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I saw this movie for the first and only time crossing the Atlantic in 1957, on the Mauritania, on the way to the States. My fellow English Speaking Union scholars and I, still in the grip of Look Back in Anger and seething from the moral and political debacle of Suez, regarded it with mirthful contempt. It was the kind of stilted, patronising British movie about working-class and lower-middle-class life we were in flight from after we'd just embraced Paddy Chayefsky's Marty, The Catered Affair and The Bachelor Party, and been thrilled by Ealing's Alexander Mackendrick making his American debut with Sweet Smell of Success. It's now being revived, or disinterred, as a major harbinger of British kitchen-sink realism, a term coined in the mid-1950s by my future mentor David Sylvester.

The movie turns upon a lower-middle-class clerk (stiff-upper-lip specialist Anthony Quayle) preparing to leave his loving, depressed, slatternly...