How I (Almost) Wrote a James Bond Movie

As a working Hollywood screenwriter (and sometimes director), I’ve had some interesting assignments.

Surely among these was the time I received a call from my friend Jeff Kleeman, then the studio exec in charge of the latest James Bond iterations. These happened to star another close friend, Pierce Brosnan, as James Bond.

And if that wasn’t chummy enough, this Bond film was to be directed by my brother-in-law-once-removed, Roger Spottiswoode.

I was invited — as it turned out, with eight or so other Hollywood screenwriters — on an all-expense-paid trip to London to solve an important problem with the new Bond film. My fellow scribes were top of the line, all with distinguished — i.e., successful — credits.

We were, in effect, convened as a writers’ room for a feature film.

No expense was spared. We were flown first class to EON’s headquarters in Piccadilly to trot or thrash out our solutions before producers Barbara Broccoli and her half-brother Michael Wilson, now the keepers of the Bond flame, in charge of everything James Bond.

We were installed in the ritzy Dorchester Hotel and asked to grapple with only one question:

What does the villain want?

And remember: previous Bond villains have already wanted the gold in Fort Knox, nuclear weapons, control of outer space, control of all the oceans, etc.

And point number two: KEEP IT SIMPLE.

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I don’t know about you, but I have smart days and stupid days. Jet-lagged and lying awake in my swanky hotel room, I didn’t expect to have an epiphany — but for some reason, I did. (You never know when lightbulbs will light up.) Staring up at the invisible ceiling, I realized I had solved the problem. I knew what the villain wanted! And it was SIMPLE!! I could not sleep; I was so thrilled with myself.

The next morning, still on my adrenaline, sleep-deprived rush, and bursting with my accomplishment — having trouble getting my swelled head through doorways — I walked around the corner to the EON offices. After coffee and anything else our hearts desired, I took my place in a large conference room among my fellow scribes, plus assorted secretaries, “associate” producers, and other folk whose functions were unknown to me.

Never one to hide my light under a bushel, I took the lead.

“I’ve solved the problem.”

Awkward silence greeted my announcement.

Truthfully, at this remove, I can’t swear this was the exact order of events, but I do recall the essence of what followed. Quietly invited to deliver my two cents, this is what I proposed:

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“As we know, all James Bond films follow an organizational formula almost as rigid in its way as an English sonnet. First we have the amazing opening action sequence, followed by spectacular titles, followed by Bond bantering with Moneypenny before going into M’s office where he receives his assignment.

“After which,” I continued, “we have several daredevil action sequences before Bond gets to encounter Blofeld or Dr. No or Stromberg — whoever is Mr. Big — who ultimately explains: ‘No, Mr. Bond, it’s not about the [fill in the blank] — it’s about the [fill in the blank].’

“Now,” I pursue, making an effort to contain my smug self-satisfaction, “imagine all this has happened and Bond finally finds himself face-to-face with Mr. Big — who now explains that everything that has happened up to this point in the film has been nothing more than a kind of test. ‘A test,’ he continues, ‘to see if you were the man I need you to be.’“

I note that I have everyone’s attention now.

“I think,” pursues our villain, “that when you get to know me — yes, when you really know me — you will discover that I am fundamentally a people person.”

Long pause.

“There’s too many of them.”

Everyone very quiet in the room.

“At which point,” I continue, “Mr. Big snaps on his cluster of huge monitors, revealing every image of overpopulation around the world. Famine in Ethiopia! Immobile traffic in Los Angeles! Millions moving on the Hajj to Mecca! — you get the idea.”

I pause for these images to sink in.

“Mr. Bond, even lemmings know what to do when they grow too numerous. I am trying to save planet Earth — even if it means grappling with an issue no politician will ever be willing to confront.” Brief pause for effect. “We must cull the herd if humanity — indeed the planet — is to survive.”

More dead silence. They’re in the palm of my hand now.

“Double-O Seven — that’s some kind of license, isn’t it? Tell me, Double-O Seven: how much game are you allowed to bag with that license? Will you help me save planet Earth?”

The guy’s plan? To start a war between India and China, the two most populous nations. That will certainly thin the herd.

You could hear a pin drop.

“And what do you know — Bond agrees!! Don’t worry,” I hasten to add. “Bond won’t really help Mr. Big. But no matter what the audience thinks, we can’t lose. They’ll either be delightedly clutching themselves with the certain knowledge that Bond would never help the guy — and then feel great when their intuition proves correct — or they’ll worry that Bond has gone to the dark side and be astonished when he hasn’t, and brings down the bad guy and his genocidal project. Either way, we can’t lose!”

One last pause before: “It’s never been done. And it’s simple.”

In other words: I have fulfilled the assignment.

“And,” I fairly chortled, “Bond will finally have a foe truly worthy of his steel — because the reality is that in this case, Mr. Big is absolutely right. The world is bursting at its seams. We agree with him — or at any rate, cannot deny his logic. We can all understand and even sympathize with what Mr. Big feels needs to be done.

“Is Mr. Big somehow the good guy?”

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I only have imprecise memories of the aftermath. In my doubtless self-serving recollection, I strut from the silent room, leaving an astonished multitude. I have hit the ball out of the fucking park.

But I do ruefully remember what happened next.

The following morning when we reconvened, I entered expecting laurel wreaths, nymphs strewing rose petals in my path, a bonus or what-have-you — the plaudits of the multitude.

Instead, I was informed my idea was off the table.

I was stunned. I had perfectly fulfilled the assignment.

It was explained to me — I can’t remember by whom — that my idea was “too real.”

It was further patiently explained that James Bond does not live in the real world but in a cartoon universe of espionage, characterized by glamorous roulette wheels, shiny cars, and equally shiny women with names like Pussy Galore. Reality was the last thing needed or desired in a Bond movie. I had served up a dose of queasy realism. Control of the seas or the gold in Fort Knox was cartoon-realism — the population bomb was not. End of subject. Let’s move on, people.

Discussion commenced as though I had not spoken.

My previously swelled head had no difficulty getting through doorways as I departed the EON offices.

I flew home — still, I was relieved to see, via first class — but with my tail between my legs.

I still think my idea was a great objective for a villain. But more in the mold of le Carré than Ian Fleming.

Live and maybe learn.

Have you ever had a cool idea that no one else thought was great?