The meaning of the lyrics of the song "The James Bond Theme, agent 007" (Pesnya pro Djeymsa Bonda, agenta 007) the performer of the song "Vladimir Vysotsky"

Hiding himself from wearying fame,

In one of their United States,

In the wilderness and backwoods of systems alien to us,

Lived, known more than Judas,

A living creation of Hollywood,

Artist James Bond, spy, agent 007.

This very guy was a star - no two ways about it,

So popular, it’s scary to tell.

Was it a laughing matter? Practically a demigod.

The famous Marcello, compared to him, was a puppy!

He, at his own, country villa,

Was hiding so that he wouldn’t be caught,

And was dying of boredom and melancholy.

And then, it used to be, they would meet him by the apartment building,

Pounce on him and tear to souvenirs

The last pair of pants and jackets.

That’s how he lived, as if in a cage. But in the movies he worked hard.

He tricked various intelligence agencies as he pleased.

Now he walks in someone else's shoes, now he sleeps in an ashtray,

And then he seduces someone on a lampshade.

And so, this artist - James Bond -

Comrades from the State Film Fund

Invite to us for a joint picture.

So that citizens wouldn’t recognize him,

He decided to come to us in a blanket,

Like, they'll tear it to shreds anyway.

Well, judge for yourselves: at the farewell in the USA,

All the hippies with hair shaved their hair,

They ripped off his sweater, instantly gnawed off his watch,

And took apart the slabs from the runway.

And now in Moscow he descends the ramp,

Gives a dollar to the porter on the sly

And covers his identity on the go.

Suddenly someone rushes to the agent in a "Gazik"

And [shows] a film instead of a document,

Like, we're cool, like, how do you do.

A huge motorcade stands by itself -

They are meeting the champion in bench shooting.

He hit everything that was there, with a shot from his hand,

Women and men went crazy over him.

Satisfied that he wasn't recognized,

He took off the blanket at the "National" hotel.

But, despite his personality and accent,

He was called a bum there,

Who pretended to be a foreigner

And declared that, they say, he was an agent.

The doorman stopped him at the gate... He decided to reveal himself,

"I am 007." - "Long-distance call? So you need to take a number."

Foam and bitter saliva gathered in his mouth,

And in the pose of a superman, he sat down by the window.

But the film directors came running

And settled the misunderstanding,

And exchanged pounds for rubles...

The cleaning lady shouted: "What a rogue,

Just think, some kind of little agent.

We have a prince from Somalia in apartment number nine."

Себя от надоевшей славы спрятав,

В одном из их Соединенных Штатов,

В глуши и дебрях чуждых нам систем

Жил-был, известный больше, чем Иуда,

Живое порожденье Голливуда,

Артист Джеймс Бонд, шпион, агент-07.

Был этот самый парень звезда - ни дать ни взять,

Настолько популярен, что страшно рассказать.

Да шуточное ль дело? Почти что полубог.

Известный всем Марчелло в сравненьи с ним - щенок!

Он на своей, на загородной вилле

Скрывался, чтоб его не подловили

И умирал от скуки и тоски.

А то, бывало, встретят у квартиры,

Набросятся и рвут на сувениры

Последние штаны и пиджаки.

Вот так и жил, как в клетке. Ну а в кино потел.

Различные разведки дурачил, как хотел.

То ходит в чьей-то шкуре, то в пепельнице спит,

А то на абажуре кого-то соблазнит.

И вот, артиста этого - Джеймс Бонда -

Товарищи из Гос- и Фильмофонда

В совместную картину к нам зовут.

Чтоб граждане его не узнавали,

Он к нам решил приехать в одеяле,

Мол, все равно на клочья разорвут.

Ну посудите сами: на проводах в USА

Все хиппи с волосами побрили волоса,

С него сорвали свитер, отгрызли вмиг часы,

И разобрали плиты со взлетной полосы.

И вот в Москве нисходит он по трапу,

Дает доллар носильщику на лапу

И прикрывает личность на ходу.

Вдруг кто-то шасть на "газике" к агенту

И киноленту вместо документа,

Что, мол, свои, мол, хау ду ю ду.

Огромная колонна стоит сама в себе -

Встречают чемпиона по стендовой стрельбе.

Попал во все, что было, он выстрелом с руки,

По нем бабье сходило с ума и мужики.

Довольный, что его не узнавали,

Он одеяло снял в "Национале".

Но, несмотря на личность и акцент,

Его там обозвали оборванцем,

Который притворился иностранцем

И заявил, что, дескать, он агент.

Швейцар его за ворот... Решил открыться он,

"07 я". - "Вам межгород? Так надо взять талон".

Во рту скопилась пена и горькая слюна,

И в позе супермена он уселся у окна.

Но кинорежиссеры прибежали

И недоразумение замяли,

И разменяли фунты на рубли...

Уборщица кричала: "Вот же пройда,

Подумаешь, агентишко какой-то.

У нас в девятом принц из Сомали".

This humorous song, "Song about James Bond, Agent 007", by Vladimir Vysotsky satirizes Western culture stereotypes, "star sickness," and reflects the realities of Soviet life.

The protagonist is a famous actor, James Bond, tired of the intrusive attention of the public. He hides from fans who tear him apart for souvenirs and dreams of simplicity and anonymity.

Vysotsky ironically describes Bond's incredible popularity, elevating him to the rank of a demigod and contrasting him with the modest image of Marcello Mastroianni. Bond himself is shown as a typical Hollywood product, living in a fictional world of espionage passions, where he easily changes identities and deceives enemies.

Bond's arrival in the USSR at the invitation of the Gosfilmofond turns into a comical situation. He decides to remain unrecognized, pretending to be a foreigner, but faces distrust and bureaucracy. He is mistaken for a madman, a tramp, and even a swindler.

The culmination is a scene at the "National" hotel, where Bond, trying to prove his identity, calls himself agent 007. However, his words make no impression on Soviet citizens accustomed to strict order and unfamiliar with Western movie heroes. The cleaning lady, for example, believes that the prince from Somalia is a much more important person.

Thus, Vysotsky in a satirical form shows the collision of two worlds - the illusory world of a movie star and the everyday Soviet reality.