What if James Bond were cast not as that lantern-jawed hero who has gone around the world as a British icon? Could he be black? That’s the interesting idea behind aspiring writer Jordan Waller’s play, written in his bedroom during lockdown.
The situation comes about because a new star due to be unveiled for the role is forced to withdraw at the last moment after being exposed as having sent sex texts to young girls, as a result of which the producers have to find a late replacement.
While framed photographs of five famous 007s look down upon the office of the lead producer, Janie Dee’s Deborah, the question is also raised whether Bond himself may be considered as a predator.
Dee, power-heeled to assert herself in a ruthless male world, carries the show as she cynically hacks and leaks material from fellow producer Malcolm’s accounts and tries amid constantly ringing telephones to manage the chaos.
But none of the issues are explored in any depth in this promising but undercooked piece. I didn’t much care about any of the characters, nor did the direction help with its stage clichés—the secret ciggie, an older man struggling to extricate himself from a bean bag.
Philip Bretherton is a nervy, excitable Malcolm whose outbursts would be more effective in moderation. The same might be said of the profanities, whose frequency reduce themselves to commas rather than standing as exclamation marks.
Harry Goodson-Bevan nicely captures the critical affection that Deborah’s son Quinn has for his mother and the Bond legacy, and Kit Esuruoso has the tough job of following Messrs Connery, Craig, Brosnan, Moore and Dalton arranged above him.
He has an unfortunate line at his audition saying that he has read all the James Bond books. Really, this Monaco-raised, Cambridge whizzkid? Has anyone?