What, exactly, made and makes James Bond so noxious?
The Secret Agent. The secret agent is best understood as the highest personal expression of nihilism. He is the avatar of Marxism, born of the State and living the exemplification of the State's ideals. Universally static, he develops no character because he has already perfected his character as an expression of the State's will.
His biological parents are shadowed nothings, painted over by the State. He is fostered by a succession of idealized Freudian mentors: paternal commanders who come and go--authoritative and distant, like mom's boyfriends, telling him what to do with his life, and he obeys after some teenage protests about methodology--and effeminate, easily flustered scientist-techies who make sure he's packed his lunch and remembered his permission slip. Like a boy on summer holiday, he gets into trouble, calls daddy for help, has some conflict, then perseveres and returns a better man, ready for an endless Panish youth of more of the same. The State is the family that sends him out into the world, and he loves it too much to become an adult, take a wife and father children. The State can take care of that.
Decent societies may recognize the hypocritical necessity of the very rare, very reluctantly used confidence man. It is distasteful to talk to them and to use them, and you understand that they will probably screw you over in the end. The skilled prince manipulates these agents into unavoidable deaths, or into killing the agents' predecessors, so as to protect society at large from them--and it is a loathsome task on the very few occasions during a reign when they are, with great resignation, employed to as little an extent as possible. Like the whore that a horny husband may visit during a wife's headache years, or a joint to help tide over a rough patch at work, the secret agent may be a foul pseudo-necessity, superficially hypocritical, oiling the gears of a system by concealing, through formal condemnation, the true extent of the burden imposed upon the laborer. With what glee do beggars laugh at the landlord's "indiscretions," being too dim to realize the nature of the system that fills the alms mess, and what will happen to that alms mess when the "great secret" is mocked and revealed and torn down.
In that context, indeed, there may be room for a tiny quantity of confidence men. Concomitant with the gentlemen's agreement to permit their existence is the understanding that to be caught employing one means conceding the hypocrisy and accepting the headsman's block. Your friends must turn away from you, must claim they never knew, in order to protect the weaker from the bitter truth. Yes, let them believe that the savage are only a prayer from redemption, for their minds would shatter otherwise. Yet let them never discover what happens when their children live among the savage. That is the cost of the true confidence man of old: the knowledge that he has a brief shelf-life, and that he must be and will be murdered by his successor, and known by no one who does not hate him and wish to forget him, and that his contribution to humanity and society shall be a whisper at the periphery of history. He will not, he can never be, extolled, anymore than the whore or the savage. It is a private, terrible, delicious fantasy, and may it ever be realized as often as it may, but if the ancient compact is broken, then the streets will be filled with whores, savages, and assassins, and our schadenfreude at thinking we'd discovered a hypocrisy will be washed away in a sea of dead babies, rapes, and murders.
The Mossad, MI6, and the CIA, among others, have shown that confidence men are no different now than they ever were. Let those men run a society, cheer them on, and everything creeps toward Gaza. When you employ more confidence men than the very tiniest number--and, farther worse, when you dare extol their horrible, unspeakable acts as anything like virtues--you have destroyed society. More importantly for the nationalist, any veneration for secret agents--and the agents themselves--should be considered disgusting and vile, because it detracts from the real people who take the real risks to fight real battles. The secret agent is a coward, running away from fire like a Navy SEAL, rather than returning it like a grunt. Returned fire, or actual battles, draw public attention, world attention, to what is being done. They negate the idea of "black books" and secret funds; they protect the healthy nation, people, and world, from the spread of infection. Wherever falls the vulgar shadow of the secret agent, swiftly follow double billing, unnecessary surgery, and rocks which protect the owner from witchcraft.
The crypto nature of super heroes with secret identities, and the secret agent thralldom in which nations were encouraged during the twentieth century, is a deconstruction of not only peoples, but of governments themselves, for the State of secret agents is not a government, but merely anarchy in a suit. This is why the plots of secret agent movies, as well as the reality of modern secret agent states, inexorably creep toward conspiracies within conspiracies within conspiracies, wherein the agency is being used by another agency which is being funded by a commission which is unaware that it is being controlled by a foreign agency which is unknown to its own government but which is protected by trade agreements with yet another foreign ~ and so on. The nihilistic destruction of (real, actual, extant) government accomplished during the twentieth century--the triumph of Marxism, if you prefer--was the dissociation of government from itself, such that it ceased to be a government, and became instead a cartel of secret agents, whose authorities overlapped one another in ways impossible to objectively determine, loosely subject to Sanhedrin meditation when different sets of policies conflict.
The chartering of the U.S. Federal Reserve Bank was certainly an emblematic moment in this process, along with the resultant enserfening of the American populace, where a cascade of illusory, obscene writs of assassination have invisibly tethered our greatest grandchildren to scum now unafraid in full sunlight. The celebrated embodiment of the self-contradictory Federal Reserve--a public, private, responsible, irresponsible, accountable, unaccountable contradiction of extant inexistence--paved the way for total wars, public soviets, and the general reverence for the stateless Marxist superman, the secret agent. A scourge of unsecret secret agents formed cabals inside the rotting corpse of government, less a matter of the inmates running the asylum than of the whores running the city. James Bond's bondless, sterile existence is the model for the false government's desired new man, responsible to a voiceless idea of a "her majesty" who no longer really matters. Tradition is a fossil fuel to the assassin-kings, who celebrate savagery, pedestalize whores, and use drones without shame.
Yet these very carbonized remains, these rapidly vanishing foodstuffs of myth and honor without which the murderous mutt-whores cannot endure, were created by the grace of those who knew that to drone a wedding was a reprehensible act. You cannot meet a hooker with a heart of gold in the city without shame; the assassin, when he is celebrated, learns that it is impossible to seek salvation after a lifetime of dirty work, for the bastion which he departed has become no different from the dank alleys where he worked. Everywhere is the office. There is neither family, nor vacation, nor home; nor self, nor other, where we are all become one and our name is Death.