Casino Royale

Casino Royale by Ian Fleming (1953) Though we’re dying off, I guess, there must still be a lot of dinosaurs like myself for whom the first really cool thing they can remember was James Bond at the cinema. But even among younger people—due to theatrical re-releases and some fairly imaginative sequels—it’s still a big audience. So why they haven’t followed my suggestion to release a new, low-budget, two-hour James Bond nostalgia-fest each Christmas (new Bond actor and new director each year) is beyond me­—though I suspect it’s a case of must-be-bigger-than-the-last-one-itis. In my frustration, I’ve even resorted to trying to read the Ian Fleming original novels—or, in this case, audiobook with a decent narrator (if he’s got an accent, I’m in). I thought Diamonds Are Forever (1956)—in spite of the offensive parts—was great fun—but this one, not so much. I was curious, naturally, to start at the beginning, and I’ll probably try more—but much like the 2006 movie—which I feel is an improvement on this book, at least—the fundamental plotline here (which, really, I shouldn’t need to repeat), I find profoundly unpleasant. And while I’m sure there are some—the cool, or nostalgic, or funny, or odd, or exciting—bearable parts—it’s just, overall, way too big of a giant bummer to be enjoyable.

2.16.26