If cinematic mediocrity had a charming British accent and a martini in hand, it would look a hell of a lot like The Fiction-Makers. Directed by Roy Ward Baker—yes, the same Baker who once made Martian telepathy feel apocalyptic in Quatermass and the Pit—this 1968 TV movie-turned-feature film is less a caper and more a creaky shrug in the general direction of adventure. It’s Simon Templar, the Saint, mucking about with pulp fiction villains, automatic pistols, and enough lazy writing to make Ian Fleming rise from his grave and demand a rewrite.
Clocking in at just under two hours but somehow feeling longer than the Cold War, The Fiction-Makers is based on an episode of the long-running The Saint television series. Except now it’s “feature-length,” which is code for “padded like a Victorian corset.” It stars Roger Moore in his smug, pre-Bond years, back when he was still perfecting the art of raising an eyebrow and smirking his way through dialogue like, “I’ve had worse offers—from better-dressed villains.”
Let’s be clear: this is not a so-bad-it’s-good spy romp. This is a so-bad-it’s-bland cocktail of tropes, clichés, and sets that look like they were salvaged from a particularly uninspired episode of Thunderbirds.
The Plot (Such As It Is)
Simon Templar (Moore) is hired to protect an American author named Judith Chalmers—not to be confused with the British travel presenter—who’s been penning wildly successful pulp thrillers under a pseudonym. But wouldn’t you know it? The very criminal syndicate she writes about turns out to be real, and they think she knows a little too much for comfort.
What follows is a labyrinth of forced charm, cardboard gunmen, and evil masterminds who seem like they were rejected from Austin Powers for being too stupid. The villain, if you can call him that, is named Warlock, which sounds cool until you realize he spends most of the movie yelling at henchmen who appear to be suffering from terminal boredom.
The whole thing plays like an elaborate Monty Python sketch that forgot to be funny. There’s even a bit with a robot—yes, a robot—that feels like the writers were actively sabotaging themselves out of sheer contempt for the audience.
Roger Moore: Phoning It in With Panache
Let’s talk about Moore. This is peak smarmy Roger, the Bond beta test with a jawline sharp enough to slice cheese and an attitude that says, “I’ll sleep with your wife, drink your gin, and still make it to brunch on time.” He’s doing his damnedest to salvage the script with a wink and a quip, but it’s like watching Cary Grant trying to charm his way out of a hostage situation. It’s not that he’s bad—it’s that everything around him is.
Moore wears suits so crisp they could double as weapons, and he delivers each line as if he’s got a better script tucked into his breast pocket. He’s not acting. He’s waiting. Waiting for The Persuaders. Waiting for Bond. Waiting for someone, anyone, to hand him something worth doing. But here, he’s playing ping-pong with nothing but air.
The Villains: Pulp Fiction by Way of Office Memo
The Fiction-Makers—the gang, not the title—are a theoretical syndicate of criminal masterminds who are somehow inspired by a book series written by the author Moore is hired to protect. It’s very meta, in the sense that the plot eats its own tail and then dies from indigestion.
Warlock, the head of the group, looks like a villain designed by an accountant. His henchmen all dress like they’re on lunch break from a Bond-themed escape room. There’s a robot security guard that’s somehow slower than the plot, and every action sequence feels like someone forgot to yell “cut,” so the actors just kept walking around in circles hoping the editor would figure it out.
You could replace the entire rogue’s gallery with cardboard cutouts and no one would notice. Scratch that—cardboard cutouts would’ve shown more personality.
The Dialogue: British Sedatives
The screenplay is allegedly based on characters by Leslie Charteris, but it’s filtered through the sleepy haze of network TV in the late ’60s. The lines come out like tranquilizer darts. Moore does his best with, “Don’t worry—I always carry a toothbrush,” as he’s being kidnapped by morons in ski masks, but there’s only so much suave that can save a screenplay written in autopilot.
Judith Chalmers, the author-turned-damsel, is less a character and more a plot device that occasionally whimpers or provides exposition. She’s there to be protected, kidnapped, rescued, and then forgotten the second the credits roll. Her dialogue could’ve been written by a chatbot after a three-Martini lunch.
The Action: If Walking Was an Olympic Sport
There are chase scenes that unfold at the pace of a Sunday stroll. There’s a fistfight with the tension of two mannequins colliding in a shop window. And the big climax? A daring escape involving…climbing a ladder. Slowly. While people shout things like, “You’ll never get away!” and then wait politely for him to get away.
If you’ve ever wanted to see espionage rendered inert—like someone trying to assassinate a political figure using interpretive dance—this is your film.
The Music: Jazzy Nothingness
The score bops along with the enthusiasm of a bored lounge pianist three drinks deep into a cruise ship gig. It’s all saxophones and cymbals with nowhere to go. You keep expecting something dramatic to happen to match the brassy bursts, but all that arrives is Roger Moore smirking at a rotary phone.
Final Thoughts: An Empty Martini Glass
The Fiction-Makers is cinematic dry toast. It’s not actively offensive, but it leaves you wondering how something with spies, robots, shootouts, and Roger Moore could feel so lethargic. It’s as if the filmmakers challenged themselves to make the most forgettable action film possible—and won by unanimous decision.
Roy Ward Baker, who once gave us monsters buried in the subway and creeping dread under London’s fog, phones this one in like he’s calling from a broken payphone in the middle of a pub fire. It’s not his worst work, but it might be the one that most aggressively fails to matter.
For a film about fiction, The Fiction-Makers is a story not worth telling. It’s the literary equivalent of a paper cut—forgettable, annoying, and mildly embarrassing if anyone catches you watching it.
Verdict:
Like a lukewarm martini in a dusty hotel bar: technically complete, entirely forgettable, and guaranteed to leave you wondering how it got made in the first place.
