We are now more aware of personal pronouns than ever before, but even in 1966 it would have been shocking to hear Alfie Elkins exclusively refer to women—always “birds,” obviously—as “it” rather than “she.” Needless to say, he is a narcissistic misogynist shagging his way through swinging London like there’s no tomorrow. It is largely thanks to Michael Caine’s droll performance and Bill Naughton’s fourth wall-shattering screenplay that not only is Alfie an engaging, if not exactly likeable, character but that we believe there is a shred of humanity in him when tomorrow finally comes. 

Alfie is not a tale of redemption, or even particularly a tale of comeuppance. It is a tale of consequences, and those consequences largely fall on the birds in Alfie’s life. Vivien Merchant is the emotional heart of the film, powerfully conveying the sense of grief and shame that are Lily’s price for having encountered Alfie, but Shelley Winters, Jane Asher and Julia Foster each give memorable performances. The punchline to Alfie’s relationship with Ruby, played by Winters, is so ego-wounding for him that I somehow managed to wince while laughing.

Alfie is a fascinating document of London in the swinging sixties, warts and all, and it catches one of cinema’s most enduring actors on the cusp of stardom. For me, the film isn’t entirely successful at balancing its glee and revulsion for Alfie’s behaviour—the ledger is always in his favour—but it holds up better than other lauded sex comedies of the era, particularly The Knack… and How to Get It.