Paris, Texas ★★★★½

PARIS, TEXAS (1984). Look at that title. Listen to that title. Paris. Texas. Combined, there's just something special about those two words when said out loud. The way they evoke certain feelings and connotations. The way they seem oddly mismatched, but perfectly composited. I think it might be my favourite title of all time.

Paris, Texas.

Wim Wender's PARIS, TEXAS is a very special film to me. It's a film I have been cycling around for years with a feeling of awe, almost fearful to finally watch it. Without ever having seeing the film or even know much about its content it just felt special. Fist and foremost because of that title. And then that cover image of Natassja Kinski wearing her pink sweater. There's something mystical and titillating about the way she stares at one. That mixed feeling of joy and melancholy she excels through a face of broken beauty.

Paris, Texas.

Now, I finally got to watch the dazzling picture and what a wonderful, mysterious journey I've been on. In the presence of Harry Dean Stanton's Travis, a man both physically and mentally lost, I've wandered through a non-place that captures a world of outcasts, sorrow and broken homes. But at the end of that journey through the wilderness I ultimately discovered lost love, hope and redemption.

Paris, Texas.

The last twenty minutes of PARIS, TEXAS are pure cinema. A final confession of regrets, failures and painful mistakes in order to make way for necessary atonement. The way the small rooms are filmed. The way the editing cuts between Travis and Jane, making two separate units into one combined.

Paris, Texas.

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