The Train (1964)

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+

Repulsion (1965)

Roman Polanski has done far more film-wise to make apartments the living embodiment of psychological hell on Earth than anyone alive, and saying his low-budget English-language debut “Repulsion” stands above “Tenant” or “Rosemary’s Baby” is one massive compliment. Catherine Denevue plays Carol, a manicurist living with her aloof sister in London, zombie shuffling to and from work, staring at sidewalk cracks, and from her bedroom to the loo, staring at the razor of sister’s (married) sugar daddy. She glazes out, does not talk, and fears the leers or touch of any man. In quick succession, a suitor comes on strong and her sister leaves for vacation, acts that push Carol off her ledge into shocking hallucinations and depraved acts. Carol has a past that purges out at the finale as we learn her hellish torture is not over by half. Polanski works with brimstone, fear, and one hell of an actress, laying the way for the nightmares of “Baby,” his horror masterpiece of stifled women. Sick irony or inevitable that Polanski had his own misogynistic demons to spew years later? A near-unbearable must-watch classic that left me gasping, and spawned the recent dark daughter of “Black Swan.” A+

The Pawnbroker (1965)

Sidney Lumet’s “The Pawnbroker” – photographed in a stark black and white – is merciless, poignant, unsettling, and packs a devastating finale. It was the first American film to deal with the Holocaust from the perspective of a survivor. Rod Steiger – in arguably his greatest role – is that survivor, Sol Nazerman. Once a professor with a wife and children, Sol now runs an East Harlem pawnshop that plays front to a local mobster (Brock Peters). The shop offers dry cleaning, but only launders money. Sol loathes his customers, and everyone around him. They are “scum” and “creatures,” hate has bred more hate. As a devastating anniversary looms, the brick wall that Sol has built up and over his human shell cracks. Sol either will be reborn, or will get the death he longs for. Lumet inter-cuts long memories and quick violent images from Sol’s past: Subway cars become death trains, while a half-naked woman recalls his ravaged wife. The images are startling. “Pawnbroker” is dated in portions, some portrayals of African-Americans and Hispanics skate close to stereotype, but this is one hell of a film. Lumet’s genius is on display throughout. Steiger beautifully plays several ages and bursts with grief and God-hating rage. A