This article is taken from the May 2026 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Get five issues for just £5.
In October 1962, as the Cuban Missile Crisis threatened to light up the world, the London Pavilion was itself lit up to welcome the arrival of 007 to picturegoers. Sean Connery’s charismatic “Bond, James Bond”, premiered in Doctor No, did for the free world what Premier Khrushchev was singularly incapable of doing either in front of or behind the Iron Curtain. Bond gave the West “SA”. For the Warsaw Pact, the dumpy, diaphoretic general secretary could only exude BO. Even then the writing was on the Berlin Wall.
Of course, to carry off the effect, Bond had a few tricks up his beautifully tailored sleeve. There were the clothes, the cars, the sumptuous feasts worthy of Belshazzar and the even more sumptuous women. But it was those little and inconsequential details that really delivered. The gadgets provided by Q and the trinkets provided by Dunhill, Omega and a host of other elegant emporia, all dedicated to designing the double-0 look. And that look came with our first glimpse of Bond at the Baccarat table: Licensed to kill, louchely he lit a Morland with his Dunhill “Broadboy” and, in so doing, ignited the screen with machismo menace.
Cinematography and cigarettes have been synonymous since Thomas Edison began experimenting with celluloid. A generation before Cubby Broccoli conceived the Bond film franchise, smoking was central to the screenplay of Hal Wallis’ Now, Voyager and its iconic double-cigarette scenes. Paul Henreid lit the equivalent of at least three packets to keep Bette Davis burning with desire. His lighter brand is lost to history, but it was nothing like so sleek as the stylish toys that were on sale by the swinging sixties.
Early versions of the automatic lighter were cumbersome contraptions. About the size of a Mills bomb and just as dangerous if placed too near an open fire, they did little to improve the jetting of a gentleman’s jacket pocket.
But time and technology marched together and as naphtha gave way to butane and ferrocerium took place of flint, the brass-cased Zippo, perfected by George Blaisdell, gave a generation of brass-necked GIs the wherewithal to look cool in war-weary Britain. The Zippo was revolutionary. Compact, weatherproof and emblazoned with an array of regimental insignia and club motifs, it was the first truly personal pocket lighter.
Where Zippo led, Ronson Veraflame followed. This was the canonical lighter stolen from George Smiley by the KGB’s Karla, only to be returned to its owner at the dénouement of Smiley’s People. John le Carré learned from Ian Fleming that a perfect spy requires a spark for his cigarette. In Russian, that is called Iskra.
Naturally, there are many more high-end manufacturers to consider when kitting oneself to copy Connery. Both Cartier and Dupont make the most intricate and ingenious mechanisms. The Cartier Pentagon in black and gold is redolent of the bold, confident 1980s whilst Dupont, with its beautiful guilloche and enamel casings, harks back to an earlier interwar elegance. Cartier’s constant pressure system did much to improve performance whilst their “Le Must” branding for gold and silver devices made their lighters de rigueur for the Parisian beau monde. Yet my personal favourite is the Dupont Slimmy, lacquered in crimson with an aureate snake motif very much in the mould of Roger Moore.
I am the lucky custodian of a gold-plated Dunhill Plaque d’Or lighter, a svelte piece of machinery, assembled by hand from over 100 individual components, that slips unobtrusively into one’s pocket until such time as it is required for active service. Which reminds me that I must get it serviced before the summer. Most luxury lighter makers offer full aftersales support, so I feel sure Dunhill will be able to get the gas burning in good time for the new Bond to set fire to the screen and for the new Ayatollah to do the same to the Gulf.
