Paris, Texas - 1984
Updated: Nov 16, 2022
This review may contain spoilers.
Paris, Texas is a film that tormented and ate at me. It is, at times, a conundrum - a picture which runs quite long, often says preciously little, contains images that are beyond majestic in their utter mundanity, and reaches an endpoint that is quietly devastating and...(could it be) hopeful?
Even as the film rolled along, I was left with several impressions. The first is simply how gorgeous the whole thing looks. This is cinematography of Middle America plain and simple. On the one hand, there is the desolate scenery of run-down Southern towns. On the other, wide open landscapes of fields, prairies, and just plain old dirt. It’s a place where a man could get lost. An expanse prodigious enough for one to lose himself forever or discover the healing power he might need to be found.
Next, this film hides a mystery inside its broken heart. And it is that hidden tale of destruction and regret which prods the story forward, gently, at a plodding pace, but always intently. It was my brilliant friend (Scott Sipling - follow him!) who first noticed a kind of triptych in the plot of Paris. The first section details the reconnection of two brothers, the second an estranged father and his precocious son finding common ground, and the third a quest for a mother also lost somewhere in those Middle American spaces. Each episode is richly textured, full of its own kernels of revelation while never losing its naturalistic, slice-of-life flavor.
I was never bowled over by the acting in this film, and I think that is precisely the point. Dean Stockwell is a solid and steady presence for the first hour. Hunter Carson is that thing we all love so much in movies, namely a child who is smarter, wittier, and simply more honest and self-aware than any of the adults in the room. Of course, the two scenes with Nastassja Kinski are among the best of the entire decade. She honestly has to rely so much on facial acting and voice inflection because, again, the words on the page are scant and rather pedestrian. She absolutely nails it. As does her scene partner, the always enigmatic, yet ever docile and phlegmatic Travis, played just beautifully by Harry Dean Stanton.
But I’ll admit, I struggled with a few things about Paris, Texas. Issues I hashed out with the aforementioned friend above. For starters, I wondered if there was a PERFECT film in here that is about 20 minutes shorter and contains, oh let’s say, considerably less of Aurore Clement. I think there really may be, though I see the value in mirroring the pace of the picture to the magnitude of the weight of Travis’ own demons. Furthermore, in pictures like this, due to my own neuroses, I just can’t help but be concerned about the youths caught in the crosshairs. So, I struggled some with where the plot left us, with a child reunited with a woman who skipped town and has been scraping pennies at a peep show for months, while a tightknit and considerate family unit were left back in LA waiting in the wings.
Yet such was the depth of the devastation wrought by the man Travis used to be. In truth, we are never told what will come after the credits roll. We do not know whether the boy’s mother will find her way, or if his former caretakers will remain a part of his life. That kind of bold ambiguity is so uncommon and gripping in quality art. Of course, Wenders drives this home with one of the more incredible conversations through a mirror that I’ve ever witnessed. Two faces, at one moment, juxtaposed together in a shot for the ages. More importantly, two souls who once found connection and then were torn asunder. This is the arena for Wenders grand revelation that was so long in coming. It, like so much that went before, plays out like a tragic whisper. But, in the wake of secrets unearthed and sacrifices made, amidst all of the loss and sorrow, for the first time we feel something akin to hope for the destinations of these weary souls.
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