Goldfinger

The seventh Bond novel, written in the mid-50's, is an efficient, ruthless page turner with a large dose of racism, sexism and misogyny thrown in for good measure. Vintage Bond then!

Responding to criticism of his super-spy creation, Fleming here open the story with a world-weary Bond, drinking heavily and questioning his lifestyle as a secret killing machine. But within a chapter that's all forgotten as Fleming introduces one of his most memorable villains in the rotund figure of Auric Goldfinger. Bond, by a series of coincidences, finds himself on the tail of SMERSH financier and gold fetishist Goldfinger and his man-mountain Korean bodyguard, Odd-Job.

We are treated to probably the best ever description of a round of high-stakes golf, a long car chase through the French countryside and a bonkers plot to steal a vast amount of gold bullion.

It's an easy read, undemanding, action-packed and utterly humourless. What grates to the modern eye is the glib racism (Koreans described as apes) and the sexism (all that Lesbian gal needs is a REAL man to set her straight...). Oh dear.

The film adaptation is regarded as one of the best Bond films because they ironed out the kinks in the plot. Even so, with this book, Fleming started a run of great novels which culminated in On Her Majesty's Secret Service and You Only Live Twice, along the way giving Bond a bit of depth and humanity.

So, a deeply flawed thriller, but worth a read. Now, where's my Vodka Martini.....?