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For the first time in an ice age, British cinema is on top of the world. We haven't bullied the Americans like this in living memory. We'll know just how severe a beating this is when the Oscars are dished out on February 22, but the omens look astonishingly good. The midget Mumbai potboiler Slumdog Millionaire thrashed its biggest rival in every single category that counts. The bumbling Benjamin Button could only cut the mustard in the make-up and special effects category.

It is a David and Goliath victory of good old-fashioned British zip and derring-do over charmless Hollywood whimsy. The hero of the hour is, of course, Chris Tarrant, without whose lifelines Slumdog would surely have plunged into the void. But frankly there was an embarrassment of plucky British winners last night. Stephen Daldry, the director of The Reader, asked me as we stood outside the front door of the Royal Opera House sharing a cigarette in the rain if that was the star of his film, Kate Winslet, posing for the cameras in front of us. There was an almost reckless atmosphere of blasé around Covent Garden.

So what do all these fabulous gongs mean for the UK film industry? It used to mean that the British Academy was simply sticking up for its own. But the box office figures, and the monsoon of awards suggest, rightly, that we are officially making the best indie movies in the world.

Indeed, you could have swapped the nominees for Outstanding British Film (won by James Marsh for Man on Wire) with the nominees for Best Film overall (won, of course, by Slumdog) with total impunity. That's a terrific demonstration of raw power.

So has British film finally turned the corner? Or is it simply the fact that American studios were hit hard by the writers' strike last year, and the closure of so many high-quality bijoux-producing companies under the umbrella of the major studios?

Both, actually. But what makes the heart sing is that there really are green shoots to look forward to in the future. The UK film industry has become infinitely more resourceful. It is far lighter on its feet since the glory days of monolithic epics such as Chariots of Fire and Gandhi.

There is a greater mix of money, talent and nationalities. Our high-quality indie films are more sophisticated and intelligent. The British Academy is still hopelessly reluctant at giving pop hits like Mamma Mia! and The Dark Knight their proper dues. But the talent awarded last night is bristling with versatility and ideas.

It was particularly satisfying to see less glamorous film contenders such as Steve McQueen (Hunger), Martin McDonagh (In Bruges) and James Marsh (Man on Wire) taking home some metal. In short, thank God for some fresh faces and new blood.

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