On Her Majesty's Secret Service (1969)

'The World is Not Enough...'

‘A frilly evening shirt to die for…’

Bond's finished- kaput, dead as a dodo. It's time for the old dinosaur to hang up his Walther PPK. Ian Fleming's original thrillers- set in a Post-War world where Britain still had an Empire (less India)- are a masterclass in the art of writing, foolishly dismissed as 'tosh' by Ian's highbrow soldier-writer-explorer brother, Peter. Ian Fleming's a terrific writer; I've no time for literary snobs. But the whole flippin' raison d'etre is over. How can a misogynistic, Savile Row'd, scrambled egg'd Bond exist in the 21st century? Fleming's idea of the perfect Bond was David Niven, initially dismissing Connery as a ‘Glaswegian lorry driver’. And as with Mr Cowell and the X Factor, modern Bond is all about making things 'current', bringing relevance to a modern audience. An understandable conceit, but at the expense of Fleming's original concept: the current incumbent- fine actor as he is- now looks like a nightclub bouncer (pumpin' iron and tight Tom Ford suits) or the muscled, grizzled geezer who's come to mend the washing machine. All that's missing is an earpiece and a microphone set.

‘A pernickety, selfish, clubbable bachelor…’

Fleming saw Bond as a bland civil servant- a blunt governmental instrument he could send off on dangerous adventures, an imperialist 1950s Bulldog Drummond- and like the unsavoury, sadomasochistic Drummond, a vulnerable character who thrives off physical pain. Bond's also a pernickety, selfish, clubbable bachelor fusspot, half Swiss, half Scots, educated at Eton and Fettes: a man capable of queeny hysterics if his Tiptree 'Little Scarlet' Strawberry Jam ain't delivered on time- an aspect commented on by Fleming's gay friends, the poet, William Plomer and Noel Coward. With Bond, everything has to be just so. I'm also fascinated by the Alpha Male horror that is the modern-day Bond Cult: the online 'Be Like Bond' courses, 'Shaken Not Stirred' (it should be the other way round), the soaring values of silver DB5s, and the advance of Rolex. Should Bond have been put out of his misery after Live and Let Die (1973)- fun as it is? And let's be honest, girls. What would your reaction be if you ran into Bond in real life- at a friend's dinner party or propping up the American Bar at The Savoy? 'God, who WAS that tosser with the blow-dried hair?'

‘George Lazenby: the great what if?’

Which takes us to Peter Hunt's On Her Majesty's Secret Service (1969)- in my opinion, the best Bond film of the lot- and the first and only appearance of George Lazenby as 007. In 1967, Sean Connery retired from the Bond role following You Only Live Twice, leaving Eon with a casting problem. Step forward, George Lazenby, an Australian former second-hand car salesman and professional male model with no acting experience. Visually, Lazenby IS Bond, a quality Cubby Broccoli saw almost immediately when he ran into Lazenby, by chance, at the hairdresser. David Niven aside, Fleming's Bond looks like Hoagy Carmichael (the American singer and composer) with 'black hair falling down over the right eyebrow... something a bit cruel in the mouth and the eyes were cold’.

‘A brutal elegance to his form…’

Okay, so if Lazenby's a bit wooden in places, sounding more like an Australian jackeroo than a member of Blade's, there's a brutal elegance to his form. There's a moment in the (terrific) violent hotel bedroom fight sequence where Bond draws his PPK in a fleeting, beautifully choreographed, gliding, sinuous movement. It only lasts a second- but it's one to look out for. And the man's seriously hard, with a terrific physique. Bond's frilly evening shirts are to die for.

‘Milk Tray Man…’

‘Big-budget cigarette commercial territory…’

And by the late 1960s, we're in big-budget cigarette commercial territory. The look of OHMSS is all back-lit, soft-focus lens-flare- like an ad for John Player Special or Martini: from Tracy's rescue at the sun-speckled beach (compare this with Visconti's cinematography in Death in Venice [1970]) to the romantic Portuguese interlude (Saddles n' Somberos) set to Louis Armstrong's magnificent We Have All The Time in the World (surely the best Bond song of them all?). And the alpine setting is pure Fleming (who spent three years in Kitzbuhel). Like landing at Zurich airport and walking through customs- a seminal Bond moment we can all experience on the cheap: ‘Velcome to Zurich, Mister Honey.’ For Jamaica, Switzerland, and Austria are in Bond's DNA.

‘For thee the sunlight creeps across the lawn…’

And it’s the first Bond where the characters have any subtlety, sophistication or depth. Tracy, especially. No bimbo her. But then, of course, it’s Diana Rigg, isn't it? One of the best- if not the best of all the Bond girls. Tracy gives Bond more than a run for his money, which, of course, adds to her considerable attraction. Telly Savalas is great too. Really amusing in a wry way. That bit at the end when Blofeld and Tracy recite James Elroy Flecker’s poetry to each other (“Thy Dawn, O Master of the World, thy dawn, for thee the sunlight creeps across the lawn...”) is priceless- the producers hired Simon ‘Alms for Oblivion’ Raven to soup up the script ‘to make the dialogue better and a little sharper and more intellectual’. The film deliberately plays down the adolescent gadgets, apart from a clunky photocopier passed to Bond via a cement mixer in a Zurich office. No invisible cars or Union Jack parachutes.

‘The College of Arms: Fleming’s love of the arcane…’

As Kingsley Amis pointed out in his erudite introduction to a Bond paperback edition of the 90s (I forget which exactly), Fleming's a sucker for the arcane- from a hoard of 16th-century Spanish doubloons to the portraits of Sir Francis Dashwood's Hell-Fire Club lining the walls of Blade's (actually based on the Society of Dilettanti set, now at Brooks's), or the voodoo rituals in Live and Let Die. So Fleming sends Bond to the College of Arms, where, undercover, he assumes the role of Sable Basilisk, Sir Hilary Bray Bt., which also, for some bizarre reason, gave Eon the excuse to squeeze Lazenby into Highland Evening Dress- although why the English Sir Hilary should wear Highland Evening Dress is anybody's guess. This, apparently, has upset Bond aficionados, another reason to appreciate On Her Majesty’s Secret Service.

‘No underpants?’

And, anyway, it gives Lazenby a chance to show off his kilt (no underpants?) to a fabulous coterie of late 60s international dollybirds, including Joanna Lumley, Jenny Hanley (Tory MP's daughter and desirable presenter of Magpie), Anouska Hempel and Katherina Freiin Schell von Bauschlott aka Catherine Schell.

‘bringing a Bank Holiday lump to the throat…’

Which brings us to the fabulous ending- *spoiler alert*- perhaps the most memorable moment in Bond history. When Irma Bunt- a Germanic Temple to the Butch- guns down Bond’s DBS from a black Mercedes-Benz. It’s genuinely moving, and always brings a Bank Holiday lump to my throat- every time. Which makes you think what things might have been if Lazenby had stayed on. The great what if? So there you go. OHMSS. It’s not Connery; it’s not Goldfinger. But it has immense style, wit, intelligence and considerable depth. And the best Bond song. And it looks like a cigarette commercial- or something for Martini. And Diana Rigg's in it. Probably the best Bond Girl of the lot. On Her Majesty's Secret Service is the aesthete’s Bond. It's the connoisseur’s choice.

Diana Rigg: the best of the Bond Girls?

On Her Majesty’s Secret Service (1969) is of course, readily available on DVD, Blu-Ray and various platforms including Amazon Prime Video. And you’ve just been reading a newsletter for both free and 'paid-for' subscribers. I hope you enjoyed it. A BIG thank you to all those of you who have signed up. Really appreciated. To view the other films we’ve covered so far, please go to the Luke Honey WEEKEND FLICKS. archive.

In the meantime, have a relaxing and cinematic Sunday…