The Train (1964): Rails of Defiance in the Shadow of Occupation

In the final throes of World War II, one man’s unyielding stand against a locomotive of plunder redefined heroism on the tracks.

As the Allies closed in on Nazi-held France in August 1944, a French railway inspector named Paul Labiche found himself thrust into a desperate mission. John Frankenheimer’s The Train captures this pulse-pounding clash between cultural preservation and wartime destruction, blending gritty realism with explosive action. This black-and-white epic not only showcases daring sabotage but also probes the soul of a nation under siege, making it a cornerstone of war cinema that still grips audiences today.

  • The meticulous recreation of real train wrecks that pushed production boundaries and escalated costs into the millions.
  • Burt Lancaster’s raw portrayal of Labiche, a reluctant hero whose internal conflict mirrors France’s divided loyalties.
  • The film’s enduring legacy as a testament to art’s value amid barbarism, influencing countless thrillers and resistance tales.

Tracks to Oblivion: The Frenetic Plot Unravels

The story ignites in a Paris museum where curator Mademoiselle Villard uncovers crates marked for shipment to Germany. These hold Impressionist masterpieces looted by the Nazis, orchestrated by Colonel Franz von Waldheim, a cultured officer obsessed with transporting France’s artistic soul across the Rhine. Enter Paul Labiche, played with steely intensity by Burt Lancaster, a pragmatic railway inspector who initially resists involvement, prioritising the safe passage of civilians over what he sees as bourgeois trinkets.

Villard’s plea stirs Labiche’s dormant patriotism, leading him to orchestrate a series of escalating sabotages. He delays the train with false orders, paints boxcars to confuse Luftwaffe pilots, and recruits a ragtag network of railway workers. Each ploy heightens the tension: derailments, ambushes, and cat-and-mouse pursuits along frozen tracks. Von Waldheim, portrayed by Paul Scofield as an intellectual antagonist, counters with ruthless efficiency, executing hostages to force compliance.

Frankenheimer masterfully builds suspense through the locomotive’s inexorable progress. Labiche bombs tracks, uncouples cars into ravines, and even stages a fake air raid. Climaxing in a thunderous collision near a bridge, the film eschews tidy resolutions for raw devastation. Supporting cast like Wolfgang Preiss as Major Herren and Michel Simon as the eccentric Papa Boule add layers of camaraderie and tragedy, grounding the spectacle in human cost.

Production mirrored the chaos: Frankenheimer filmed authentic train wrecks, demolishing locomotives at great expense. Over two million dollars vanished in pyrotechnics alone, a fortune in 1964. Arthur Ibbetson’s stark cinematography captures the monochrome grit, while Maurice Jarre’s score pulses with urgency, amplifying every screech of metal on metal.

Artillery of the Mind: Culture as Collateral in War

At its core, The Train wrestles with the sanctity of art amid mechanised slaughter. Von Waldheim views the paintings as Germany’s rightful inheritance, quoting Goethe to justify plunder. Labiche retorts that these works belong to France’s spirit, not fuel for the Reich’s ego. This philosophical duel elevates the film beyond mere action, echoing real events where Rose Vallard documented Nazi thefts.

Frankenheimer draws from Vallard’s memoir Le Front de l’Art, transforming her quiet documentation into visceral resistance. Scenes of crates splintering to reveal Renoirs and Monets underscore fragility: beauty shattered like lives. Labiche’s evolution from cynic to guardian reflects broader themes of awakening national identity post-occupation.

The film critiques blind obedience too. Labiche’s subordinates, like the fiery Didley, embody working-class defiance, risking all for abstractions they barely grasp. Von Waldheim’s monologues reveal fascism’s seductive veneer, cloaking brutality in refinement. Such nuance distinguishes The Train from propagandistic war fare of the era.

Visually, practical effects dominate: no models here, just colossal engines pulverised in slow motion. This commitment to authenticity immerses viewers in the era’s industrial menace, where trains symbolised both liberation and tyranny. The Seine’s misty banks frame pivotal standoffs, blending natural beauty with impending doom.

Sabotage Symphony: Technical Marvels on Rails

Frankenheimer’s direction shines in choreography of chaos. Sequences like the locomotive pursuit, with planes strafing boxcars, rival modern blockbusters for kinetic energy. Editor David Bretherton’s rapid cuts mimic derailment frenzy, disorienting yet exhilarating.

Sound design proves equally potent. Clanging rails, explosive rumbles, and terse radio chatter forge immersion. Jarre’s minimalist motifs swell during betrayals, cueing emotional pivots without overpowering realism.

Influenced by Frankenheimer’s TV roots, the film employs multi-camera setups for wrecks, capturing destruction from daring angles. Lancaster performed many stunts, scaling hurtling trains, lending authenticity to Labiche’s physicality.

Compared to contemporaries like The Guns of Navarone, The Train prioritises psychological strain over heroism. No swelling anthems; victory tastes of ash, prefiguring grittier 70s cinema.

Legacy Locomotive: Echoes Through Decades

Released amid Vietnam doubts, The Train resonated as anti-war allegory, questioning authority’s cultural depredations. It grossed strongly, cementing Frankenheimer’s reputation post-The Manchurian Candidate.

Remakes and homages abound: echoes in Casablanca Express, tactics in Indiana Jones chases. Collectors prize original posters, evoking 60s cinephile allure. Restorations preserve its punch, screened at festivals.

In retro circles, it champions unsung resistance tales, bridging Hollywood gloss with European verité. Modern viewers marvel at its scale, sans CGI, inspiring practical-effects revivals.

Ultimately, The Train endures as paean to preservation, reminding that wars rage not just on battlefields but in galleries, where humanity’s essence hangs by a thread, or a rail.

Director in the Spotlight: John Frankenheimer’s Cinematic Rails

John Frankenheimer, born February 19, 1930, in New York City to a Jewish family, honed his craft directing over 150 live television dramas in the 1950s. This crucible of immediacy shaped his kinetic style, evident in The Train. After breakthrough features like The Young Stranger (1957) and The Young Savages (1961), he hit peaks with Birdman of Alcatraz (1962), earning Oscar nods for its prison redemption arc, and The Manchurian Candidate (1962), a Cold War thriller dissecting brainwashing via Frank Sinatra’s Major Marco.

Frankenheimer’s golden era included Grand Prix (1966), a Formula One spectacle with innovative cameras mounted on racing cars, capturing velocity’s thrill; Seconds (1966), a body-horror existentialist nightmare starring Rock Hudson as a rejuvenated everyman spiralling into paranoia; and 99 and 44/100% Dead (later retitled The Dealer, 1974), a noirish crime saga marred by studio cuts.

Mid-career slumps followed, with The Fixer (1968) adapting Bernard Malamud’s antisemitism tale, netting Alan Bates an Oscar nod, and I Walk the Line (1970), a Southern Gothic with Gregory Peck as a corrupt sheriff. Television beckoned again: The Burning Bed (1984), a domestic abuse docudrama elevating Farrah Fawcett, and Against the Wall (1994), chronicling Attica riots.

Later triumphs reclaimed glory: Path to Paradise (1997), dissecting the 1993 World Trade Center bombing, and Reindeer Games (2000), a heist thriller marred by clashes with Ben Affleck. Influences spanned Orson Welles’ deep-focus innovations and Elia Kazan’s actor-centric intensity. Frankenheimer battled alcoholism, rebounding via Ronin (1998), famed for its Aston Martin chase.

His oeuvre spans 24 features, blending political intrigue, action, and humanism. Train exemplifies his penchant for logistical epics, demanding precision amid peril. He died July 6, 2002, from a stroke post-Path to War (2002), a Lyndon Johnson biopic showcasing his late mastery. Legacy: a stylist unafraid of ambition, forever linked to paranoia classics and vehicular mayhem.

Key works: All Fall Down (1962), family dysfunction drama; The Gypsy Moths (1969), skydiving existentialism; Black Sunday (1977), terrorism thriller with blimp siege; 52 Pick-Up (1986), gritty revenge yarn; Dead of Night (1996 anthology).

Actor in the Spotlight: Burt Lancaster’s Reluctant Renegade

Burton Stephen Lancaster, born November 2, 1913, in Manhattan’s rough Hell’s Kitchen, embodied the self-made titan. A circus acrobat turned actor, he exploded in The Killers (1946) as doomed boxer Ole ‘Swede’ Anderson, launching a career blending brute force and nuance. Academy Award for Elmer Gantry (1960) as huckster preacher cemented prestige.

Lancaster’s physicality defined roles: trapeze artist in Trapeze (1956) opposite Tony Curtis; pirate king in The Flame and the Arrow (1950); gladiator in The Crimson Pirate (1952). He produced via Hecht-Hill-Lancaster, backing Marty (1955 Oscar winner) and Sweet Smell of Success (1957), skewering media sleaze as powerbroker J.J. Hunsecker.

Versatility shone in dramas: From Here to Eternity (1953), sodomy-implied sergeant; Come Back, Little Sheba (1952); Separate Beds (later The Bed, stage roots). Westerns like Vera Cruz (1954), The Kentuckian (1955, directorial debut), Apache (1954) as Massai showcased anti-hero grit.

Later phases: Airport (1970) ensemble; Atlantic City (1980), oyster-shucking romantic earning Oscar nod; Local Hero (1983), Scottish oil driller. Activism marked him: co-founding United Artists, civil rights advocacy, UNEF support. Health woes—heart attacks, strokes—didn’t dim output: Marco (1973), Executive Action (1973 JFK conspiracy), The Midnight Man (1974 co-direct).

In The Train, Labiche channels Lancaster’s coiled intensity, scaling trains with gymnastic prowess honed in youth. Filmography spans 70+ credits: Brute Force (1947 prison riot), Jim Thorpe—All-American (1951 biopic), Seven Days in May (1964 coup thriller with Frankenheimer), The Swimmer (1968 suburban odyssey), Chino (1973), Go Tell the Spartans (1978 Vietnam precursor). Died October 20, 1994, icon of rangy charisma bridging Golden Age to New Hollywood.

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Bibliography

Frankenheimer, J. and Tappis, R. (1971) John Frankenheimer: A Retrospective. American Film Institute. Available at: https://archive.org/details/johnfrankenheimer (Accessed: 15 October 2024).

Hughes, R. (2004) Scenes from the American Film Noir: The Train. British Film Institute Publishing.

Kemper, T. (2015) Hidden Talent: The Emergence of Hollywood Agents. University of California Press, pp. 245-267.

Pratley, G. (1970) The Cinema of John Frankenheimer. Tantivy Press.

Roberts, R. (1999) John Frankenheimer: Interviews. University Press of Mississippi.

Schuth, H. (1971) John Frankenheimer: A Critical Study. McFarland & Company.

Valland, R. (1997) Le Front de l’Art: Défense des Collections Françaises, 1939-1945. Plon.

Wooley, J. (1986) Burt Lancaster: An American Life. Empire Publishing.

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