British films of the 1970s

British films of the 1970s

British films of the 1970s

Paul Newland

Manchester University Press

Manchester and New York

Distributed in the United States exclusively

by Palgrave Macmillan

Copyright © Paul Newland 2013

The right of Paul Newland to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Published by Manchester University Press

Oxford Road, Manchester M13 9NR, UK

and Room 400, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010, USA

www.manchesteruniversitypress.co.uk

Distributed in the United States exclusively by

Palgrave Macmillan, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York,

NY 10010, USA

Distributed in Canada exclusively by

UBC Press, University of British Columbia, 2029 West Mall,

Vancouver, BC, Canada V6T 1Z2

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data applied for

ISBN 978 0 7190 8225 2 hardback

First published 2013

The publisher has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for any external or third-party internet websites referred to in this book, and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

Typeset by 4word Ltd, Bristol

Contents

Acknowledgements

Introduction

1   Equality or bust: sexual politics

2   On the road: British journeys

3   The songs remain the same: pop, rock and war children

4   Immigrant songs: racial politics

5   In memoriam: the past in the present/the present in the past

6   Rural rides: the countryside and modernity

7   Close to the edge: peripheral Britain

8   Old cities, new towns: criminality and cruelty

Conclusion

Bibliography

Index

Acknowledgements

First, I would like to thank the Arts and Humanities Research Council for funding research into the archive of the film producer Gavrik Losey, held in the Bill Douglas Centre at the University of Exeter. I was lucky enough to be employed as the postdoctoral research associate on this project in the School of Arts, Languages and Literatures at the University of Exeter between 2006 and 2008. This book represents the culmination of that work. Second, I would like to thank the Department of Theatre, Film and Television Studies at Aberystwyth University for granting me research leave for a semester in 2011 in order to finish this book, and for funding some short research trips. Third, I would like to thank the British Academy for awarding me a grant to research Babylon (Franco Rosso, 1980).

During the researching and writing of this book I have benefited greatly from the experience and generosity of a number of individuals – industry professionals, academic colleagues and very good friends. Many, many thanks to Kate Woodward, Sue Harper, Duncan Petrie, and Andrew Spicer for generously reading drafts of sections of this book, and offering sound suggestions concerning how I might improve it. Thanks to Gavrik Losey for engaging warmly with my research, and educating me enthusiastically about the finer points of British cinema in the 1970s and beyond. Thanks to Waris Hussein, Lord Puttnam and Franco Rosso for making themselves available for interviews. I would like to thank Duncan Petrie for his support and encouragement during my days at the University of Exeter and subsequently. I also want to thank Steve Neale for his careful guidance of my work during the Gavrik Losey research project. For their support and encouragement (in a number of different ways), I want to further thank (in no particular order) Sarah Street, Justin Smith, Charlotte Brunsdon, Claire Monk, Dan North, Paul Williams, Kate Egan, Helen Hanson, Phil Wickham, Will Stone, Sid Stronach and Tim Noble. I also owe a debt of gratitude to my students.

Thanks to the staff at the British Film Institute Reading Room, the Bill Douglas Centre at the University of Exeter, and the Hugh Owen library at Aberystwyth University. And to the contributors to the ‘Don’t Look Now?’ conference I organised at the University of Exeter in July 2007.

Many thanks to Adrian Kear and Jamie Medhurst, my Heads of Department at Aberystwyth University, for their belief in me and my work, and their commitment to research in the Department of Theatre, Film and Television Studies. I also want to record my gratitude to the management team and administrative staff in the Department – especially Kath Williams, Ceris Medhurst-Jones, Glenys Hartnell, and Catrin Davies. And many thanks go to the staff at Manchester University Press, who were supportive of this book from the beginning.

Thanks to my parents, Roy and Mary, for their continuing love and support. And to Peter and Liz Nellist for everything they continue to do to help Kate, myself, and our family. Thanks to Annabel and Edward, whose many appearances in my office at home when I was writing this book were always very welcome interruptions, even if I didn’t always make this clear at the time. Finally, thanks, most of all, to Kate, without whom this book would simply not have been possible.

PAUL NEWLAND

Aberystwyth, February 2012

Introduction

Film-making fragments: Nobody Ordered Love and Long Shot

A long-forgotten film, Nobody Ordered Love (Robert Hartford-Davis, 1971), tells the story of the trials and tribulations of individuals attempting to put together a British film during the early 1970s. The narrative follows a hustling opportunist, Peter Triman (Tony Selby), and a director, Peter Medbury (John Ronane), through their struggles to make an epic First World War film entitled The Somme. The production process is fraught with problems. Initially, the shoot is disrupted by the behaviour of the star, the former sex symbol Alice Allison (Ingrid Pitt).¹ Medbury decides that he wants the part to be recast, but his financial backer, Leo Richardstone (Peter Arne), insists on a star name for the film. While Alice continues to cause grief on set, Medbury auditions an up-and-coming starlet, Caroline Johnson (Judy Huxtable). Meanwhile, Triman exploits Alice’s alcoholism, getting her drunk on whisky and trying to seduce her. But she is found dead the next morning, from a self-inflicted stab wound. After a disagreement regarding the ways in which Alice was treated, Medbury tells Triman his behaviour has infringed a morality clause in his contract, and that he will not countenance working with Triman on his next production. In revenge, Triman arranges for the negative of The Somme to be destroyed in an ‘accident’.²

Nobody Ordered Love thus finds dramatic potential in the myriad difficulties faced by film-makers during the early 1970s, and operates within (and, indeed, reflects upon) a British film industry evidently in the doldrums. In his important book on British cinema in the 1970s and early 1980s, National Heroes (1985), the film critic Alexander Walker begins his first chapter, ‘State of Change’, by arguing that ‘The first few years of the 1970s brought home to British cinema and society what bad times lay ahead. Nothing seemed to be moving.’³ Walker further points out that British cinema in the early 1970s ‘looked like the country itself: it had a residual energy, but in the main was feeling dull, drained, debilitated, infected by a run-down feeling characteristic of British life’.⁴ This view was shared by other writers and critics. In another book published in 1985, The Once & Future Film, John Walker suggested that in the 1970s there was ‘no money to make films, no cinemas to show them in, no audiences to pay to see them’.⁵

Things had not always been this way. During the 1960s – after the successes of the so-called ‘British New Wave’ films, the Beatles films, and ‘swinging London’ films – American production companies set up offices in London, hoping to back the next big British film. The key studios operating production programmes in Britain were United Artists, Paramount, Warner Bros, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, Twentieth Century-Fox, Columbia, Universal, and Disney. In addition to the fashionable status of aspects of 1960s Britishness and the concomitant bankability of British stars, the increased levels of American finance that flooded into film-making in Britain during the 1960s can be explained at least in part by the quality and availability of British studios, and the relatively cheap labour during this period. American money imported into Britain to finance film-making through subsidiaries reached a peak of £31.3 million in 1968.⁶ However, the British film industry suffered immensely from the withdrawal of much of this finance in the early 1970s. Indeed, by 1974, the sum imported by US companies had fallen to £2.9 million.⁷ Meanwhile, funds available from the British-government-backed National Film Finance Corporation (NFFC) also dropped – between 1973 and 1981 it contributed only £4 million towards 31 feature films and six shorts.⁸ Overall, as Linda Wood has pointed out, the total number of British films registered fell from 98 in 1971 to 36 in 1981.⁹ So the 1970s was undeniably a difficult period for the British film industry. After the box office successes of the 1960s, then, this was a period of relative struggle for film-makers and producers. But by the 1980s a revival of sorts had occurred, exemplified by the Oscar triumph of Chariots of Fire (Hugh Hudson, 1981),¹⁰ and further facilitated by the broadening of the American market as a consequence of the development of cable television, as well as the setting up of Channel 4 in 1982 – a television channel which developed an interest in financing low-budget British films.¹¹

During the 1970s, the profound social and cultural changes that had occurred in the 1960s created a situation in which British filmmakers had other hurdles to clear. For one, they could no longer rely on what they had once conceived of as a ‘mass’ audience when marketing their films.¹² As the post-war consensus began to fragment, so too did the family audience. As Sue Harper puts it, ‘The mass audience, which had hitherto provided reliable profits, was no longer monolithic in its structure. It was replaced by a range of niche audiences, who had more specialist requirements and whose responses were less predictable.’¹³ At the same time, it appeared that British culture was becoming more permissive. The British Board of Film Censors (BBFC) moved towards a more liberal position under the leadership of John Trevelyan and (from 1971) Stephen Murphy.¹⁴ In July 1970, a new classification system brought in the AA category for those aged fourteen and over, and developed the X category for films suitable for those over eighteen as opposed to sixteen (which it had been previously).¹⁵ With this, British cinemas suddenly found themselves entertaining smaller audiences, including those eager to see adult X-certificate productions (this begins to account for the boom in production of horror films and sexploitation films during the early 1970s). Old-style cinemas were converted into three-screen complexes, which further encouraged what Andrew Higson has termed diversification ‘at the point of exhibition’.¹⁶ Audiences for British films fragmented in other ways, too. Film gradually shifted from the cinema to the home, as the impact of the wider availability of colour television (and later video) was increasingly felt. So, in the 1970s, as Higson points out, ‘Cinema itself was not in decline, but was going through a complex process of diversification and renewal.’¹⁷ Indeed, this might now be regarded as a transitional period for British cinema; as a kind of ‘interregnum’.

There is evidence to be found in a film released later in the decade that film-making in Britain was still by no means a straightforward process. Long Shot (Maurice Hatton, 1978) features two individuals, Charlie and Neville (Charles Gormley and Neville Smith), trying to put together a film about Aberdeen oilmen, to be called Gulf and Western. Searching for a director, they head to the 1977 Edinburgh Film Festival, where they seek out the seasoned American filmmaker, Sam Fuller. Failing to find him, they finally secure the services of the German director, Wim Wenders. Wenders – who was at that time making a name for himself in the New German Cinema as the director of films such as Alice in the Cities (1974), Kings of the Road (1976), and The American Friend (1977) – is one of a number of individuals from the film industry who make appearances in the film, playing themselves. Searching for a star for the production, Charlie tracks down Susannah York at a theatre where she is engaged in rehearsals for Peter Pan, though he clearly is not aware of who she is, because he tells her how much he admired her performances in The Go-Between (Joseph Losey, 1970) and Georgy Girl (Silvio Narizzano, 1966), thus confusing her with two British stars who came to prominence in the 1960s: Julie Christie and Lynn Redgrave. But York happily co-operates, as do a number of other industry professionals, including director John Boorman and theatrical agent Dennis Selinger. Long Shot works, then, as a kind of farcical, self-reflexive, fictional documentary that highlights the problems independent producers faced when trying to get films made in Britain during the late 1970s.

Nobody Ordered Love and Long Shot provide an intriguing place to start when considering British film-making in the 1970s because, while they have not been remembered or fêted as examples of British cinema at its best (or, indeed, remembered at all), they do speak of the complexities of the industry; of its essentially fissured and fragmented nature. They also both clearly demonstrate that British film-makers had an awareness of the difficulties of the period; specifically, funding issues and declining audiences. This is further borne out by the fact that both films do not sit easily within acknowledged British film genres. As Sue Harper points out about a range of 1970s British productions, ‘Instead of having clear-cut boundaries, films seem to have permeable membranes, and to segue between horror/sex films/history or comedy/realism/sex, for example. This tentativeness about genre, and the range of cross-generic type, suggests that film-makers were uncertain about public taste.’¹⁸ Indeed, by creating generic hybrids, many filmmakers appeared to be hedging their bets by appealing to as wide an audience as possible. In this book, I explore a number of films which do not sit easily within genres. These films offer evidence that ways of classifying, categorising, and making distinctions between films began to rupture in Britain in the 1970s. But as well as being a period in which boundaries between different types of films fell apart, the 1970s also saw large number of directors and performers working across genres, in cinema, television and theatre, and often transnationally. This fragmentary film-making climate is evidenced not only in the shifting generic qualities of Nobody Ordered Love and Long Shot, but also by the careers of some of the figures who appear in these films.

Nobody Ordered Love (a hybrid tragi-comedy-horror) stars the actress Ingrid Pitt as Alice Allison. Pitt remains much better known for her exotic roles (which often feature nudity) in films such as the Hammer horrors, The Vampire Killers (Roy Ward Baker, 1970) and Countess Dracula (Peter Sasdy, 1971), and the Amicus Productions horror, The House That Dripped Blood (Peter Duffell, 1971).¹⁹ She went on to appear in the horror film The Wicker Man (Robin Hardy, 1973). But Pitt’s career did not develop purely within the horror genre. She also features in Where Eagles Dare (Brian G. Hutton, 1968) (much of which was filmed at Borehamwood Studios in Hertfordshire, UK), and later in Who Dares Wins (Ian Sharp, 1982), and the James Bond film Octopussy (John Glen, 1983).²⁰ The production of Nobody Ordered Love also featured other professionals who had complex, chequered careers during the 1970s. Robert Hartford-Davis, the director, for example, was a seasoned exploitation film-maker who had worked across genres. He directed the British horror films Incense for the Damned (aka Bloodsuckers) (1970), starring Patrick Macnee, Peter Cushing, and Patrick Mower, and The Fiend (1971), starring Patrick Magee. But he also worked in the USA, directing the blaxploitation film Black Gunn (1972). During the previous decade he had directed Saturday Night Out (1964) for producer Tony Tenser, who remains best known (alongside Michael Klinger) as the man behind the production of Roman Polanski’s British-shot art house films Repulsion (1965) and Cul-de-sac (1966), the development of the production company Tigon, the production of Michael Reeves’ notorious Witchfinder General (1968), and the sex comedy Eskimo Nell (Martin Campbell, 1974) – discussed in detail in the first chapter of this book.²¹

The Scottish film director, Charles Gormley, who also appears in Long Shot, co-founded the company Tree Films in 1972 with Nick Lewis and another budding Scottish film-maker, Bill Forsyth, who would later direct the British films That Sinking Feeling (1979), Gregory’s Girl (1981), and Local Hero (1983). Tree Films was essentially set up to make Scottish feature films, but eventually produced a number of documentaries, including A Place in the Country (1972), Polar Power (1974), and Keep Your Eye on Paisley (1975). During the 1970s, Gormley (like a number of film-making professionals at that time) worked across national boundaries, commuting from Glasgow to Amsterdam to get work as a scriptwriter for Dutch film-makers. In this capacity he co-wrote the erotic Dutch film Blue Movie (Wim Verstappen, 1971), but also acted alongside Anthony Perkins and Bibi Andersson in Twee vrouwen (aka Twice a Woman) (George Sluizer, 1979). Moreover, Gormley took advantage of industrial developments in Britain during the early 1980s (such the creation of funding streams via Channel 4 and the Scottish Film Fund) to direct the Glasgow-set Living Apart Together (1982), featuring pop star B. A. Robertson, and produced by Gavrik Losey, who was busy during the 1970s working as an independent producer but also as a production manager on films made by Goodtimes, EMI, and Apple Films.²² After securing a role in Nobody Ordered Love, Judy Huxtable’s subsequent film appearance was to be in Derek and Clive Get the Horn (Russell Mulcahy, 1979), which features her second husband, Peter Cook, recording an album of foul-mouthed comedy improvisations with Dudley Moore at Richard Branson’s Virgin Studios in London.

Susannah York, who features in Long Shot, also worked throughout the 1970s. She was cast in The Same Skin (aka Country Dance and Brotherly Love) (J. Lee Thompson, 1970), a British film (also starring Peter O’Toole) about an incestuous relationship that develops within an aristocratic Scottish family. York appears in the American film Happy Birthday, Wanda June (Mark Robson, 1971), and in the Columbia-backed British film Zee & Co (aka X, Y and Zee) (Brian G. Hutton, 1972), which stars Michael Caine and Elizabeth Taylor as a bickering middle-aged couple. She stars in Robert Altman’s US psychological thriller Images (1972), and in the British thriller Gold (Peter R. Hunt, 1974), alongside Roger Moore. She appears in a film adaption of the French dramatist Jean Genet’s play, The Maids (Christopher Miles, 1974) alongside Glenda Jackson and Vivien Merchant (the play was filmed for the American Film Theatre). York also features prominently in the Polish director Jerzy Skolimowski’s British psychological horror film The Shout (1978), discussed in detail in Chapter 7 of this book. She features in Conduct Unbecoming (Michael Anderson, 1975), a drama about army officers in India, starring Michael York, Richard Attenborough, and Trevor Howard. And she features in That Lucky Touch (Christopher Miles, 1975), a British/German film, also starring Roger Moore and Shelley Winters, about an international arms dealer. Moreover, Susannah York obtained work outside Britain and the USA during the decade, playing the title role in the Australian film, Eliza Fraser (Tim Burstall, 1976). And she appears in Richard Donner’s Britishmade, American-financed Superman (1978) as Lara, Superman’s biological mother on Krypton. So it is clear that York worked throughout the 1970s across a range of genres and across a range of national cinemas as well as in Hollywood. Her career alone demonstrates that a very wide range of films were made during this period; films which do not always sit within acknowledged genres or, for that matter, widely-understood concepts of national cinema.

The British film director Stephen Frears also appears in Long Shot. He is admired for his 1980s work on films such as My Beautiful Laundrette (1985), Prick Up Your Ears (1987), and Sammy and Rosie Get Laid (1987), and he has, of course, worked on critically acclaimed films in subsequent decades. But he came to prominence in the industry during the 1970s. Frears directed Gumshoe (1971), starring Albert Finney as a Liverpool bingo caller who dreams of being a private eye, and Bloody Kids (1979), a television film, written by Stephen Poliakoff, about alienated youths living in an Essex seaside town. Frears also made a number of television plays during the 1970s for the BBC’s Play for Today and Play of the Week, working with Alan Bennett on A Day Out (1972), Me! I’m Afraid of Virginia Woolf (1978), and Doris and Doreen (1978). As such, Frears’ 1970s career echoes those of the stalwart British directors Ken Loach and Mike Leigh, who also made critically-acclaimed films for television as well as the cinema during this period. These, then, were complex careers in complex times for the industry.

The British 1970s

Two years ago I awoke from the troubled sleep of apathy. There was born in me the dreadful feeling that something was wrong with the state of the nation. Everywhere I looked I saw decadence, apathy, cynicism and decay. Try as I might, I could not rid myself of the spectre that haunted me: the spectre of a dying culture.

Malcolm Scrawdyke, Little Malcolm and His Struggle Against the Eunuchs (Stuart Cooper, 1974)

Writing about the 1970s, Leon Hunt recognises that ‘In popular accounts of the period, it’s the decade that style/taste forgot, an object of pleasurable, kitsch embarrassment.’²³ Many of us have our own view of what characterises the British 1970s, often drawn from personal memories, our knowledge of the idiosyncrasies of fashions or styles, familiar historical narratives, or, indeed, the visual iconography of films and television programmes. But Sue Harper astutely reminds us that ‘We know that history does not naturally organize itself in neat decades. To a certain extent, the 1970s is a sort of fiction.’²⁴ If the British 1970s is a sort of ‘fiction’, it is a fiction ostensibly concerned with crisis, but also with transformation and opportunity. This much is evident in a number of British films of the period. For example, the 1971 film, Sunday Bloody Sunday, was made on the back of the British director John Schlesinger’s considerable success in America for United Artists with the US-shot Midnight Cowboy (1969). Alexander Walker saw Sunday Bloody Sunday as a ‘transitional film embodying a terminal feeling’.²⁵ What he appeared to mean by this was that the film manages to dwell upon principle characters drawn from ‘the newly beleaguered middle class’;²⁶ figures whose confidence in the kind of decent life that Britain once promised them has now seemingly dissipated. Sunday Bloody Sunday is set (and was shot) in London, and, as Walker notes, the film’s characters ‘resemble the capital city they inhabit: apprehensive people undergoing a state of change, uncertain of the next move’.²⁷ The film (starring Glenda Jackson, Peter Finch, and Murray Head) certainly captures a profound sense of unease and insecurity at the heart of bourgeois London life.

Sunday Bloody Sunday begins with the middle-aged, Jewish physician, Alex (Peter Finch), looking into the camera, and asking a patient (Britain?) ‘Now tell me if you feel anything at all?’ The theme of a loss of feeling and a discernible spiritual numbness permeates the narrative. Walker notes that one of the central motifs of the film is the telephone answering service, ‘which sustains the illusion that people are in contact with each other’.²⁸ Schlesinger’s film certainly constructs relationships between characters in which communication becomes increasingly difficult. It is apparently harder and harder in this world for individuals to know what they want and how to get it. Naked self-interest is effectively seen to get them nowhere. Indeed, the film appears to suggest that an existence in a society in which attitudes to sex and relationships are rapidly changing (allowing individuals the freedom to do what they choose, when they choose) might in fact be characterised by loneliness and anxiety at best, and alienation and despair at worst. In other words, freedoms fought for and won during the 1960s might now, in the early 1970s, be coming at a profound cost. This film suggests that figures who display heightened levels of self-importance, selfishness, conceit, and vanity are now in danger of becoming narcissistic. Murray Head’s character, Bob, for example, is a kinetic sculptor whose neon-lit pieces appear curiously shallow, self-indulgent, and pointless. Like the character himself, these objects are all bright surfaces and no depth. Other figures visibly move towards selfdestruction. Indeed, the film offers a representation of the London drug scene which sees it as a grim problem rather than as hip and cool, exemplified by a sequence shot in an all-night pharmacy, depicting individuals waiting for their prescription fixes.

But while life in London is shown to be dark and dreary, there remains an element of human warmth in this film, as it draws out its ‘theme of dawning middle-age and quiet desperation’, as the critic Jan Dawson put it.²⁹ Tom Milne pointed out that, in Sunday Bloody Sunday, ‘love, though it may not spring phoenix-like to life again, at least glows as a faint, treasured ember beneath the ashes piled up by life’.³⁰ Having said this, the economic frailty of the nation provides a fragmentary backdrop to the quotidian events in the film, even in their warmest moments. Penelope Gilliat wrote the screenplay, and chose to emphasise the fact that unemployment was increasingly becoming an issue in Britain in the early 1970s. Walker argues that this is realistic, ‘as unemployment became the endemic social disease of the Seventies, even the professional classes were ravaged beyond moral repair’.³¹ Not long after the beginning of the film, Alex Greville (Glenda Jackson) is seen driving through the streets of London in her Triumph Herald. We hear a news bulletin unfolding on her car radio in which the announcer clearly sets up the nature of the economic and socio-cultural climate: ‘With Britain in the throes of its most serious economic crisis since the War, the Cabinet will be in almost continuous session over the weekend. So will trade union leaders faced with the threat of mass unemployment and militant unofficial strike action.’ But the socio-cultural and economic crisis facing Britain during the early 1970s was not confined to cerebral films such as Sunday Bloody Sunday. The ‘Carry On’ film, Carry On at Your Convenience (Gerald Thomas, 1971), for example, manages to reflect on and mediate aspects of this period of economic instability. This film is a farce, ostensibly focused on the troubles enveloping a lavatory factory owned and run by W. C. Boggs (Kenneth Williams), where a shop steward with a Zapata moustache, Vic Spanner (Kenneth Cope), constantly clashes with Lewis Boggs (Richard O’Callaghan), and calls the workers out on strike. Of course, the lavatory factory might represent a microcosm of modern Britain here – struggling to get by in difficult times; troubled by internal conflict; and in all probability going down the tubes. This film is now regarded as one of the key texts of the ‘Carry On’ cycle,³² even if its middle-class attack on the unions feels inappropriate in a film that was designed primarily for a working-class audience.³³

Tom Nairn, writing in an influential book, The Break-Up of Britain (1977), saw a nation exemplified by ‘rapidly accelerating backwardness, economic stagnation, social decay and cultural despair’.³⁴ At the level of the economy, key facts offer indisputable evidence of the myriad problems faced by the troubled nation. For example, throughout the 1970s, Britain struggled with high levels of inflation (especially after the 1973 OPEC oil crisis). Prices trebled between 1970 and 1980. British government debt reached a level of £9 billion by 1976, having been zero in 1970. In the league table of gross domestic product (GDP) growth for nations, Britain fell from a position of ninth in 1961 to thirteenth in 1966, to fifteenth in 1971, and down to eighteenth in 1976.³⁵ So, the nation was slipping behind its economic rivals. As Dominic Sandbrook puts it, ‘By almost every measure, from investment and productivity to the rate of GDP growth per head and the growth of average real earnings, the Common Market countries were ahead.’³⁶ Unemployment grew from 3 per cent in 1971 to 5 per cent in 1979. The young were particularly hard hit.

Industrial conflict was also rife, and strikes loomed large in the public consciousness throughout the decade.³⁷ Indeed, the number of working days lost to strikes in 1970 was 11 million – the highest since the General Strike of 1926. But by 1972 the figure stood at 24 million.³⁸ Prime Minister Edward Heath spent much of 1971 trying to deal with the unions, and the Industrial Relations Act 1971 was passed in an attempt to bring them under control. But major miners’