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+

The Sweet Smell of Success (1957)

“The Sweet Smell of Success” sizzles with the best dialogue -- “You’re dead, son. Get yourself buried”-- ever put to screen, a funky jazz score by Elmer Bernstein, and a sleazy night-owl view of New York so vibrant, it burns the eyes. It’s a pitch-black film noir about corruption, fame and journalism run amok even more relevant in 2010. Tony Curtis is Sidney Falco, a soulless PR hack slaved to J.J. Hunsecker (Burt Lancaster), a famous/vile newspaper Winchell-like columnist who spreads lies, innuendo and pure bullshit, all wrapped up in false American patriotism. He’s the Glenn Beck of his day, his own God. Hunsecker won’t print Falco’s news unless the latter breaks up the columnist’s kid sister and her musician lover. Hunsecker, you see, wants his sister so damn bad. Perv. Spineless Falco obliges and suffers greatly. Lancaster makes one scary demagogue, while Curtis blows his role out of the water. You can see the lies form in his mind before they slither out his mouth. Alexander Mackendrick’s direction is razor sharp, and the Clif Odets/Ernest Lehman screenplay draws blood. A+