The most beneficent of the Boultings’ warm, crude, affectionate satires. The travails of idiotic-ass hero Carmichael are only mildly amusing, but the glaze blazes into life with the arrival of Sellers’ Stalinist Don Quixote, tilting with alarming predictability at the windmills constructed by his class enemies. The Red Robbos of this world may be an unfairly easy target, but Sellers’ caricature is fond, not malicious. Accusations of union-bashing are misplaced. The workers may all be voiceless clods who nod off with their vests on, but there’s a grudging thankfulness of their surly cynicism, and Attenborough’s horrid little entrepreneur discovers that in making them the dupes of his capitalist crookery he brings with respect to his own undoing.
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