if.... is the cinematic equivalent of Sgt. Pepper's: Revered by baby boomers as the pinnacle of creation, and viewed as rather a silly bit of business by preceding and subsequent generations. Now that the children of the middle classes the world over are seemingly super human due to the internet, and view the prospect of boarding school as a wonderful opportunity thanks to the Harry Potter books/films, the relevance of if.... couldn't be further from modern concern. In fact, many scenes appear so alien and exaggerated as to hint at an inspiration for Pink Floyd's The Wall.

One should never hold personal bias against a film while reviewing, and the cemented date of this film aside, there are a few flaws which others have overlooked. Lindsay Anderson was known to be a fan of Luis Bunuel, on top of generally being too smart for his own good. And despite a straightforward narrative through the first and second acts, the latter portion of the piece it taken hostage by cod Bunuel surrealism and strained attempts at symbolism. Anderson wasn't capable of this feat due to his over-intelligent cynicism, failing to see that Bunuel was jovial in his work. I have not found a critic whom champions the 'Chaplain in a drawer', and am almost certain it still gets sideways looks from those who adore this film. The ending is not so much a concise punch to the established class/values system, as a wet slap on a moving target.

The British public school system was firmly for the middle classes (the upper crust being educated at home by private tutors). And the modus operandi of if.... was to check the boxes of public school life which Lindsay believed had been unexplored in film, thereby savaging middle class pretense. Homosexuality, generational cutlery, cold showers et al. In reality, such issues HAD been covered in many other great British films, if.... merely brought them to the fore. The Browning Version was a more oblique damning of such pomp, to name but one.

if.... is oddly quaint, and simply can not be viewed with modern (especially American) eyes. Kudos to Anderson for avoiding Mick and Kieth in favour of African chant, and a few brownie points for the latent homoerotic overtones. Points deducted for pretension, establishing characters who disappear, and inciting a glib revolution which came to naught.
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