James Bond's Girls
those sensuous cinema sirens with whom secret agent 007 has to put up and bed down pictorial essay, By Richard Maibaum.
Positively the latest wish fulfillment, as you know, is something called the James Bond syndrome, a vicarious mass desire to achieve 007 status. I confess sharing it. Writing screenplay's for the Bond films, I can hardly avoid identifying with him. Could anyone? Who wouldn’t want to be the best-dressed man, most sophisticated diner, luckiest gambler, top secret agent and greatest lover of his generation all rolled into one? And what woman could resist projecting herself into his arms? Bond and his women have become fantasy figures arousing powerful empathic responses in both sexes. The wish for pleasurable excitement without the headaches of its problems is universal. But let's not over-intellectualize. It might spoil the fun—which is all that the novels and films are meant to be. A great deal of it derives from Bond’s doings with the dames.
Actually, there are two 007s: one created by Ian Fleming in his novels, the other as he appears on the screen. Kingsley Amis, in his The James Bond Dossier, commenting on Sean Connery's "total wrongness for the film part,” plainly indicates which Bond he fancies. I fear Mr. Amis will never find much employment as a casting director. Connery’s image is the one generally accepted. World-wide sales of the novels are estimated at 40,000,000, but more than 100,000,000 tickets have been sold for the films. Beyond that, the circulation figures of newspapers and magazines featuring stories and pictures of Connery must be astronomical. The reader of a Fleming novel who has seen a Bond film surely visualizes Sean as 007. If women glimpse Bond’s face in their dreams, they see the ski-jump nose and pouting lips, not the book-Bond's three inch scar and thick black comma of hair falling over the right eyebrow. He speaks to them in a voice tinged with the faint but unmistakably less-than upper-class Scottish burr rather than the cultivated accent of Eton and Sandhurst which Fleming gave his character. Connery's physique—that of a natural athlete who could have become a professional footballer (a career he once contemplated)—is considerably more rugged than his literary counterpart's. I am not implying that our celluloid tiger is superior to the paper one—only that, somewhat ironically, he is presently burning brighter in the forests of the night. Incidentally, Fleming never shared the dismay of some of his aficionados with what we have done to Bond. He particularly enjoyed our augmenting his quasi-satirical approach to him. Man became superman, yet inexplicably remained man—particularly in the man-woman department.
Much has been made of Bond's equipment—the fantastic arsenal of secret weapons, devices and vehicles placed at his disposal by Q Branch. He is trained in survival techniques implemented with the appropriate apparatus to cope with almost every possible dire eventuality. In extremis, however, as in Goldfinger, when he desperately needs to convert Pussy Galore into an ally, his most potent weapon is himself. The dictates of good taste here restrain me from embellishing the point with a bad pun about what is mightier than the sword.
The two Bonds acted similarly in that situation. Indeed, it is in the sexual area that they are most alike, although Connery-Bond's women find him physically stronger than Fleming-Bond's. In Thunderball he is capable of strangling an adversary by bending an iron poker around his neck. He is less introspective, brooding no more about his ruthless exploitation of sex than the moral issues involved in exercising his Licence To Kill. He is veined with more sardonic humor, expressing it in flippant throwaway quips. His wits are quicker, computerlike at times. Conversely, he is capable of more glaring blunders. Larger than life as Fleming's 007 is, our James is even larger. On the record, both are fabulous fornicators. toujours pret, infallibly satisfying. Bond in the books is somewhat subtler, but at times approaches susceptibility. Fleming once described his senses as being "lashed." In the films it is Bond who does the lashing. Both exercise their invariable proficiency for ulterior motives. This undoubtedly accounts for the high pleasure level attained by their female partners. They are not only-icy killers, but also cold-blooded lovers. Efficiency is often inversely proportional to heat. I sometimes wonder if the most secret drill in their training as M's agents must not concern itself with this aspect of their work. Like mastery of karate and jujitsu, such yoga-like muscular and psychic control can only be achieved by constant practice. Or is it perhaps done pharmaceutically? Certainly it is not beyond the capabilities of Q Branch to have developed aphrodisiacs with the specified delayed reactions. However it is accomplished, Fleming's Bond seems to derive more of a kick out of his work. But this is a dubious advantage for a Double 0 operator. In the film version of Thunderball our Bond unequivocally states, "I'm not a passionate man." Despite our close association, I am forced to admit he is also rather more of a cad than the other chap.
Bond's quota of dispatched villains per film, about 20, runs higher than in the novels. So is the number of females he beds with. I think the average is about four. Our only excuse, in both categories, is that the victims are sacrificed for patriotic purposes. He is not a sadist, only a highly motivated public servant. Undoubtedlv. the enchantment of Bond’s hordes of female fans must be fraught with masochism.
All Fleming's women fascinate me. They fall into two categories—the monstrous: harpies like Rosa Klebb and Irma Bunt; and the beauteous: Honey-chile Rider, Tatiana Romanova, Pussy Galore, Domino, Tracy, et al., who have appeared in the films already released or being prepared. How long the public's want-to-see continues will determine whether Bond will become involved with Solitaire, Tiffany Case or Kissy Suzuki. Characterizing a Fleming female is not too difficult. We have his version to adapt. Casting is the real problem. Mostly the trick Has been to find unknowns: and the pioducers have been singularly fortunate thus far in their discoveries. In a fast-moving action film, the sort we try to make, character delineation is limited. A new personality, whom audiences do not associate with previous performances, is invaluable in Meshing out the portrait. This is also true about the villains. Gert Frobe, who played Goldfinger, is well known in Germany, but he had never appeared in an English film. Hence, he was not predictable. The unknown beauty is a distinct plus factor for the same reason. She has the piquancy and promise of an affair with someone every man secretly desires—la femme nouvelle.
Bond's sex life as recorded on the screen began in Dr. No with Sylvia, the cool brunette dish he met across the chemmy table. I submit that the single most important moment in the Bond films occurred when Sean Connery introduced himself to her, and indirectly to the audience. "Bond, James Bond." he says, casually challenging. If they had not taken him at his word, if Connery had not squared with their preconceived notions of the character, we all might as well have cashed in our chips and gone home. There would have been no further Bond films. Fortunately, his close-up was magnificent. The only one I recall in any way comparable was Clark Cable's introduction at the foot of the staircase when Scarlett first sees Rhett Butler in Gone with the Wind. In both instances you saw and felt the electric response conducted through the audience. Gable was already a star of the first magnitude when he appeared in Gone with the Wind. That Connery should have been instantaneously accepted in an equally famous role was a tremendous tribute to his innate stellar quality. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, there is no mistaking the impact. Three weeks after the film opened, he was receiving thousands of letters.
When Bond returned to his flat from the gambling club. Sylvia, saucily played by Eunice Gayson, was waiting for him in one of his pajama tops, passing the time chipping golf balls into a hat. What ensued set the pattern. Not that it was unmixed with pleasure, but Bond's immediate concern was to be rid of her and on with his mission. Obviously he made his usual impression, because we saw Sylvia again in From Russia With Love, back for another go in a punting boat. Incidentally, she is the only one of Bond's conquests to reappear in his arms in the same role. Miss Moneypenny, M’s secretary, plays a continuing role, but strictly on a professional basis. The banter between her and Bond does insinuate potential intimacy, but thus far has not become overt. I'm not sure why. Perhaps Miss Moneypenny is an anachronistic virtue symbol that Bond unaccountably respects. Perhaps he needs a motive other than pure pleasure to stimulate him into action. Lois Maxwell's attractiveness as Money penny inclines me to ward the first supposition. Nothing so complex entered into Bond's assault on Zena Marshall's exotic Miss Taro in Dr. No. Here Bond was at his most ruthless. She was under orders from Dr. No to lure him to his death. She deserved no mercy. Presumably she received some recompense in terms of creature comfort. Bond was at the top ot his form in the sort of situation he most relishes. And he forgot her the moment he turned her over to the police.
Of all Bond's affairs, I like the one with Honeychile Rider best. From the memorable moment Ursula Andress waded out of the sea, surely a reenactment of the birth of Venus, to her eventual surrender after Bond contrives to postpone their rescue, I found it to be Fleming's finest. I think we captured most of it. Director Terence Young's taste was never more discriminating, A she sea Tarzan, Honey easily could have been vulgarized. Instead she emerged as an even more enchanting child of nature. True, she had once been violated, revenging herself by dropping a deadly spider on the insensate rapist, but spiritually she was still a virgin—the only one I can find in Bond's experience. Perhaps it was his total lack of previous involvement with the breed that accounts for his uncharacteristic treatment of her. He is gentle, considerate, protective, even risking the success of his mission by rashly springing to her defense. In the process he barely avoids presenting himself as an object lesson in why gallantry can only lead to disaster for a man of his vocation. We can only plead Honey's innocence, charm and pristine beauty for this temporary deviation from official procedure. Fleming purists have criticized us for not playing Honey, as he did, with a broken nose. They profess to read some deep psychological significance in this mutilation, as with Domino's one shorter leg in Thunderball. The nature of that implication escaped us. Does a single flaw in what otherwise would be perfection somehow enhance it? Or did Fleming mean to introduce a note of harsh, ugly realism to make their characters more convincing? Frankly, no one concerned thought it important. I'm delighted that we left Ursula's lovely nose as it is, and Domino’s gimpy leg where we found it: in print. Honey, like Shakespeare's Miranda, her creator's most charming and disingenuous ingenue, needs no blight to arouse either Bond's or the audience's sympathy. More practically, a busted proboscis might have been photogenically disastrous, grotesquely comic.
Despite the old saw about a picture being worth 10,000 words, or rather because of it and the censorship restrictions involved, Fleming was able to deal with sex and violence in writing to a degree not permissible with the camera. His inevitable torture scenes, for instance, cannot be approximated on film. No reviewing board can be expected to pass the torture-scene shocker in Casino Royale involving Bond's testicles and a carpet-beater. The closest we have come is in Thunderball when Largo alternately applies an ice cube and the glowing end of his Havana to Domino's anatomy. But it is in Fleming’s descriptions of Bond's lovemaking that he really has the edge on us. Apart from his masietlul use of words, he takes full advantage of the license to thrill enjoyed today by the romantic novelist. Perhaps his warmest stretch of erotic composition occurs in From Russia With Love when he describes the affair between Bond and Tatiana Romanova in the stateroom on the Orient Express. Again it was clue to Terence Young's taste and directorial skill that the film version, without the detailed intimacies of flesh described by Fleming, managed to capture most of the excitement of the original.
Next to Honey, I find Tatiana the most appealing of Bond's conquests. A great many women have expressed their preference for From Russia With Love to the other films. Perhaps it has a more sustained love story. Daniela Blanchi's engagingly unactressy performance (she was very inexperienced) may also have something to do with it. And, of course, her fresh 4-H-girl loveliness. Even the usually unsusceptible critic of The New York Times, Bosley Crowther, doffed his coronet to her. Personally, I think this general acceptance of Tatiana is occasioned by the recognition she evokes. Unlike most other Bond bundles, she is a working girl, holding down a steady job as a clerk in the Russian Embassy at Istanbul. She is alone in being talented at something, having trained for the state ballet. Unfortunately, she grew an inch too tall and was not allowed to continue. She also actually reads books, comparing Bond to her favorite hero in Lermontov. Her sex life, for a modern young Russian, is comparatively normal, two rather innocent puppy lovish affairs being the extent of her experience. She is patriotic, idealistic, and not informed of the full dastardliness of the plot against Bond to which she lends herself. Until he meets Tracy, in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, no other girl falls so deeply in love with him. Pussy Galore rats on Goldlinger for Bond, but Tatiana renounces her beloved Mother Russia. It saddens me that she is the only woman he ever actually strikes, slapping her around in the best Jimmy Cagney tradition when he mistakenly believes she is knowingly involved in the death of his friend Kerim Bey. Despite Tatiana's devotion, subsequently proved to his satisfaction, there is never any doubt about Bond's attitude toward her. He is on an assignment. It has certain pleasurable aspects which he accepts on a purely hedonistic basis. He never comes anywhere near becoming emotionally involved. Although we leave Tatiana in his arms, in a gliding gondola, the audience unerringly senses whatever hopes she may have for the future will be pathetically unfulfilled. Bond, the brute, will never look back.
The producers looked back, however, Nadja Regin, Kerim Bey's insatiable girl friend, became in Goldfinger the dancer whose murderous accomplice Bond electrocutes in her tub. They also were impressed by Martine Beswick, one of the two wrestling gypsy spitfires in Russia who later confronted him with the challenge of a double-header. She was rewarded with a role in Thunderball, as Paula, Bond's liaison with the Nassau police—liaison in more ways than one, we assume. Nadja, from Yugoslavia, and Martine, Miss Jamaica of 1961, were both found by the producers, Messrs. Broccoli and Saltzman, in their continuous international casting search for unusual femininity.
Guy Hamilton, who directed Goldfinger, evoked from Connery an even surer, brisker, more sardonic Bond than in the earlier films. The effect was to make him more perversely attractive. Goldfinger is the most financially profitable general admission film ever exhibited, and Mr. Hamilton's approach —along, of course, with such factors as story, scope, sensationalism, and so forth —has much to do with it. Bond's scores over Goldfinger, blackmailing him into losing at cards, outcheating him on the golf course, were highly amusing, but it is his heartless, crafty manipulation of girls that most delights audiences—which casually absolve him of the deaths of Shirley Eaton's lovely Jill Masterson (suffocated because of his attentions by a coating of noxious gold paint applied by Goldfinger’s Korean manservant Odd job), and Tania Mallett's even lovelier Tilly after her acceptance of a lift in his fantastic Aston Martin. Finding two such stunning girls in a single film was a bonus audiences have now come to expect in a Bond picture. Shirley, after a triumphal tour of the United States, is now firmly launched as a star. Tania, whose photogenic face had appeared hundreds of times in Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar and other leading fashion magazines, made her first screen appearance in Goldfinger. It will certainly not be her last, despite the continuing demand for her services as a leading model in London, Paris and New York.
Forgiving Bond his use of Pussy Galore (we contemplated changing her Christian name in the United Slates to Kitty) is more understandable. After all,
Pussy was a tomboy, to put it as inoffensively as possible, and Bond provides her with a kind of psychiatric therapy. It lakes some doing, approaching rape, but Pussy is undoubtedly the better for it. Does she relapse after he moves on? Or does she further develop her newfound taste for heterogeneity despite the scarcity of statures like 007's? It’s touch and go, I'd say. and no one's concern but Pussy's. Casting Honor Blackman in the role, after her success as the jujitsu expert, Cathy, in the British TV spy series The Avengers, was a departure from choosing theatrical unknowns, but a showmanship coup the producers found irresistible. Opposite Sean Connery, she was up against sheer masculinity. Their struggle in the barn must surely rate as one of the most offbeat seduction scenes ever enacted on the screen.
If Bond's conquest of Pussy is a tour de force that strikingly demonstrates his versatility, he gives further evidence of it throughout Thunderball. Indeed, his exploitation of an unusually variegated assortment of willing wenches, with one notable exception, is sheer virtuosity. We see him first teamed on a mission with a mysterious Chinese beauty. In this provocative role, Mitsouko, another screen discovery, projects such overwhelming desirability that it is difficult to escape the implication that they devote little time to official duties. Apparently, whatever refined techniques may be required for liaisons with Oriental dolls—who are purportedly more appreciative of delicacy than their Western counterparts—Bond has mastered them. Hard after this heartening triumph in international test play, he again exhibits his amazing ability to change pace and style. This time his know-how is applied to Pat Fearing, probably the most nerve jangling masseuse ever to manipulate a spinal column. The treatments she gives Bond, featuring massage with special mink gloves to reduce nervous tension, are at first coolly impersonal. In a surprisingly short time, of course, we find him wearing the gloves and Pat undergoing the treatment. From there on, Molly Peters' incredible physical endowments for the part make the course of this mutual manipulation inevitable. Leaving Pat to resume her ministrations with more needy cases. Bond flies to Nassau and there continues his brilliant display of adaptability, seeking out Dontinetta Vitali, an international play-girl and the mistress of Thunderball's archvillain, Largo. A one-eyed sea beast, he is busily engaged in collecting man-eating sharks as a front for the nefarious project of high jacking atomic bombs and extorting a hundred million pounds in diamonds for their return. Dominetta, whose friends call her Domino, is one of Flemings least-convincing ambivalent antiheroines. Fortunately, however, we have the talented, pinup-contoured Claudine Auger to bring her warmly to life. In her favorite costume, a black-net. skintight leotard, she is perhaps the most enticing of all Bond's beauties. An aquatic sports enthusiast, unaware of Largo's colossal caper, Domino spends most of her time underwater, where Bond meets her and woos her. Audiences have thrilled to many memorable motion picture love scenes, but never one like Bond and Domino caught by the camera flagrante delicto behind a coral reef amid the shifting seaweed. We have a genuine innovation here, and who else but James Bond could have been a party to its consummation?
I regret that this brief libidinous log of Bond during Thunderball ends on a somewhat less-flattering note. Fiona, an ally of Largo's, is not found in Fleming's novel, but was expressly created for the film. She is cruelly resourceful, as evil as the ugly, infamous Rosa Klebb—but incomparably luscious, as played by the delectable Luciana Paoluzzi. Fiona is one of Spectres top assassins and most seductive femmes fatales, as coldly capable of kissing and killing as Bond himself. Implacably they maneuver each other into the same bed. Which iceberg melts? Certainly not Bond, but neither does Fiona. For once, a playmate does not become a plaything. For once, a woman he makes it with refuses to switch her colors. Perhaps it is Bond's amazement, slowing his reflexes, that enables her to turn him over to Largo's minions. He does not, of course, remain turned over long. But it is to his eternal credit that he accepts the setback without rancor or recrimination. He merely shrugs, commenting wryly as he is led away. "Oh. well, there always has to be a first time.”
Fateful words. In On Her Majesty's Secret Service, which you first read in playboy and now being screenplayed, a devastatingly unexpected novelty awaits us. All bets are off. Everything 007 stands for is swept away. His image is shattered, seemingly beyond repair, fames Bond fills in love. He marries. What sort of woman is it who lures Bond into this catastrophe, the deadliest trap ever to close upon him? She calls herself Tracy, or, to give her full name by a former marriage. La Comtesse Teresa di Vicenzo. She is beautiful beyond description, but no more so than Honey or Tatiana. There is the touchy matter of her being the daughter of Marc-Ange Draco, chief of a Corsican crime syndicate. Psychologically she is highly unstable, at times suicidal. Irresponsibly she plays for high slakes at chemin de fer without money to pay when she loses. Her personality is scarcely more appealing than several of Bond's other girls'. Except for the greatest appeal of all: She needs him. Unlike the others, she is the only one for whom Bond is the one man in the world. He alone can rescue her from despair. At long last, alter gauging the depth of Tracy's love by her willingness to die for him, he capitulates. It means giving up his career, his status as 007. M is inflexible where the regulation forbidding his section members to marry is concerned. Despite everything. Bond accepts the inescapable. James Bond, a husband, a father? James Bond relegated to the humdrum existence from which he releases millions, lifting them to his own marvelously rewarding dream life? Ian Fleming knew it was quite impossible. So he killed Tracy in the novel, wiping her out as ruthlessly as Bond himself dispatches those who stand in the way of accomplishing a mission. We shall do the same with her in the film version. Fleming gave Bond his standing orders when he created him: to be a wish fulfillment.
URSULA ANDRESS, the first of the filmic femmes fatales to cross 007's predatory path, portrayed Honeychile Rider, the child-of-nature heroine of Dr. No. Fleming fans will recall this sensuous sea siren—clad in the briefest of bikinis—emerging from the Caribbean waves off mysterious Crab Key, where she discovers a bemused Band admiring her see-worthy form from his hiding place in the tall grass. Above: Bond considers a sandy gambal with the lovely naiad (left), but abandons his amatory interests when they re captured by the inscrutable Dr. No (right) and forced to accept the opulent but ominous hospitality of his underwater fortress. Below: Ursula receives an off-camera dunking (left) from Sean Cannery, Bond's sinewy celluloid counterpart; she radiates the same au naturel appeal (right) that we captured in our June 1965 pictorial.
DANIELA BIANCHI tries to take Bond for a one-way ride in From Russia With Love. Cast as the seductive Soviet spy Tatiana Romonovo, she's duped by Spectre into luring and loving Bond aboard the Orient Express to meet a waiting assassin. But like so many of Fleming's misguided Moto Horis, she ends up sating rather than hating the irresistible supersleuth. 22-year-old Daniela landed the part despite a dearth of previous cinematic credits. Tatiana trades Mother Russia for a better brand of Bondage (top); maintains a brooding, Garboesque appeal (above) even while lying down on the job.
Goldfinger, biggest of the Bond box-office bonanzas thus for, hos already grossed nearly $40,000,000 and seems slated to become filmdom's all-time revenue runner-up to Gone with the Wind. Depicting Bond's encounter with o gluttonous gold fancier who plots to A-bomb Fort Knox and destroy the international monetary standard by nuclear contamination, Goldfinger pits 007 against o host of heavies and winsome wenches. One of the latter (above) meets her dazzling demise by being gilded for galling her bullionaire boss.
NADJA REGIN. left, who played the sex-hungry houri of Turkish secret service chief Kerim Bey in From Russia With Love, goes the way of oil flesh as a bathside decoy for Bond in Gofdfinger's electrifying prolog. Amidst an embrace, her eyes reflect an assassin— whom Bond adroitly dunks in the tub with o high-voltage heat lamp.
TANIA MALLETT, whose model visage has frequently adorned such high-fashion bibles as Vogue and Harper's Bazaar, made her screen debut in Goldfinger. As Tilly Masterson, she more than matches Fleming's description of the character: "a very beautiful girl, the kind who leaves her beauty alone." Top: Bond uses a sylvan setting to subdue Tilly s foolhardy desire to dispatch Goldfinger for gilding sister Jill.
LOIS MAXWELL has the unique distinction of being the only Bonded beauty to appear in all of the 007 epics. As Miss Moneypenny (above), the long-suffering, lithe-limbed secretary of British Secret Service chief M, Lois spends a frustrated movie life sharing quips—but never quilts- with her boss' womanizing counterspy. After studying at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts and a brief stint in Hollywood, Lois landed her first supporting film role in Vittoria De Sica's award-winning Tomorrow Is Too Late.
MARGARET NOLAN gets even less of 007‘s coveted attentions than most of the series cast of comely cinema actresses during her brief opening-reel bow in Goldfinger. Just when she's aroused Bond's libido with a poolside rubdown (top left}, duty takes him away to stalk bigger, but not fairer, game: Goldfinger. If our spy had seen her in the proper perspective (left), Fort Knox might have fallen after all.
SHIRLEY EATON, as Jill Masterson, becomes a 24-karot symbol of love's labor lost when she opts to bed with Bond rather than prolong her stint as a hotel-room broadcaster of gin rummy tips to Goldflnger, her card-cheating boss, down at poolside. Below: 007 whisks Jill away to his own digs at Miami's Fontainebleau, where she s given a lethal golden brush-off from head to toe by the sore losing Goldfinger's henchman, Oddjob; Shirley proves (bottom) it's what’s beneath the gilt that truly glitters.
HONOR BLACKMAN had all the prerequisites for playing Pussy Galore, the mannish mistress of an all girl flying circus (employed by Goldfinger to drop nerve gas on the populace of Fort Knox) and Bond's only leading lady with Lesbian leanings. As star of the British TV spy series The Avengers, wherein she uses her considerable expertise at jujitsu to put down many a male marauder, the majestically proportioned Miss Blackman took to her screen identity as a hostile hoyden with athletic ease. Pussy's hectic hand-to-hand response (left) to 007's amorous advances temporarily throws our hapless hero off balance. After Bond turns the tables with a series of unconventional holds in the hay, the stubborn miss wisely decides she'd rather switch than fight. Below: She takes five between bouts with Bond. Returned to normalcy at last, Pussy later helps him turn Goldfinger's Fort Knox caper into a fissionless fiasco.
MAGGIE WRIGHT, as the sexy squadron leader of Pussy Galore's flying circus, leads Goldfinger's all-girl aerial attack on Fort Knox. Though she had only a fly-on role, Maggie so gassed Charles K. Feldman (whose upcoming Casino Royale will be the first Bond flick not to star Connery) that he's grounding her with a starring role in Casino. Left: Between scenes in Goldfinger, Moggie shows she merits an A OK on any flight physical (top), then reports for duty (bottom, third from left) flanked by fetching fellow aeronettes.
Thunderball, scheduled for release next month, will be the biggest-budgeted Bond adventure yet. $5,500,000 has been invested, mostly on spectacular gadgetry to melodramatize 007's struggle to foil the H-bomb highjacking plans of archvillain Emilio Largo, a ruthless, Spectre baddie who uses sex and sea power with equal efficiency in his efforts to exterminate Bond and to extort a crime king's ransom from the free world. When a treacherous transvestite is assigned to assassinate him, Bond's sixth sense warns him in time to dispatch the dragster (above] with a right cross.
CLAUDINE AUGER, a former Miss France, landed the lead role of Domino, Largo's scuba-diving mistress in Thunderball, when she auditioned in a peekaboo-mesh swimsuit (right) of her own design. In the film, Bond bewitches her on the beach at Nassau (top right) by unconventionally extracting some sea-urchin spines from her instep. After this toothsome bit of footage, Domino gratefully offers the rest of her anatomy to his ministrations. When Largo learns of her new-found taste for Bondage, he obligingly binds her in bed (above) for a bit of offbeat diversion. A between-scenes bask in the sun (far right) reveals Claudine for the glamorous Gaul she is.
LUCIANA PAOLUZZI, a 25-year-old Roman redhead with several cinematic supporting roles (Return to Peyton Place, Let's Talk About Men) and the lead in NBC's recent TV spy series Five Fingers to her credit, plays the part of Largos fiery Spectre side-kick, Fiona. In a role created especially for the screen, she becomes the first of Bond's sultry sackmates to match his own bedside manner (above left), and to sample his legendary prowess (above right) without defecting from the enemy. Right: Ravishing rogozza sits out scene.
MARTINE BESWICK is among Bond's few bedmates to enjoy a second filmic fling with the satyric secret agent Fresh from her hair-raising stint as one of two gypsy spitfires who share 007 for a night in From Russia With Love, Martine returns for a solo bout with Bond in Thunderball as his Bahamion undercovers contact. Above: Clowning with Connery on the set at Nassau. Right: Beachside proofs positive of Miss Beswick's beauteous bounty.
MOLLY PETERS, a statistically sound (37-24-37) choice—at left—for the role of a mischievous masseuse in Thunderball, trouped with a London repertory company before getting Bonded for her movie debut. Early in the film, while recuperating from his last case at a British health resort, Bond gets rubbed the right way when the bosomy blonde gives him a mink-gloved once-over-lightly. Getting the upper hand-in-glove (center), Bond returns the favor; then they slip into something comfortable—a nearby sauna - for an even steamier session of mutual massage (top).
Copyright © 1965 Playboy. All rights reserved.
[Source: Playboy November 1965, P.133-140,144,205-206]