Tracy Draco’s performative poetry-off with Blofeld in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service feels a bit puzzling at first. The “master” is framed as a single figure as the center of attention, someone for whom the world quite literally “wakes,” and in this case is Blofeld. The dialogue is a bit snobby, but I do enjoy the scene.

She feeds Blofeld exactly what he wants to hear and leans into his fantasy just enough to keep him admiring himself instead of questioning her. Although it sounds like Tracy is waxing poetic about Blofeld’s authority from his alpine perch, it’s really a subtle exposure of Blofeld’s vanity and serves as a distraction from the imminent attack on his hideaway. It’s great misdirection.