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Novelisation
You know what I miss from the Craig era is the missing novelisations of the film ( except CR ) it would be handy , definitely with the latest film. ( I also miss the painted posters but that’s another discussion) .
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Only rarely can a novelisation bring something extra to the game. It happens that the book is based on an initial script, rather than on the finished film. And sometimes, out of frustration I assume, will the writer work in details and clues that the film neglected to convey. In those rare instances do I find a novelisation weakly amusing, if not worth the price and consumption of my time.
As for Bond, I have read two novelisations, GE and TWINE, and thought them decent but little else. I doubt the Craigs lend themselves well to novelisations, although I'm not without a bit of curiosity. Who knows, some of the "unexplained" bits in SF for example could, in the hands of a seasoned novelist, end up clarified. But even then, they wouldn't become canon just like that. So I'm neither asking for novelisations nor am I against them.
Excited to read this!
Sean Longmore https://twitter.com/thattallginger/status/1313515538056990721
1 / MADELEINA, MADELEINA
The cold of winter had made its desiccation of the Norwegian trees. Ironic, that; how starved for water vegetation can decline into being, despite the fact that the substance surrounding it is water, only in another state. While the winters of Nittedal were perhaps not the harshest - it did sit a comfortable distance below Polarsirkelen, after all, and Langvann had but a film of verglas atop its surface - death was nonetheless no stranger to these conifers, dieback setting in at the tips of their branches. This afternoon, the acquaintance of the pair would be strengthened, would in fact make it a threesome, by way of the man in white winter wear.
His footsteps crunched in the snow with an amalgamation of ungainliness and unconcern, a consequence of his seeming to favour his left leg. Indeed, of the two trails of impressions that followed him, the one on the right was a series of clean, distinct holes in the snow; whereas the one on the left had its holes connected by a streak where his leg dragged. His nasal cavity, from the hairs in his nostrils through to his sinuses, felt frozen from the crisp air. Truth be told, however, he paid little mind to his physical condition, his thoughts instead centered on two things: the firearm in his right hand, a Sa vz. 58 V, which he pressed flat against himself as if it were a child he was shielding; and the person he intended to empty it into.
As he neared the extremity of the treeline, which coincided with the crest of a hill, the man in white could distantly hear music, blaring from speakers. A half-dozen onerous steps later, and Langvann revealed itself, accentuated by the arresting, two-floor cabin on its shore. Each subsequent step brought him closer: to the house, to the music, to the triangular second-floor window; through which he could not make out anything at this distance, but which doubtlessly held his prize.
The inside of the cabin trembled from the bassy rumble of the speakers, the soulful voice of Dalida merging with punches of strings to glide over the percussive backbeat of "Danse la Ville Endormie". Mrs. White, as she lay on the living room sofa, nursing a cigarette, pondered the way she loved this song, 'that damned song', her husband would rib her about, before acquiescing every time she requested a dance with him to it. One tires of a song if it enters their ears too often, or so she had been told as a child; yet here she was, for what felt like the millionth time, being carried away by the song as though it were the first.
Or, perhaps it was just the wine?
More wine, yes, a magnificent idea! Mrs. White fought against the blanket she had tangled herself into in order to partly upright herself, her right arm remaining extended upwards so as to keep the lit cigarette she was nursing away from the furniture.
'Madeleina!' she called out, to no response.