The Odeon, Leicester Square, 1960. The red-carpet premiere of a film that will change the story of British film and British society. The lights are killed, the crowd falls silent. The roar of industrial machinery thrums from the speakers. And over the noise comes the voice of the hero, a Brylcreemed lathe-operator with greasy overalls and insolent good looks. "Don't let the bastards grind you down," says Dirk Bogarde, and with those words, Saturday Night and Sunday Morning and its star give instant definition to the new decade.
In some fairly proximate parallel universe, this is how the 1960s might have begun. It could have happened here, too, if the owner of Pinewood studios