Mr Bergonzi's extremely interesting essay … 'The Case of Mr Fleming' [see excerpt above] raises two important points about the examination of popular culture. The first is the necessity of getting close to the audience for the particular form under study. We often speak of the literature of wish-fulfilment, without considering how seriously the public takes this sort of thing. I think that Mr Bergonzi is guilty of this fault in castigating the New Statesman public for its approval of Mr Fleming's books, which, he claims, rely for their appeal on sex, snobbery and violence.

How could the New Statesman call Casino Royale 'a thriller for an intelligent audience', Mr Bergonzi asks in amaze. I want to attempt an answer: what these books offer besides sex, violence, etc. First of all, there is the literal excitement of the story (what will happen next?); but equally important is the extravagant absurdity of the situations. Although, as Mr Bergonzi noted, irony is quite lacking in the narration, there is an irony of situations; the comedy lies in telling a story of glaring implausibility with an absolutely straight face. For example, when we learn that the Secret Service branch in Istanbul is entirely staffed by the children of its polyphiloprogenitive director Darko Kerim, we cannot help laughing—but it would be fatal if Mr Fleming laughed too. Similarly, the vulgar parody of 'gracious living' is meant to seem absurd.

This is not to deny that there is a very marked streak of sadistic violence in these books—but it exceeds the limits of paperback brutality.

The scene in Casino Royale, where Bond's genitals are beaten with a carpet-beater, is not titillating but actively repellent. It is interesting in this connection to remark that Bond on the whole suffers more than his enemies; and it is tempting to suggest a motivation deeper than the commercial instinct behind the violence in these books. Class, as Mr Bergonzi noted, plays a large part in them—Bond is a representative of the upper-income bracket. It is for this that he suffers; he expiates the sins of his class by suffering for the greater good. By his suffering, the forces of SMERSH are rendered powerless to the community; the price he pays is the loss of his own integrity—he becomes the 'cold', 'mean', 'cruel' Secret Service agent. James Bond is a sacrificial victim and a modern version of the king killed in the Sacred Wood.

Bond's identification with a superior 'upper' class produces a double response—the audience sees him as funny ('vulgarity and display') but also as obliged to justify himself. This attitude to class is distinctly twentieth century and is certainly that of many New Statesman readers. My suggested reading is of course, a sophisticated version of what goes on in these novels; but it is a reading to be taken into account. (p. 478)

The trouble is, of course, that Mr Bergonzi distrusts any public that approves of the popular novel, despite his attempts at impartiality. Mrs Leavis has been before and made all clear—hence the strong moral bias of the criticism, my second point of objection. For Bond's morals must be seen in the context of the scheme suggested above. He is a good man who allows himself to be subject to corruption for the good of society as a whole. Doubtless, the books sell on the appeal of the vicious side of Bond's character; and it is easy by selective quotation to make this seem the only possible aspect to consider. But it is worth mentioning that despite Bond's 'meanness', etc., he falls desperately and romantically in love with the heroines of at least three of the novels….

To sum up—immorality is certainly the greater part of Mr Fleming's subject-matter, but his attitude to it as expressed by Bond is quite equivocal and forms the basis for a sharp ironic technique of story-telling that puts him in a class far apart from John Buchan. After all, to be capable of doubts about the absolute nature of your moral system is better than to be utterly ignorant of the possibility of such doubts. (p. 479)