The Train (1964)

Released in 1964, The Train is one of the most compelling and intelligent war films ever made — a riveting blend of action, moral tension, and historical reflection. Directed by the American filmmaker John Frankenheimer and set in Nazi-occupied France during the final days of the Second World War, the film combines the technical precision of a thriller with the moral weight of a drama about art, culture, and human sacrifice. Featuring a powerhouse performance from Burt Lancaster and striking black-and-white cinematography, The Train stands as a masterclass in both craftsmanship and thematic depth.

The story is inspired by real events that occurred in August 1944, as Allied forces advanced towards Paris. The Nazis, desperate to retreat yet determined to retain their cultural loot, sought to transport hundreds of France’s greatest paintings — works by Renoir, Cézanne, Picasso, and others — back to Germany by train.

In The Train, this premise becomes the foundation for a battle of intellect and will between two men: Colonel Franz von Waldheim (Paul Scofield), a cultured but fanatical German officer obsessed with preserving the art for the Reich, and Labiche (Burt Lancaster), a pragmatic French railway inspector and Resistance member who must decide whether these artworks are worth the human lives required to save them.

At first, Labiche sees little reason to risk lives for paintings when the war’s end is in sight. But as events unfold — and as friends and comrades die in the line of duty — he is drawn into a desperate mission to prevent the train from reaching Germany. Through sabotage, deception, and raw courage, he and his fellow railwaymen wage a battle not just against the enemy, but against time itself.

Burt Lancaster, one of Hollywood’s most commanding presences, gives a superbly restrained performance as Labiche. Known for his athleticism and charisma, Lancaster uses both to great effect here, performing nearly all of his own stunts and imbuing the character with a quiet determination rather than traditional heroics. Labiche is not an intellectual or an idealist; he begins as a weary man who questions the point of further sacrifice. Yet Lancaster’s performance charts his gradual transformation into a symbol of moral resistance — a man who acts not out of ideology, but out of a growing recognition of what civilisation stands to lose.

Opposite him, Paul Scofield is magnificent as Colonel von Waldheim. His portrayal of the cultured Nazi is one of the film’s great strengths. Scofield plays him not as a cartoon villain, but as an intelligent, obsessive man whose reverence for art is corrupted by his sense of entitlement and control. His performance is calm, articulate, and chilling — a man who loves beauty but is blind to the ugliness of his own actions.

Jeanne Moreau, in a smaller but poignant role, plays Christine, a hotel owner who aids Labiche despite her initial reluctance. Her scenes, quietly emotional and understated, provide a human counterpoint to the film’s mechanised violence. Michel Simon also shines in a brief appearance as Papa Boule, an elderly engineer whose brave defiance sets the tone for the resistance that follows.

John Frankenheimer’s direction is nothing short of masterful. Known for his taut thrillers such as The Manchurian Candidate (1962) and Seven Days in May (1964), he brings a documentary-like realism and technical audacity to The Train. Filmed in stark black-and-white, the cinematography by Jean Tournier and Walter Wottitz lends the film a gritty authenticity, grounding its spectacular set-pieces in a palpable sense of physical reality.

Frankenheimer insisted on shooting the film using real trains, real explosions, and real locations rather than miniatures or studio effects. The result is astonishing. Every derailment, every crash, every burst of steam and smoke feels brutally authentic. The action sequences — particularly the sabotage scenes and the climactic destruction of the train — are choreographed with surgical precision, yet filmed with an almost chaotic energy.

Equally impressive is Frankenheimer’s visual intelligence. His use of deep focus, long tracking shots, and sharp contrasts between light and shadow reflects both his background in television and his instinct for cinematic storytelling. The camera moves with the rhythm of machinery — relentless, powerful, and unstoppable — mirroring the industrial violence of war itself.

At its core, The Train is not merely a war film or an action thriller; it is a meditation on the value of art and the meaning of sacrifice. The central question — “Are paintings worth dying for?” — haunts the film from start to finish. Frankenheimer and his screenwriters refuse to give a simple answer.

Von Waldheim sees art as the ultimate symbol of civilisation, something eternal that transcends nations and individuals. Yet his love of art is corrupted by greed and possession; for him, beauty is something to be owned. Labiche, on the other hand, begins as indifferent to art, seeing only the suffering around him. It is only through loss — the deaths of his comrades, the destruction of his world — that he begins to understand that these works represent something greater: the spirit, memory, and identity of a people.

The final confrontation between Labiche and von Waldheim crystallises this conflict. Surrounded by the corpses of villagers executed by the Nazis, the colonel demands to know why the French risked so much for “a load of paintings.” Labiche gives no answer — his silence is devastating. It suggests that some values cannot be rationalised, only felt; that the defence of culture, however intangible, may be a form of resistance as profound as any battle.

The film’s realism extends beyond its visuals. Frankenheimer portrays the war not as an adventure but as a grim, mechanical process — driven by iron, steam, and exhaustion. The trains themselves become metaphors for the machinery of war: powerful, unstoppable, yet ultimately destructive.

Lancaster’s physicality enhances this realism. His bruises, limps, and sweat are all genuine, and his stunts — including running atop moving trains and leaping between carriages — have an authenticity that modern computer effects can seldom replicate. Every scrape of metal and hiss of steam reinforces the film’s tactile, almost industrial atmosphere.

Maurice Jarre’s score, though used sparingly, is perfectly judged. His music alternates between militaristic percussion and mournful lyricism, capturing both the urgency of the chase and the tragedy underlying it. The sound design — the rumble of engines, the screech of wheels, the distant bombing — is equally vital, immersing the viewer in the sensory experience of wartime France.

Upon its release, The Train was widely praised for its realism, intelligence, and technical brilliance. Critics admired its ability to combine large-scale action with moral depth, and it performed well at the box office internationally. Over time, its reputation has only grown, and it is now regarded as one of the finest war films of the 1960s — and arguably one of the greatest ever made.

The film’s influence can be seen in later works that blend physical realism with ethical complexity, from Saving Private Ryan (1998) to Dunkirk (2017). It remains a touchstone for directors seeking to portray war without sentimentality or spectacle.

The Train is a film of extraordinary discipline and intelligence — an action movie with a conscience, a war story with a philosopher’s soul. John Frankenheimer’s direction, Burt Lancaster’s commanding performance, and Paul Scofield’s icy brilliance combine to create a work that is both thrilling and deeply reflective.

More than six decades later, it remains as gripping and relevant as ever. In an age when warfare and cultural destruction continue to intertwine, The Train serves as a timeless reminder of what is truly at stake in human conflict: not only lives and nations, but the very essence of civilisation itself.