There's something preternaturally destructive about Lee Marvin, something dangerous. “You’re a very bad man [...] a very destructive man,” spits a threatened Carroll O’Connor, with the sweaty haste of a hypochondriac, in John Boorman’s Point Blank (1967), a split-second after Marvin blasts a telephone into oblivion with his hand cannon. O’Connor could be describing any of Marvin’s roles, from the stoical hitman in Don Siegel’s The Killers (1964) to his gun-for-hire in Richards Brooks’s The Professionals (1966) to his Sergeant leading a gaggle of undisciplined men sentenced to die in Robert Aldrich’s The Dirty Dozen (1967). He exuded an odd kind of menace, a disciplined minatory authority. The six-foot-two actor possessed a weathered, world-weary malaise and uncalculated brutality that suggested internal turmoil, an indignation that manifested in abrupt bursts of violence. For all the pain he inflicted on screen, he seemed to be carrying his own, an ineffable kind, something