I'm uncertain as to why so many continuation authors have failed so miserably to produce a work that is at least on par with Fleming's lesser Bond novels, but it's fair to say that the concept of handing the holster over to best-selling authors who make self-aggrandising remarks in interviews, such as Faulks and Boyd, hasn't worked. Solo paints a vague shadow of Fleming's cold war hero, therefore failing in the same department as Carte Blanche (although I found it one of the more engrossing Bond adventures), exemplifying overtly political themes that don't quite belong in the fantasy world of Bond (a flaw in the otherwise rather good and certainly Flemingian Colonel Sun), and somehow, with its convoluted plot and half-arsed musings, being less memorable than the awful Devil May Care. Boyd stated that his sex scenes would be better written than Fleming's - well, they're not. Fleming's passages were memorable, while Boyd clearly inserts (no pun intended) a bit of hanky-panky out of obligation, whilst reading like a man who wouldn't know sadomasochism if Sade and Sacher-Masoch slapped him in the face. Solo is incredibly dull, hastily edited, lacks the adroit handling of imagery and syntax and sensuality and rawness and escapism of Fleming's works, and can only be compared to Gardner's lesser efforts with regards to quality; it is devoid of pleasure, memorable villains or sexy females. Give a true fan an opportunity to write a Bond novel - an individual who doesn't claim to better the creator. This is simply another pretentious disappointment for fans of the literary 007.