Something about Burt Lancaster’s eighth film is memorable in the way many films never were, and still aren’t.
It’s not that all the critics in the business call it a film noir. I’m agnostic on that. I think it might actually be in a class all of its own.
It’s not the nifty armoured car heist plot, with the old drunk master planner Finchley vetting every last detail for whiskey money.
It’s little things.
Like the explicit discussion of grocery prices among armoured car truck drivers. With one of them complaining about the extra cost of telephone shopping his wife does. Nineteen cents for a tin of tomato juice at the market. Forty-odd by phone for two.