Paris, Texas ★★★★★

99

There was a point in my life where I became a Travis. Not too long ago, I was a recluse, wandering around my town without any good purpose except to forget the memories that drove me to this state. I distanced myself from my friends, people I had once trusted and loved and instead, befriended the shadows of the night and the shard remains of my heart, decimated by a final devastating blow that couldn't have been undamaged; that was the blow I needed to become distanced from reality. I stopped talking to my family, only resorting to gentle nods or quiet shakes of my head to communicate some sort of response to their question or comment. I had become a mute -which makes me wonder if I maybe I had forgotten to talk or I had lost my voice- and basically found myself withering away, fully intending to die.

In Paris, Texas (one of the finest explorations of the psych of humanity I have ever seen, as well as being one of the finest cinematic achievements I have ever seen), Wim Wenders captures Sam Shepard's script of engrossing trauma and an unforgiving past with such poetic and realistic stamina that it's almost hard to believe that this was marketed as "fiction;" this is about as real as Cinema gets, as tarnished and isolated as each character exhibits, none is more matched and more realistic than Harry Dean Stanton, whose broken stature and wandering existence crumble the foundation of acting. You've never seen eyes until you've seen Harry Dean's eyes.

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