Paul Newman, all Texan swagger and mesmerising Marlboro sneers, completely redefines the concept of 'iconic' as the eponymous heavy-drinking, skirt-chasing, joy-riding cattleman and self-declared "cold-blooded bastard" in Martin Ritt's 1962 classic. Able support comes from sultry Patricia Neal, suitably green Brandon DeWilde (Shane) and James Wong Howe's perfect black-and-white cinematography.

An object lesson in filming a gig, this, as Patrick Daughters (director of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs' stunning "Maps" promo) captures The Rapture's nervous energies in long, unfussy, elegant shots. Recorded last Christmas, the quartet still resemble—happily—enthusiastic grad students who've stumbled on the ideal disco/punk hybrid. But Daughters exploits this, making them—especially soulful-eyed frontman Luke Jenner—look at once gawky and iconic.

Luchino Visconti's kitsch allegorical melodrama is set in Germany in 1933 and describes the corruption of the wealthy Von Essenbeck family in the face of the Nazi menace. And so, within a few short scenes, they go from fireside home recitals to transvestitism, rape, murder, same-sex orgies, massacres and motherfucking (literally). Made in 1969, it's clearly very political. But that's no excuse.

A single indiscretion with a besotted servant (a young Toshirô Mifune) starts an inexorable downward spiral for young noblewoman O-Haru. Disgraced, she and her parents are sent into exile, but it soon becomes clear that a woman with a tarnished reputation has very little chance of making good in 17th-century feudal Japan. With ravishing black-and-white cinematography and an austere formality in the direction, Kenji Mizoguchi's 1952 masterpiece is a beautifully crafted example of a past era in Japanese film-making.

A superb lyrical antidote to the countless guns-and-gangs depictions of life in the black communities of LA, Charles Burnett directs Danny Glover as Harry Mention, a man who stirs up past tensions when he comes to visit old family friends. With an excellent blues, gospel and jazz soundtrack to boot.

Two full German performances from 1976 and 1977, with the master craftsman showing how it's done on acoustic, slide and electric guitars. Caught in his prime, we see him play early favourites—"Pistol Slapper Blues" "Banker's Blues" and "Messin' With The Kid"—alongside later fare usually found on his compilations. And the rock'n'roll jam with a woozy Frankie Miller is deliciously informal.

Jack Lemmon is the boozy PR man. Lee Remick is the teetotal secretary. He buys her a brandy. They're hooked! They lose their jobs, have an unwanted baby and get stuck into the hard stuff. He reforms. She doesn't. "You and I were a couple of drunks on the sea of booze, and the boat sank!" Hysterical yet Oscar-worthy stuff from Blake Edwards.

Adapted from a Robert Ludlum potboiler, Sam Peckinpah's demented final movie from 1983 ostensibly centres on TV reporter Rutger Hauer, who, coerced by sinister CIA men Burt Lancaster and John Hurt into selling out old pals, allows them to rig his home with cameras to monitor their weekend reunion. It's soon clear Peckinpah has far more interest in Hurt, brilliant as the betrayed rogue agent whose maniacal plotting drives the film over the edge. A bizarre pile-up of double-triple-crossing, it's almost impossible to follow; but then, confusion and panic are what the film is about.

Susan Hayward won the Oscar for committed scene-trashing in this 1958 movie, which—based on the real-life execution of Barbara Graham, a "goodtime girl" (possibly) framed for murder and sent to the gas chamber in 1955—was very much the Monster of its day. Robert Wise directs as if it were a jazz documentary, taking cues from the great score by Johnny Mandel, itself cooled to within an inch of its life by the Gerry Mulligan Quartet.

The 1932 and 1941 adaptations of Stevenson's landmark work of horror fiction on one disc. The earlier movie finds director Rouben Mamoulian going heavy on the claustrophobic atmosphere and sexual undercurrents with Frederic Marsh on Oscar-winning form as the doctor and his bestial alter ego. The later version teams Spencer Tracy (transformed via a bad wig and bushy eyebrows) with Ingrid Bergman (putting on an appalling cockney accent). Enough said.