A common criticism of film adaptations of theatrical works is that they are too stagy, but I would argue that The Knack ...and How to Get It is not stagy enough. Instead of being a Joe Orton-style cynical farce mocking what we might now describe as toxic masculinity, it feels more like a misjudged episode of “Some Mothers Do 'Ave 'Em” in which Frank asks his most sexually inappropriate friend for advice on becoming a pick-up artist—an episode that they wouldn’t be allowed to show on television anymore—complete with accidental water skiing and single entendres.

Swinging London has never looked more swingy, and Rita Tushingham is always a lovely presence. I also particularly enjoyed John Barry’s groovy score, which is just perfect. The extended joke about Nancy being raped, however, is just inexcusable to the modern ear. Intellectually, I can see how it might have worked on the stage, but in this context it comes across as tone deaf.

It feels like an understatement to say that The Knack ...and How to Get It, which is now almost 60 years old, hasn’t aged well. It is so of its time that I suspect it felt dated before the 1960s were over. The film has its moments, with the carrying of an enormous iron bed frame across central London being a particular treat, but the farce often feels dissipated having been removed from the confines of the stage. Although the film may have a certain appeal as a snapshot of swinging London, I found it baffling and infuriating in equal measure.

I am not a doctor, but those who do get the knack should probably go to a clinic.