for Fleming.
I'd agree with the notion that TB is a 'second-tier' novel, but this speaks as much to the higher quality of the 'first tier' as it does to the slightly lessened quality of the second.
I'd be curious to see what a Thunderball which hadn't been adapted from a screen treatment might have looked like---or if it would have been written at all.
"I am not an entrant in the Shakespeare Stakes." - Ian Fleming
"Screw 'em." - Daniel Craig, The Best James Bond EverTM
While I have been aware for many years that "Thunderball" was the result of an attempt to bring Bond to the cinema, Loffelholz's comment caused me to reflect for a moment what an impact "Thunderball" had on the whole Bond series."The Spy Who Loved Me", "On Her Majesty's Secret Service" and "You Only Live Twice" are directly influenced by the events in "Thunderball", Blofeld/SPECTRE replaces the Soviets as Bond's main target, and only in the last novel "The Man with the Golden Gun" do the Russians reappear as the bad guys.
It could be that the radical departure in style in "The Spy Who Loved Me" is Flemings's reaction to the mess that "Thunderball" became. It is the one post- Blofeld novel least affected by the SPECTRE theme, and also considered by many including Fleming himself as his "worst" novel.
"Thunderball" severely altered the previous path of the novels, and with the introduction of Blofeld, a recurring "arch enemy" was created that had never been present in earlier novels. There is no record I am aware of to indicate what Fleming's next book would have been like, had he not used the screenplay material for his next novel.
No doubt Fleming's use of the movie ideas was intended in a two fold way not to waste all the time an effort that had already gone into the pre-production process, but to also keep the project alive and prehaps inhance it's value with a tie-in novel. Had he forseen the grief all this would cause him, I am sure Fleming would have tossed the whole notion out the window. But where would that have left Bond, and what direction would Fleming have taken the novels?
Wow! That is a pretty interesting "What if?"
Bond’s Beretta
The Handguns of Ian Fleming's James Bond
I should probably emphasise that I do think Thunderball is still an enjoyable novel, and I think you are correct in that its 'second-tier' positioning reflects the high standard of the first tier. I thought I would focus on what I perceived to be the flaws of the novel as this is one of the Fleming novels with significant creative misfires (for me; the others include The Spy Who Loved Me, The Man with the Golden Gun and Live and Let Die).
Indeed, and I think 7289's 'what-if' is very interesting!
TB is solidly in Fleming's middle period, as I tend to think of it, sort of playing around with Bond but not having a clear direction to go in. He didn't really hit anything as grand as FRWL/DN until OMHSS/YOLT--but what a comeback! Still, even 'second-tier' Fleming is a good read. :007)
Roger Moore 1927-2017