Bond, but not as we know him

Sebastian Faulks, writing as Ian Fleming (Penguin, £18.99)

Sebastian Faulks was on a hiding to nothing - albeit a lucrative one - when he decided to write the latest James Bond novel "as Ian Fleming". Given that it was to be released on the author's 100th birthday, expectations were high. Unfortunately, Faulks's decision to try to cloak himself as Fleming was doomed to fail.

It's not that Bond fans want to write it off - on the contrary, nothing would be finer than a resurrection of a series as good as Fleming. But to match him by producing a Bond novel of your own would be a near miraculous feat, without lumbering yourself with the extra grandeur of claiming to be writing as him.

There are two common misconceptions about Fleming's 14-book canon: that he was dated and formulaic. While Fleming's world was very dated, it was only so in an evocative way. His actual writing style was anything but, being almost clinical in its crispness.

Faulks, in comparison, feels flabby and he appears to be copying what he believes is the standard formula for a Bond book. True, Fleming had repetititve elements which he faithfully relied on, but in most novels they were still presented in a fresh style.

For instance, some of his most memorable chapters were sporting or gaming clashes between Bond and the baddie, whether golf with Goldfinger or cards with Le Chiffre, Largo or Drax. But the scenes always felt new and tense.

Faulks has Bond and his baddie playing tennis. It just does not come off.

There are other times when the reader can guess what's coming next, and that is not the mark of a great thriller.

Faulks would have been more successful if he had produced a book that could stand comparison with all the novels on its own individual merits rather than trying to be a mere imitation.