The defining sequence of postwar British cinema might be Barbara Windsor’s bra pinging off during a callisthenics workout on a dreary campsite. For French film, it’s probably Alain Delon consuming a Gauloise in real time. The Brits were still channelling the Blitz spirit: cheer up, it might never happen! The Nouvelle Vague was a more complicated kind of escapism: insouciant, amoral at times, the voice of a new generation in revolt against the memory of occupation and collaboration. It was this sentiment that would give rise to the événements of 1968.

Edward Chisholm lights on an episode to connect the cultural and political upheavals of France that year: the murder of a young Yugoslav, Stevan Marković, who was beaten, shot and dumped by the side of a road under a plastic sheet. A grifter who made a few sous taking Polaroids of tourists, he had insinuated himself into Delon’s glamorous circle. Did his portfolio include compromising photographs of the premier cru of French society at partouzes (orgies)? Did he pay for them with his life? Chisholm suggests it is a possibility.

Marković’s immigration status was at best ambiguous – but then so was every­thing about him. One of thousands of displaced hopefuls from the corners of a shattered continent, he was soon at the side of the matinee idol thanks to his charm, good looks and a word from his childhood