ninme

Telegraph - Joan Collins: the day I said no to James Bond
On the centenary of Ian Fleming’s birth, Joan Collins offers a lament for the Fleming way of life, and for film roles that weren’t meant to be…

One:

I had my own flirtation with the Bond casting cartel - twice, as a matter of fact. The first time was in Goldfinger, to play the unfortunate babe who dies from having her entire body and face painted gold. Being of a squeamish bent, I didn’t fancy lounging around the set all day wearing just a sticky coat of paint, and besides I was too aware of the danger that I could die from it - not eventually, but immediately and in a horribly painful way unless a minimum of a square inch was left unpainted. So I passed and Shirley Eaton did the job, very well I might add. The second time was for the original Casino Royale, which, while being a spoof, was still a spoof featuring 007. I was keen to do this one, produced by the legendary Charles Feldman, one of Hollywood’s true movers and shakers. But my doctor informed me I was in fact enceinte, and sliding around on satin sheets in a peignoir would not do the movie or the baby any good.

Two:

My first glimpse of Las Vegas airport was in the early 1960s, when I’d gone to see Sammy Davis at the Sands hotel. The airport was so tiny and primitive that the Las Vegas sign was made with twigs, and there were only two runways and one terminal. The ’strip’ was just a two-lane highway, which had a few two or three-storey hotels - El Rancho, the Sands, the Flamingo and a few others. But the star contingent of performers was fantastically represented, and every name in showbiz competed for their neon place in the sun. No woman would be caught dead after 6pm unless they wore a silk, satin or chiffon cocktail dress over which was slung a mink stole. The men were equally groomed, all tanned, brilliantined and snappily dressed. James Bond was right at home in this environment.

I could hardly believe the transformation recently when I went to visit my friend Judy Bryer. The glamour of Ian Fleming’s Vegas is far, far away from the reality of today, and I can’t picture James Bond trying to pursue the nefarious Blofeld while stuck in a traffic jam on the strip or trying to chase him on foot among the morbidly obese tourists jostling for space on the sidewalk, battling massive swathes of fat wrapped in Lycra.

And, best of all, three:

I must admit that even Casino Royale seemed slightly anachronistic to me. I haven’t seen so many dinner jackets and gowns for a normal night out in years, and I’m willing to bet that people milling around the Hotel Splendide on any evening aren’t nearly so well dressed. That’s why I felt it was almost impossible to replicate the allure of James Bond today, although I do think that Daniel Craig, with his craggy lived-in face and tough modern way of wearing clothes, hit the perfect note for the 007 of 2008. It would have certainly been a shame to see James Bond relegated to preventing an invasion of asylum seekers masterminded by Red Ken to control the second preference vote while M rode a bicycle into MI6 to avoid the congestion charge.

Lord, that’s funny.