.

character C. C. Baxter, you see, is an average low-level employee, but he has ambition, courtesy of his downtown bachelor pad, which he allows his married bosses to use for their clandestine affairs on a nightly basis. So far so Mad Men.

      C.C. isn’t really as calculating and cynical as that state of affairs suggests, though. He’s just a cog in a rather corrupt and unpleasant wheel, trying to get ahead. In fact, his apartment-loaning service has sort of backfired on him, because given the power dynamics of the situation (and his rather weak will), C.C. can’t say no when he’s asked to loan out his home at all hours of the night. But C.C.’s wake-up call, his discovery that what he is doing is really much more seedy than he has realised, comes when he is asked by top boss Mr Sheldrake (a brilliantly slimy performance from Fred MacMurray) to loan out his apartment key exclusively for Sheldrake’s latest extramarital fling.

      C.C. thinks he’s finally going to get the promotion he’s been hoping for and is delighted with himself, until he makes the devastating discovery (in a poignant, bittersweet exchange at an office Christmas party) that Sheldrake’s latest conquest is none other than Fran Kubelik, the elevator girl he adores. But much worse is yet to come. What he doesn’t yet know is that Fran is as sweet and vulnerable as she appears. Fran has believed Sheldrake’s lies about leaving his wife, and when she is finally beaten down by her lover’s neglect and cruel manipulation she takes an overdose of sleeping pills…on Christmas Eve in the apartment of you-know-who.

      C.C. comes back to find her passed out in his bed, and that’s when the comedy takes a dark turn, giving way to a moving and eventually heart-wrenching romance about two people cast adrift in the big city, who must learn not only to love each other, but to love themselves, as well.

      I’ve probably given away far too much of the plot. But actually, it’s hard to describe how subtle and wonderfully nuanced this story is—and how remarkably real, even now. Portraying the sexual politics of New York office life, circa 1960, with an honesty and complexity and conspicuous lack of glamour, the film is both a brilliant snapshot of a bygone era and also a remarkably contemporary love story. Both Lemmon and MacLaine play superbly to type—but even the supporting roles, of Lemmon’s seedy line managers, the brash office totty, C.C.’s harassed next-door neighbours, are expertly realised.

      If you’ve ever wondered what Mad Men might be like with a lot more laughs, then you need look no further than this beautifully observed, surprisingly dark and yet eventually heart-warming movie that continues to get better and better with age.

      The Thomas Crown Affair (1968): How to Beat a Guy at Chess, Every Time

      Directed by Norman Jewison

      Starring:

      Steve McQueen as Thomas Crown

      Faye Dunaway as Vicki Anderson

      Paul Burke as Eddie Malone

      Jack Weston as Erwin

      Biff McGuire as Sandy

      I adore Steve McQueen. He is the King of Cool for a very good reason. The ultimate movie bad boy, he oozes tough, rugged sex appeal in all his movies, even the rubbish ones. But I’ve always thought that The Thomas Crown Affair is his sexiest screen appearance. A romantic-heist-thriller wrapped in stylish sixties chic and packed with enough sexual tension to blow anyone’s socks off—it’s as cool and sexy today as it was in 1968.

      The plot has Steve’s bad-boy billionaire pulling the ‘perfect’ heist, because he’s bored. A dark mix of the smouldering Presents guy and the cool KISS hero, financier Thomas Crown is a man who doesn’t need any more money. But having made his millions, legitimate business no longer challenges him, so he starts seeking his thrills elsewhere. What he hasn’t counted on after his latest heist, though, is getting a few more thrills than he bargained for when Faye Dunaway’s smart, savvy and uber-sexy insurance investigator is sicced on his tail. Because Faye, you see, is the perfect KISS heroine. With a brilliant mind that matches Crown’s, not to mention amazing legs and a razor-sharp women’s intuition, Faye immediately pinpoints Steve as the thief, and thus begins a tantalising game of cat and mouse (where we’re never quite sure who’s the cat and who’s the mouse) as they use all the weapons in their arsenal to come out on top (pun fully intended, folks!).

      McQueen is brilliantly cast in this movie—he’s superslick on the surface, completely gorgeous but with a dangerous edge, which means that while Faye’s getting the goods on him, she’s also in danger of losing the battle for her heart. Not least because he’s losing his heart to her, too.

      But what also makes this movie work so well is that Faye Dunaway is McQueen’s absolute equal—as prepared to use sex to get what she wants as he is. At a time when women’s lib was just starting to come into its own, Dunaway’s ambitious, stylish career woman forced to choose between a hefty pay cheque and the man she has fallen in love with is a feminist icon to be proud of…right up to that bittersweet ending.

      And let’s not forget all the lashings of sixties style: ‘The Windmills of Your Mind’ theme song, Steve’s drainpipe suits, Faye’s Mary Quant–like minidresses, dune buggies, polo matches, the gleeful overuse of gimmicky split-screen photography and the sexiest chess match ever put on film—when Faye decides to put the moves on Steve’s consummate player and wins. I have to admit, I totally ripped off that smokin’ hot chess game in my third book, The Tycoon’s Very Personal Assistant, when I had my hero and heroine play strip poker. What can I say? It inspired me.

      I should give the stylish nineties Pierce Brosnan/Rene Russo remake an honourable mention here, because it’s also very watchable, but for me, the sixties original is the real deal—and wins the cool-and-sexy stakes hands down. And that’s despite the appearance of Mr Brosnan’s exceptionally pert nekkid butt in The TCA version II!