1965. Bob Dylan's Yankee caravan moves through a dreary, unswinging Britain. The attendant press and entourage look to the beautiful Mr D for answers ('Do you read the Bible?') which he doesn't provide, being too busy with his metamorphosis from nice folkie to withdrawn rockstar. His mask slips, fascinatingly, as he struggles between affection and disaffection. Only the wardrobe is definitely set: shades, leather jacket, tight pants and raked back hair (a rocker, no less) set him aside from the denim and fringes, dating him less than his surroundings. While Dylan plays a part and apart, nearly all the others, drawn like moths to his flame, appear in the grip of some great masochism. The abiding memories of Don't Look Back are lack of privacy, dull cliques, stumble-drunkenness, very insecure British artists (Price, Donovan), and Dylan's bored, amused sparring with anyone trying to point him in the direction of Damascus. The restless hand-held camera is the main disadvantage of a fascinating document: a sore sight for the eyes, with enough whip-pans to defeat the most determined self-flagellant.