In an effort to help James Bond producer Babs Broccoli through her casting quandary over who will next play the gentlemen agent, I offer this open letter.

Babs, darling —

Seeing as Clive “Pierce said I should be Bond” Owen seems reluctant to pull the trigger on his apparent claim to the Walther P.P.K. and casting Orlando Bloom as “Young Jimmy Bond” is too patently absurd for further comment, I submit for your consideration my candidate for Her Majesty’s Secret Service: me.

Now, now, I know you’re thinking, “but Daedalus darling, no one knows who you are.” Quite fitting for a secret agent, don’t you think? I’d be like a “stealth Bond,” which totally fits because no one even knows I’m an actor. You see, I’m not one of those cafe ads who dribble, “I guess, in a way, I’ve been acting all my life” and always going to auditions. No, I’m a new breed of Hollywood hyphenate. You may have heard of the author-auteur? One thing we double-A’s know for sure is that “all the world’s a casting couch.” So, I must be acting because it feels like I’m always getting screwed. Wink, wink. Hey, I’m not complaining. I’ve got it all, because like my acting coach always tells me “Less is more.” But have we considered, less AS more? Think about it. You see, Babs, that’s how I choose to approach life. Sure it’s a lonely path, but that’s how us lone wolves are, especially on paths, like — I’m going to have to say it — Bond. Coincidence? I’m getting chills.

Anyway, the fact is, I have clocked screen time in a bevy of indie flicks (to greatest effect in the lost short Step of the Red Curb, in which I played a retarded cop). You crow contrarily, “but Daedalus, love, no one has seen these films.” True, no one has seen these films YET. After I’m Bond, everyone will see these films! They could be DVD extras on our new Bond film. Or maybe you can host a retrospective of my work — who knows, the future is unwritten, but the cap is off my pen and it’s in your hand, Babs. In YOUR hand.

Enough showboating. Let’s face it, my chops are more than sufficient for Bond. I mean, he really only has two lines doesn’t he? There’s the one where he starts to say his name backwards, then catches himself and starts over (a classic nod to realism, I must say) and that persnickety bit about how he likes his martinis like his women or what not. I have to admit, Babs, I might modify that last line to something more like “Keep them comin’ barkeep and put it on M’s tab.” You see how I referenced Bond’s boss? Kind of ties the whole thing together, doesn’t it? (As you can probably tell, I’m also a screenwriter.) Anywho, that could be my trademark:

“Mr. Bond, the hotel bathrobes are not complimentary.”
“Put it on M’s tab.”
“Nor is a bathrobe proper dining attire.”
“I said, put it on M’s tab.”

See how well it works? After that, the rest of Bond’s patter is just double entendre, of which I’m a master. If you know what I mean.

So, I know you have a lot of thinking to do and so do I. If you know of a cheap sublet in London, by all means let me know — I’m already packing. By the way, where should I send my list of prospective Bond girls?

Your Pal,
Howell, er, Daedalus Howell.