MOLESKINE ® LITERARIO

Cumpliéndose el centenario de Ian Flemming, el creador de James Bond, su familia dejó en manos de Sebastian Faulks la creación de una nueva novela de la saga. Y ayer apareció en Inglaterra la novela titulada Devil May Care. La presentación ha sido con show mediático incluido, con modelos, helicóptero, buques, librerías expectantes y Faulks llegando en Bentley -como lo haría Bond- y con un maletín (que en el Perú se les decía, me parece recordar mi época escolar, justamente "jamesbond") donde guardaba la novela calentita. La notas mencionan las declaraciones de Faulks:

En una conferencia de prensa este miércoles, Faulks reveló detalles de la trama de su libro, que se sitúa en 1967, durante la Guerra Fría. El "malo" de la novela es Julius Gorner, un narcotraficante con una enorme deformidad: una mano en forma de garra de mono, que mantiene siempre enguantada, dijo Faulks. Están presentes en las nuevas aventuras algunos de los personajes de la saga, como Miss Moneypenny, que sigue siempre enamorada como una chiquilla de 007. Y Bond sigue fumando, comiendo y bebiendo - martini, champán, vodka y whisky - como en los libros de su creador. "Faulks ha escrito el nuevo Bond tal como Fleming lo hubiera hecho", destacó Corinne Turner, directora de Ian Fleming Publications. En la primera crítica del libro, el vespertino Evening Standard se congratula de que Faulks no haya tratado de "modernizar" al superespía. "Faulks se ha divertido enormemente escribiendo el libro, y sus lectores también se divertirán", escribió el editor literario del diario, David Sexton, que dio cuatro estrellas, de cinco, a "Devil May Care". Por su parte, Faulks - el sexto escritor que escribe un Bond - afirmó que aunque se ha divertido con la experiencia, no piensa repetirla.

Por otra parte, en The Guardian pueden leer una reseña temprana del libro donde lo califican como "a smart and enjoyable act of literary resurrection". Y en uno blog del mismo diario, Richard E. Rogers se lamenta de toda la fanfarria alrededor del nuevo Bond que aleja a los verdaderos fanáticos:

In Devil May Care, Faulks has promised to return the multi-authored hero to Fleming's original gritty 1960s self. So has he? Well, as a fan of both Faulks and Bond I was looking forward to finding out, planning, as I'm sure were many others, to grab a copy this evening. However this may no longer be necessary as the BBC have stepped in on a public service mission of their own. Entertainment reporter Neil Smith is currently speedreading the new novel and offering his critique in a live blog. Except firstly no, no he's not. There is little critique on offer here, with the entertainment reporter instead reading at a rate of a chapter every half hour and then jotting off a hundred words on what exactly has happened. The closest we've come to critique is; "is Bond now celibate?" and "this is shaping up to be a cracking read". Aside from these insights we've been introduced to most characters, the plot and all Bond's movements and actions in short but informative accounts of what, where, who and how. (...) True, the entire book can be seen as an exercise by a canny publisher, knowing exactly how to further spin a franchise into another sack of cash. As such it is to be bemoaned. But for many fans, the end does little to stifle our desire for the means, which is the offer of another Bond tale from a gifted writer. The BBC's crusade to break the story first is doing exactly that; breaking the story. The humour to be found in the irony of a British institution sabotaging Britain's most famous spy by leaking his secrets to the world is of little relief. This seems to me to be a further sad reflection on the loss of substance and character, even in the realms of popular fiction. Of creativity bankrupt by the media's continual grasping for ever greater surface exposure.

Etiquetas: faulks, ian flemming, inglaterra, NOTICIA

Cuando uno piensa en un escritor dandy, no piensa necesariamente en Tom Wolfe, que con su trajecito blanco parece más una versión caricaturesca de un amo sureño a destiempo, ni tampoco en Oscar Wilde, cuya imagen refinada está unida para siempre con la de su dolor y el de profundis, sino en Ian Flemming. El autor policial, piensa uno, ha hecho de su personaje James Bond una réplica de sí mismo. Y no puede evitar pensar en un terno y un martini para acompañar la foto de solapa. Pero Charles Cumming, en un blog de The Guardian, ha decidido en medio del centenario del autor poner en duda esa imagen.

On the face of it, 007's creator was an impossibly glamorous figure, a womaniser and bon viveur, cigarette holder in one hand, Ursula Andress´s telephone number in the other. His books sold by the million. John F Kennedy revealed From Russia With Love to have been one of his favourite books. No novelist ever had it so easy, or so good. The reality, of course, was somewhat different. Fleming was insecure about his reputation; in common with most commercially-successful novelists, he wanted to be taken seriously by the literati. At times, he found the demands of writing the Bond novels overwhelming. In 1964, for example, as he was about to embark on The Man with the Golden Gun, Fleming wrote a letter to Sir John Betjeman. "I must warn you that I am seriously running out of puff," he complained. "My inventive streak is very nearly worked out." Later that year, at the tender age of 56, Fleming died. He lived to see just two of the Bond films, Dr No and From Russia with Love, and never fully enjoyed the fruits of his success.

Además, advierte contra la imposibilidad de ser actuamente un escritor de espionaje glamouroso como pretendemos que sea Flemming:

The market is now saturated in Fleming wannabes churning out thrillers at the rate of one a year. You can see them at book conventions, bestselling men in late middle-age with exhausted eyes and skin that would shame a snooker player. Who cares that their last book sold 250,000 copies in hardback? They've got to be getting on with the next one. The modern-day Fleming doesn't have time for cocktails and snorkelling: when he's not hammering out 2000 words a day in pursuit of a killer deadline, he's chasing readers on MySpace and Facebook, or picking a fight with his agent, demanding to know why he hasn't made enough money to buy his own little Goldeneye on Corsica or Ibiza.

Etiquetas: ian flemming, inglaterra, NOTICIA, oscar wilde, tom wolfe