Paris, Texas

Paris, Texas ★★★★½

My dad is always lending me movies. The first one he gave me was The Shining, then Apocalypse Now, and many others that I now hold dear enough to have just kept them instead of giving them back. I always wait ages to watch the ones he brings over. Bags full of stories, usually sad ones, that arrive with him once every couple of months. I keep them on my shelf then forget about them until I decide to give one a try without any knowledge of what I'm going into. Today Paris, Texas was just that. My dad tells me times over that they're good. I hate that he's always right.

Very unexpectedly so, Paris, Texas is compassionate, frustrating, and tells its story in a way that's hard to shake.
The transference between who you as a viewer are "with" (I don't know how else to describe the loyalty or feeling of embodiment to whichever character you're connected to at that moment) from Travis to Jane is one so effortlessly done and it encompasses how well shot the film is. Through the glass and into her room we go, all the while suddenly seeing her in a different light and being hit with an emotional sideswipe. She was a mystery before hand, one without a face or voice to grasp on to other than what was fleetingly shown in home movies - the grainy kind that remind you of the times you thought you'd forgotten: flashes of colour, hair flowing in the wind, and family.

Without time to adapt, she's there now. Tangible and deserving of the sympathy I couldn't grant her at first. In that room, you're not just listening to the story, you're feeling it, regretting it, crying over it.

Paris, Texas is the kind of film that clings to you like emotional baggage - a sort of weight that you grow to love and couldn't possibly let go of.

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