John Frankenheimer’s World
War II “The Train” is a classic beyond compare. Maybe the grimy,
sweaty black and white photography gets in the way? No idea. This film is
perfect. Burt Lancaster plays French railway manager Labiche, a control freak who
reluctantly and then obsessively plays out a suicide mission to stop a Nazi
colonel (Paul Scofield) from looting France of its most treasured historic art --
irreplaceable Monets and Picassos, etc. The genius plot trick: Labiche and his
fellow saboteurs don’t care a whit about the paintings. This is personal pride,
and screwing the Nazis. At the end in eerie imagery, our star and director sternly
ask if even one life violently sacrificed to save paintings or any other treasure,
land, or national pride, is worth the toll. War is fruitless. Another
reason to endlessly love this film: The destruction of a massive rail yard and a
three-way way crash between three engines are shot in-camera, single takes. These
scenes astound. You can near smell the ash and smoke. Lancaster does his own stunts, sliding down ladders and jumping trains, with
Scofield’s villain as one for the ages. Quite possibly my favorite film ever. This is epic film-making. A+
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