Casino Royale - before Casino Royale?

Picture the scene: a high-stakes baccarat game at the casino. At the table sits our hero, who has come to the gambling resort to ruin his arch-enemy, who now faces him. The game is observed by the hero’s female companion, with whom he has fallen in love and to whom he has explains the rules of the game. The game proceeds, during which our hero wins several coups and his enemy limps off, a little wounded, after losing a lot of money and declining the challenge of our hero’s substantial bank.
 
Sound familiar? I could, of course, be describing events in the novel of Casino Royale (1953), but in fact this comes from the E Phillips Oppenheim novel, Prodigals of Monte Carlo, published in 1926. Monte Carlo provides the casino (obviously), Sir Hargrave Wendever is the protagonist, Violet is his beautiful companion, and his arch-enemy is called Andrea Trentino (or ‘Trentino – Andrea Trentino’, as Wendever tells Violet). As for their characters, we read that ‘Hargrave, if he lacked the other’s almost flamboyant insouciance, was nevertheless in his way emotionless.’

The novel itself is more romance than thriller, but it shares some of its elements – the contest across the baccarat table, the sophisticated location, the impassive hero, the captivating woman – with Ian Fleming’s first James Bond novel. Oppenheim was among the authors whom Fleming admired and credited as providing inspiration for his Bond books.
 
The similarity of the gambling scene may be coincidental, but it provides a connection between the two books and, it could be argued, places Casino Royale at a point of transition in the evolution of the thriller, being a novel that is set in the world of Oppenheim and others, but one whose outlook and style, shaped by Fleming’s wartime experiences, was distinctly modern.

Ian Fleming and William Le Queux - some literary connections

William Le Queux, the prolific late 19th and early 20th century author of novels of espionage, international intrigue and mystery, has often been cited as an influence on Ian Fleming's writing. Reading just some of his many books, it's easy to see why.
 
Take Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo, for instance. In this crime story, published in 1921, we are introduced to protagonist Hugh Henfrey in the gaming rooms of the casino at Monte Carlo. He's observing the eponymous Mademoiselle, a woman who regularly occupies the roulette tables and enjoys a great deal of success. Henfrey suspects that the Mademoiselle knows something about the mysterious death of his father, and confronts her at her grand house at the end of a day's gambling. Before the Mademoiselle can reveal anything, however, she is shot by an unknown assassin. The police naturally suspect Henfrey, who manages to escape their clutches with the help of a master criminal, a Robin Hood figure known as the Sparrow who has his own reasons for intervening.

The story begins in the French Riviera, but the location shifts rapidly, taking in Paris, Italy, Spain and England as Henfrey tries to stay one step ahead of the law while attempting to solve the mystery of his father's death and the Mademoiselle's (attempted) murder. It's difficult not to think of Casino Royale during the Monte Carlo scenes (the weapon used by the would-be assassin, incidentally, is a rifle disguised as a walking stick; Le Chiffre's henchman who threatens Bond which such a weapon at the baccarat table must have read the book), and generally the tale is set in a world with which James Bond would be very familiar.
 
It's not just Ian Fleming who may have been inspired by Le Queux. One curious trait of the Sparrow is that he has a deformed hand, which he hides in a black glove. I couldn't help thinking of Julius Gorner and his deformed hand (occasionally hidden in a white glove) in Sebastian Faulks' Devil May Care.
 
Let's take another book - The Stretton Street Affair (1922). In this mystery, another Hugh, this time Hugh Garfield, is invited into the London house of a wealthy businessman, statesman and philanthropist, Oswald De Gex, and persuaded to sign a death certificate on behalf of De Gex's 'niece', who had apparently suffered a heart attack. Garfield does so and then takes a drink brought to him. He falls unconscious, and a month later comes to his senses in a French asylum, having no memory of how he got there. The mystery deepens when, in Italy, he sees the young woman for whom he signed the death certificate very much alive. What's more, De Gex denies all knowledge of having met Garfield and even having a niece.

It's an intriguing story, and contains a trope that has seen expression in other work, including the Bond books and films and beyond: a deference towards the rich and powerful that alone deflects suspicion away from them. Garfield naturally suspects De Gex of foul play and behind some devious international plot, but no one - neither his friends or the police - believes him. How can De Gex, a great and famous man and friend to Europe's politicians, be involved in any criminal plot? It's inconceivable.
 
We see it in John Buchan’s Richard Hannay adventure, The Three Hostages (1924), and this deference also allows Moonraker's Sir Hugo Drax (Hugo, Hugh - is there a link?) to develop his nefarious scheme. Even James Bond is taken in ('He felt a glow of admiration and almost of reverence for this man and his majestic achievement'). In the film version, the Minister of Defence quickly apologises to Drax when he, M and Bond enter Drax's lab to find nothing there. And in A View To A Kill, the Minister of Defence (again!) dismisses the idea that Max Zorin is up to no good ('Max Zorin? Impossible. He's a leading French industrialist').
 
There was something else that I noticed. In a recent post, I discussed the origin of the 'Bond - James Bond' form of introduction, highlighting that it was a standard formula in earlier 20th century thrillers and no doubt also books of other genres. William Le Queux's books underline the point: '“I haven't the pleasure of your name.” “Garfield - Hugh Garfield,” I said. “Mine is De Gex - Oswald De Gex,” he said.
 
One final observation: William Le Queux was a contemporary of E Phillips Oppenheim (considered to be another influence on Fleming’s writing). Both wrote similar sorts of novels, set in similar sorts of places, featuring similar sorts of characters. One of Oppenheim’s characters is called Mr Grex (who appears in the novel Mr Grex of Monte Carlo (1915)), which is obviously very close to De Gex. Take the authors’ names off the covers, and I expect to modern readers the novels would be indistinguishable. The point is that it’s difficult to be specific about influences on Ian Fleming. We can recognise elements of early 20th century fiction in Fleming’s work, but these were common tropes or memes in the sort of fiction that Ian Fleming would have read in his youth.

Bond - James Bond: a phrase less ordinary

Which is the best-known three-word phrase in the James Bond films? Licence to kill? Shaken, not stirred? Or Bond, James Bond? To be honest, I couldn’t tell you. All three are so engrained in the popular imagination, they’re probably as well known as each other. What I can be more certain about is that while all three phrases were introduced by Ian Fleming, it was the film series that gave them prominence and cultural weight.
 
In an earlier post, I discussed the claim that Berkely Mather, one of the screenwriters of Dr No (1962), was responsible for the phrase ‘Bond – James Bond’. Given that the phrase appears in various forms in the Bond novels, starting with Casino Royale (1953), the claim is absurd. However, there’s no denying that its use in Dr No was special. After all, it’s delivered by the impossibly cool Sean Connery and is triggered by the James Bond theme.
 

'Bond, James Bond' (Dr No, 1962)

Together, these elements give the phrase value, turning what was an ordinary phrase into something memorable and worth repeating, not just in subsequent films, but more widely in the cultural environment.
 
For Ian Fleming, the phrase ‘Bond – James Bond’ was never intended to be loaded with significance. We can point to two pieces of evidence for this. The first is the Bond books themselves. James Bond uses this form of introduction several times during the course of his adventures. There’s a ‘Bond – James Bond’, or close variant, in, among others, Casino Royale, Goldfinger, Dr No, The Spy who Loved Me, and On Her Majesty’s Secret Service (although this last example is interesting, as Fleming appears to have been influenced by the nascent film series as he wrote it; possibly he thought differently about the phrase by this time).
 
But the surname-first name-surname formula is also used in relation to other characters. In Goldfinger, Mr Du Pont introduces himself with the words, ‘My name is Du Pont. Junius Du Pont’. In Diamonds are Forever, Bond’s told of a cab-driver ‘by the name of Cureo, Ernie Cureo’. In the same book, Bond hears about a hoodlum called ‘Budd, “Rosy” Budd’. I’m sure there are other examples.
 
The second piece of evidence is that the formula is used fairly frequently in other fiction. It’s not often that I don’t have a classic spy novel or thriller (some of which would have been very familiar to Fleming) on the go, and as I read them, it’s not long before I come across another example of the formula.
 
In Hushed Up! A Mystery of London (1911) by William Le Queux, the hero, when asked his name, replies, ‘Biddulph… Owen Biddulph’. (I was, incidentally, rather thrilled that the novel featured a main character who shared my unusual surname.) There are various examples in the works of E Philips Oppenheim. In The Great Impersonation (1920), we have from the main character a ‘My name is Dominey – Everard Dominey’ (twice, in fact). In the John Buchan novel The Three Hostages (1924), Richard Hannay is told by a friend who is assuming a name that ‘my name’s Thomson – Alexander Thomson’.
 
It’s a small point, but the obvious conclusion is that the surname-first name-surname form of introduction was a standard one, certainly in some of the older literature. It seems likely that Fleming applied it to Bond – and other characters – simply as a form of everyday speech with no additional significance. Today, with everyone instantly on first name terms, the formula seems somewhat formal and old-fashioned. In a way, too, the phrase is a victim of its own success. Having become so closely associated with James Bond thanks to the films, it can’t be used seriously anywhere else!

Did E Phillips Oppenheim invent James Bond?

Who do the following two literary characters remind you of? The first is a resourceful, tough, sardonic man of action. He's attractive to women. He travels the world, he's handy with a gun, and uses gadgets in his pursuit of the villain. He's a bit of a daredevil, too. At one point, he jumps off a bridge on to a moving train.

The second is a former military officer and a spy. He's attractive to women. He's not afraid of danger, and is also handy with a gun. He travels widely, and knows his way around the Alps and the casino. He enjoys a cocktail or two and a game of golf, and he drives a high-powered sports car.

Sound familiar? No, neither is James Bond, but they could be. The first is American detective, Sanford Quest, the hero of the novel, The Black Box (1915). The second is another American, Major Martin Fawley, a freelance spy in the novel The Spy Paramount (1934). Both books are by the English thriller writer, E Philips Oppenheim, who was also one of Ian Fleming's favourite authors.

I'm not actually going to argue that Oppenheim invented James Bond, but reading The Black Box, The Spy Paramount, and others, Bond appears to be cut from the same cloth as Oppenheim's heroes, and we could make just as good a case as Simon Winder and Nigel West did when they argued that a contemporary author, Phyllis Bottome invented a prototype James Bond in her novel, The Lifeline (1946). Indeed, Oppenheim has the advantage, because Fleming identifies him as an influence. He told Jack Fishman that 'I was considerably influenced by those masters of the modern thriller, Hammett and Chandler, and, to some extent, in my childhood, by E Phillips Oppenheim, and Sax Rohmer.'

And perhaps not just in Fleming's childhood. The Spy Paramount is packed with Bondian moments. Having ostensibly offered his services to Italy, Fawley drives in his powerful Lancia into the Alps on the French/Italian border in search of a secret mountain base that houses a superweapon. He succeeds, but not without being discovered and shooting his way out. He returns to his hotel and nonchalantly orders café complet. Later, he plays golf with a scheming German politician in a chapter that gives Fleming's account of Bond's game of golf with Goldfinger a run for its money.

The book contains descriptions of food and drink that wouldn't be out of place in a Bond novel: 'The cocktails tasted good, as indeed they were, for granted the right material, the American touch on the shaker is after all the most subtle in the world.' Or, as Fawley's brother says: 'French champagne tastes all wrong in Italy, and though food is good enough for a time, it's monotonous.' At one point, Fawley consumes rounds of caviar sandwiches, just as Bond does in Goldfinger.

We also have a physical description of Fawley: visionary eyes, an air of immense self-control, a firm mouth, and a little wave in his hair brushed back by the ears. Not so different from Bond's calm grey-blue eyes with a hint of ironical inquiry, thick comma of hair above his right eyebrow, and cruel mouth.

Much of the story is set in the luxury hotels, clubs and casinos of Monte Carlo (as are a number of Oppenheim's spy novels), and though Fawley doesn't visit the gaming tables himself during his mission, the scene is familiar to readers of the Bond novels.

In another of Oppenheim's spy novels, The Spymaster (1938), it's the hero's attitude towards female agents that's familiar to Bond's readers. Admiral Guy Cheshire, head of British naval intelligence, responds to the opinion of his counterpart in the army, General Mallinson, that in espionage work, 'women... are the biggest nuisance,' with the view that 'they are in the way, of course.' He and James Bond would get on well: Bond also thinks that 'on a job, [women] got in the way.' 

At another point of the novel, Cheshire plays bridge in his club and demonstrates his skill with the cards, both impressing and irritating his fellow players with his winning form and ability to shuffle the pack to his advantage; Cheshire performs these tricks for amusement, so he avoids the accusation of cheating. Bond's abilities with the cards, as demonstrated during a game of bridge at Blades, is no less impressive, but even so, Bond might find Cheshire a tricky opponent at the card table.

Actually, given Guy Cheshire's position as head of naval intelligence, membership of a London club, and, as we learn in the novel, access to the highest political level (he has the ear, for instance, of the Prime Minister), he is more M than Bond. If M were to feature in his own novel – and it's about time – the book might look something like The Spymaster.

Fleming's Bond novels and Oppenheim's thrillers have much in common. It is going too far to claim that Fleming based Bond on any aspects of Oppenheim's work specifically, but the influence is clear, and it is fair to say that Bond emerged out of the literary tradition represented by the novels of Oppenheim, Phyllis Bottome and others. Indeed, Bond could not have existed without them. But while it's easy enough to spot the similarities, there are lots of differences too. The Spy Paramount, The Spymaster and others could not be mistaken for Bond books. After all, the Bond books reflect other influences, such as American detective fiction, the Second World War, the Cold War, and Fleming's own experiences.

The result is that while the Bond books express some of the traits and memes of the earlier literary tradition, they have diverged from it too - and are different enough, as we know, to have created their own tradition and become influential in turn.

Returning to E Phillips Oppenheim, his novels are fast-paced, exciting thrillers, and it's no surprise Ian Fleming enjoyed them. Oppenheim's detective story, The Black Box (coincidentally (almost) the title of the latest James Bond comic book), is somewhat corny, with a story involving mad professors, ape-men, and stupid policemen, but his spy novels are superb, being full of intrigue, action, and, unsurprising given the context in which they were written, growing foreboding of war.