Lindsay Anderson's ideas -- about the class system and bureaucracy and modern warfare and such things -- have been bouncing around British movies for years, but the form, here, is revitalizing: a picaresque fantasy, reminding you at different turns of Godard and Buñuel and Ford and Fellini, and having to do with a young parvenu who is merely a piece of flotsam riding the highs and lows of the waves. Somewhere in the middle, the movie hits a smooth-sailing stretch where each non-sequitur episode is entered head-over-heels, as if through magical trap doors or secret passages; and throughout this stretch the movie's stride is unbreakable, unbeatable, and its tone is almost song. With Malcolm McDowell, Ralph Richardson, Rachel Roberts; music by Alan Price. (1973) — Duncan Shepherd
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