The world has been left shaken. The world has also been stirred. There are whispers, as is often the case in the murky world of espionage, that the man with the Licence to Kill — James Bond himself — could, in the course of his next cinematic adventure, prefer reading aloud bed-time stories to bedding beautiful women. Hollywood is awash with speculation that the unthinkable would happen in No Time to Die — the 25th film in the franchise — with the world’s greatest fictional spy hanging up his boots, shunning the gun and — here comes the bomb — giving his libido a well-deserved break — all this for the sake of a five-year-old lady, his daughter. Danger, thrill, seduction, the essential elements that have made Bond irresistible to men and women alike, would thus be renounced for a quiet life of doting fatherhood.

Understandably, the bond between father and daughter has spilled quite a few Martinis. A line of enraged thought says that a Bond sans gun and girl would put the audience to sleep. Can Mr Bond, who used to rush headlong into mortal peril without a care for himself or the world, now afford to be as cavalier in his outlook? Alpha-male admirers are afraid that he would pause and think of the daughter waiting for him at home before driving a car at breakneck speed or diving into the sea from the top of a hill. Women fans are at a loss as well. The utterly domesticated Mr Bond is unlikely to give them the eye. The purists have smelt a plot too. Father Bond, they insist, is yet another attempt to doff the proverbial hat at the scourge of political correctness. Worse, it could also be the first sign of a conspiracy to — horror of horrors — feminize Bond, who has faithfully served not only Her Majesty’s government but also as a symbol of rugged masculinity. But the Bond of books, unlike the Bond of films, possesses more than fifty shades of grey. In several of Ian Fleming’s books, Bond came across as a contemplative man, willing to reflect on the consequences of violence. He is also aware that the line between good and bad, right and wrong, shifts with time, making it difficult to distinguish between heroes and villains. It is Hollywood, with its penchant for brawn over brains, that has turned Bond into an Epicurean, trigger-happy mercenary.

Bond’s possible resurrection as a quieter, older, even softer, man ought to be welcomed. Just like good whiskey, he seems to be maturing with age. A daughter and stable partner would make him almost human and humane. This fusion of the real and the imagined, the turning of a fictional spy into a man of flesh and blood, would eventually be the triumph of the art of cinema. The world should raise a toast — preferably a martini that is six parts vodka and one part vermouth — to Papa Bond.