The 15 Best Films Of The 1950s

There's very little that's showy about "A Man Escaped." There's hardly any dialogue; instead, it relies on simple voiceover narration and a basic story structure that follows a chronological sequence of events. So, the fact that it's utterly gripping and packed full of tension speaks to the quality of craftsmanship on display in the film. It details the experiences of a man who has been imprisoned for being part of the French Resistance, and his slow, methodical efforts to escape. 

He can't afford to rush and risk making a mistake, so he has to exercise patience — and so must we. If this film was directed by anyone less talented than Robert Bresson, it might come across as slow or even dull. But as the prisoner inches ever closer to freedom, "A Man Escaped" brims with such an excruciating sense of anticipation as to keep the audience on the edge of their seat the entire time.

The U.S. government might have extolled the sort of white picket fence, all-American values that created disturbingly identical suburban landscapes, but the country's creative forces viewed this emphasis on rigid conformity entirely differently. "Invasion of the Body Snatchers" takes place in a typical American small town, where, one by one, its citizens become ... different. Not in any particular way that would be obvious to outsiders, but their friends and family insist that there's something not right with them, that they've changed somehow. Eventually, we learn that the town is being invaded by an alien force, creating pod people who look exactly like their human counterparts but are devoid of emotion. 

Its heroes strive to inform the rest of the world of the invasion, to give humanity a fighting chance, all while struggling to prevent themselves from meeting the same fate as their friends. "Invasion of the Body Snatchers" is a definitive piece of 1950s science fiction, filled with Cold War-era paranoia and the horror of something malicious lurking beneath the placid facade of everyday American suburbs.

One of Akira Kurosawa's crowning cinematic achievements, "Seven Samurai" is an enduring classic paid homage to in films as diverse as "Star Wars" and "A Bug's Life." In 16th-century Japan, a village learns of a group of bandits plotting to attack their town after they've brought in the harvest. Hoping to stave off these invaders, they hire a ragtag band of samurai to protect them. Kurosawa's sensitive, powerful work on "Seven Samurai" manages to be simultaneously thrilling and deeply moving, as the audience is caught up in the plight of both the besieged villagers and the samurais who fight on their behalf.

Many critics from the United States have compared the film to an American Western, and indeed, its plot would be recognizable to American audiences as the inspiration for the 1960 Western "The Magnificent Seven," starring Yul Brynner, Steve McQueen, and Charles Bronson. "Seven Samurai" was been roundly — and deservedly — praised over the years, with Peter Bradshaw of the Guardian writing, "The glorious vigour and strength of this film is presented with such theatrical relish and flair: its energy flashes out of the screen like a sword."

"Sweet Smell of Success" is one of those movies that has such a seedy undercurrent that you almost feel like you need to take a shower after watching it. Tony Curtis stars as Sidney Falco, a press agent who's willing to do pretty much anything to get in with the major players on the New York City newspaper circuit, especially J.J. Hunsecker (Lancaster), who has the kind of power and influence that proves irresistible to a parasite like Falco. Hunsecker has a problem, though: His beloved little sister is dating someone he considers to be beneath her, and he is extremely open to playing a little bit of dirty pool in order to break them up. 

Curtis and Lancaster are at their best here, oozing sleaze where they are normally nothing but charming. Although "Sweet Smell of Success" wasn't a box office success – audiences were likely put off by seeing two of their most beloved matinee idols playing so thoroughly against type — it won over critics immediately. Colin Kennedy of Empire Magazine said of the film, "With some of the sharpest dialogue ever cut in Hollywood, only on the most superficial level is this a movie about gossip and publicity. We're talking show business. We're talking America. We're talking cast-iron classic."

Who needs explosions and endless special effects? At the end of the day, maybe all you need to craft a great film is 12 people stuck in a room together, forced to make a unanimous decision about something on which they fundamentally disagree. Henry Fonda stars in "12 Angry Men," the story of a group of men serving as jurors during a murder trial. After listening to all the evidence, they take a vote: 11 believe that the teenage boy on trial is guilty of killing his father, while only Fonda's character is willing to entertain the possibility of his innocence. 

At the very least, he thinks the boy deserves the courtesy of their deliberation. So they talk. And talk. And talk. Until all of their assumptions and prejudices are exposed. The film is shot almost entirely in one room, giving it a swelteringly claustrophobic atmosphere, the perfect environment for tempers to flare and tensions to rise.

There's a malicious, insidious undercurrent that permeates "Night of the Hunter," a perpetual sense of dread embodied by Robert Mitchum's stony-faced killer as he hunts down the children who stand between him and a hidden fortune. But there's also a real tragedy in the making of the film. "Night of the Hunter" was the directorial debut of Charles Laughton, a beloved Oscar-winning actor who poured his heart into the production and is responsible for giving it so many of its defining eerie qualities. When the film wasn't a financial success upon release, Laughton took it hard, and never directed another film. 

It was only years later that audiences discovered how amazing "Night of the Hunter" really was, and for Laughton to be acknowledged for his sensitive, haunting sole directorial effort. Sadly, he died in 1962, before this critical reevaluation. Looking back, it's easy to see that Mitchum creates one of cinema's greatest-ever villains and that Shelley Winters shines as the film's tragic victim. Silent film star Lillian Gish makes an unexpected appearance as its hero. Laughton watched her early filmography in preparation for making "Night of the Hunter" and referred to his decision to cast her as an attempt to recapture the spirit of the silent era, saying, "When I first went to the movies, they sat in their seats straight and leaned forward. Now they slump down, with their heads back, and eat candy and popcorn. I want them to sit up straight again." (via "The Bad & the Beautiful: Hollywood in the Fifties")

There's something incredibly sordid and unsettling about "Sunset Boulevard," an ugliness that lurks under the surface, even in the bright California sun. After all, the movie does open with a body floating in a Beverly Hills swimming pool. That would be Joe Gillis (William Holden), a struggling screenwriter who somehow finds himself in the household of Norma Desmond (Gloria Swanson), an aging silent film star who lives in terror of being forgotten. He becomes her kept boy, an unsavory arrangement that miraculously managed to get past the censors.

Director Billy Wilder builds in "Sunset Boulevard" a mausoleum of Hollywood's silent era. It's no coincidence that Erich von Stroheim plays Norma's eternally devoted butler, or that an over-the-hill Buster Keaton turns up for Norma's regular bridge games. Visually stunning, deeply sad, and with a fearless lead performance from Swanson, "Sunset Boulevard" is one of the most fascinating movies ever made. Time elegantly summed up the appeal of the film, writing, "Sunset Boulevard is a story of Hollywood, mostly at its worst, brilliantly told by Hollywood at its best."

There are great musicals. There are great comedies. But there's probably not a single film that manages to blend show-stopping musical numbers with a genuinely hilarious sense of humor like "Singin' in the Rain." Gene Kelly stars as Don Lockwood, a silent-film star whose career is about to be upended by the onset of sound. Torn between his love for the beautiful ingenue Kathy Seldon (Debbie Reynolds) and his obligations to his long-time antagonistic co-star Lina Lamont (the criminally underrated Jean Hagen), Don tries to navigate through a Hollywood on the brink of tremendous change with "dignity ... always dignity." 

Nothing is as it seems in "Singin' in the Rain." The glamorous starlet has a comically shrill speaking voice, the swashbuckling matinee idea is a working-class hoofer and former stunt man, and the girl who pops out of a cake at parties longs to perform classical theater. Between the intelligent storytelling, tremendous musical numbers, and possibly the sexiest dance sequence Gene Kelly and Cyd Charisse ever committed to celluloid, "Singin' in the Rain" is an undeniable masterpiece.