Rating – M for Masterclass
Frivolity at its best
The smartest Bond villain, be that John Sill or Wala Kitu might be a parody of the very idea of Bond itself, and that’s where Percival Everett has the most fun.
2022’s Dr No isn’t trying to be a great Bond story. It’s something stranger and lighter, and it succeeds so completely that the only sensible critique is: nothing.
This is a review that isn’t really a review. I can’t pretend to be objective about a Bond‑adjacent book; I’m too far down the rabbit hole. What I can do is talk about a story that lives near 007 but stubbornly refuses to be a Bond book.
Spoiler alert: Bond doesn’t show up. At all. He’s only ever glancingly referenced, and the plot touches his world in a way that’s loose enough not to trouble any copyright lawyers. The book is stronger for it.
Instead, Everett takes what we think we know, tweaks the characters and offers a masterful remix from the perspective of the afterthought: the self‑actualised Black man. Our main character, Wala, lives in that space. He’s not Bond, he’s a villain after all. He’s also a hero of sorts. Wala doesn’t try to be Bond, and isn’t interested in much. If he shares anything with 007, it’s a kind of mathematical “butt‑kicking ability” that runs under the surface of the story.
As readers of my work already know, I’m the Bond fan who actually tries to pay the cost of the lifestyle, not just watch it. So a book that exists in the 007 “world” and gives us interesting Black characters moving through that universe is rare enough to feel almost impossible. Wala may not be Bond, but the villains around him? They are perfectly 007.
The plot, in the loosest terms: a mathematician, more philosopher than lab‑rat, and a physicist are paid a kingpin’s ransom to help a deliberately blaxploitative villain get into Fort Knox. John Sill.
They are in search of “nothing,” which also happens to be Wala’s speciality. Nothing as concept. Nothing as object. Nothing as power.
Nothing is powerful here precisely because it is nothing, and that’s the joke the whole book dances around. The story unfolds in a world of limerick, riddle, absurdity, and deliberate literary frivolity. That mode is going to be majorly off‑putting to some readers. The sing-song villain sections remind me of Tolkien.
There are spies and government functionaries, including a version of Bill Clinton wandering through the pages. There are explosions. Talking dogs. Dreamy swings into mania. And, most importantly for me, Black angst and self‑questioning set against a backdrop of luxury.
The only way this book could resonate more with me is with nothing—more of that empty centre it keeps circling.
At the risk of rambling, I’m landing this non‑review right as rumours of Callum Turner stepping into the role of James Bond swirl across the internet.
I like Callum for Bond. People have sent me his name in DM’s and ask what I think, and based on what I’ve seen, he’d be a strong choice.
He’s engaged to Dua Lipa, who I’d happily keep far away from 007 on screen. Argylle told us most of what we needed to know there. As a potential Bond theme artist, though, that’s a different story. A quick look at the Kanye leaks for Donda tells you she has the range. She has more cultural weight than just “Levitating” on repeat.
She also did a sharp conversation with Percival Everett that I’d recommend tracking down. It’s part of the same through‑line: the Bond world, and the orbit around it, are expanding. Things are getting weirder, cooler, and less comfortable at the edges.
It’s not happening in the ways we’d usually expect, or always in ways fans are ready for. But that’s exactly why books like this matter: they show us what happens when you take the trappings of 007 and hand the centre of the story to someone like Wala instead.
With a first page that says “don’t take this seriously” and yet the subject matter, the mental horsepower that it requires to read certain tricky portions of this book, the subtle jab at Fleming’s depictions of Bond girls. Sedated. Robotic. Solely there as incapable damsels in distress who serve the male gaze and please.
Percival Everett knows exactly what he’s doing, he’s tied this entire story into an earlier novel from his bibliography.
I haven’t read Glyph yet but that’s next on my list. I’d also recommend the exceptional, White Teeth by Zadie Smith for a less frivolous lower stakes satirical book tackling these themes.