We interrupt our regularly scheduled programming for a special Doctober showcase from first-time contributor Nicknack Tabasco.
My relationship with Ian Fleming’s James Bond dates back to the late eighties when I first watched Dr. No one evening with my grandfather. In an age before DVR, my grandpa meticulously edited out every commercial while the movie aired using the pause button on his remote, which meant that sometimes when he fell asleep, whole scenes were missing. I watched the Bond movies so much I wore out the tapes. Dr. No has always been my favorite Bond villain. He’s a grotesque mad scientist, a megalomaniac with a love of epicurean delights and sadistic entertainments.
Years ago I went to a James Bond costume party in Alaska. As I walked through the house congested with Bond girls and evil masterminds, I saw a meditative Dr. No sitting alone at the kitchen table, surrounded by beer cans, who was scratching his face with metallic pincers like the Bond equivalent of Rodin’s thinker. It’s the image that always comes to mind when I think of Dr. No., the diabolical recluse with metal pincers for hands.