Review: John Frankenheimer’s The Train on KL Studio Classics Blu-ray

John Frankenheimer’s The Train opens with a heist of masterpieces of modern art from a Parisian museum. The operation, supervised by Wehrmacht colonel and aristocratic aesthete Franz Von Waldheim (Paul Scofield), is a desperate assertion of the Nazis’ supremacist ideologies during the final days of the German occupation of France. As such, it’s easy to perceive the museum curator’s (Suzanne Flon) appeals to the sense of national pride felt by the Résistance-Fer—a group of rail workers who were part of the French Resistance—as an attempt to fight fire with fire, specifically when she requests help from railway manager Labiche (Burt Lancaster). Which makes it all the more fitting that it’s not Labiche who jumpstarts the workers’ efforts to stop the train that’s moving the stolen paintings from leaving France, but tenacious train conductor Papa Boule, who’s played with curmudgeonly brio by one of the patron saints of French cinema, Michel Simon.

The fact that Labiche and his men have neither an emotional connection to nor an aesthetic appreciation for the artworks only makes the drastic measures they take to protect them all the more awe-inspiring. And, indeed, it’s this sacrifice that ultimately arises as the central force and focus of Frankenheimer’s WWII thriller. What drives Labiche and his men is left relatively ambiguous, as the signs of their patriotic fervor are only brief and muted throughout the film. And despite all the ideas about the value of art and culture and the nature of heroism that are wired into it, The Train is never ponderous. Its philosophical profundity isn’t given expression through lengthy, thoughtful diatribes, but through depictions of the Résistance-Fer’s grime-covered workers going about their work through blood, sweat, and tears.

Throughout the film, Frankenheimer’s direction captures the physicality of the rail workers’ labor and the psychological toll it takes on them in exacting detail, lending moral weight and credence to everything from the shoveling of coal into the train’s engine boiler to the incredible arsenal of physical maneuvers that Labiche deploys as he seeks to delay and, finally, derail the train. Whether detailing organizationally elaborate tactics, such as the changing of station signs to make the Nazis believe that they’re crossing into Germany, or more action-oriented strategies, Frankenheimer imbues the film with a relentless, white-knuckle tension.

With the aid of cinematographers Jean Tournier and Walter Wottitz, Frankenheimer bolsters The Train’s sense of realism, sustaining an impressive level of verisimilitude through frequent use of wide, deep-focus shots and a handful of elaborate, though never showy, dolly and tracking shots. In toto, these shots, often featuring dozens of people in the frame busily going about their tasks, from non-resistance railway men to Nazi soldiers, strikingly convey that a fully active reality is unfolding alongside the heroic efforts of the Résistance-Fer.

Though the film builds to an obligatory mano a mano between Von Waldheim and Labiche, even this scene plays out in a thoughtful and unexpected manner. The subtextual conflict between the upper and working classes becomes text here, with a vexed Von Waldheim quipping to Labiche that “a painting means as much to you as a string of pearls to an ape,” before continuing to hurl insults at him. But if the Nazi may never know what exactly fuels Labiche’s fight to save works of art that he’s never particularly valued, this beautifully mounted and intelligent film makes unmistakably clear to us that heroism isn’t always black and white—that sometimes it’s simply about doing what’s right even if you don’t understand why.

Image/Sound

Kino’s 1080p transfer is quite gorgeous and boasts a strong contrast ratio with deep black levels and a wide range of grays. The image is sharp and highly detailed, which is particularly appreciable in the film’s numerous nighttime sequences and deep-focus wide shots. Grain levels are perhaps a tad on the light side, but they’re even throughout, and while there are very occasional signs of debris, this is by and large a clean transfer. The audio, which is a 16-bit dual-mono track, is a step down from the 24-bit track included in the now out-of-print Twilight Time Blu-ray from 2015, but the mix is still robust enough to achieve a strong separation between aural elements, even in the film’s most chaotic action scenes.

Extras

The first of two commentaries included here is by John Frankenheimer, recorded sometime in the 1990s. It isn’t a terribly engaging track, as the filmmaker is prone to pausing and speaking in a fairly soft, monotone voice. Still, his love for the film is apparent, and when he does delve into the challenges of finding various shooting locations and filming at night for nearly a month straight, it becomes clear how much blood, sweat, and tears he poured into his work. The second commentary, recently recorded with filmmaker and historian Steve Mitchell and Steven Jay Rubin, the author of Combat Films: American Realism, is more lively. And while the men inevitably discuss other war films of the era, they pay a good deal of attention to the film’s aesthetic qualities, making note of the more elaborate choreography on screen and some of Frankenheimer’s more impressive camera moves. The disc is rounded out with several trailers, a five-minute Trailers from Hell video featuring Brian Trenchard-Smith, which serves as an intro to the film, and a booklet with an astute essay by film historian Julie Kirgo.

Overall

Kino Lorber has outfitted John Frankenheimer’s thriller with a beautiful transfer and a notable new commentary that pays equal attention to the film’s historical and aesthetic qualities.