Paris, Texas (1984)

Wim Wenders’ haunting, mysterious film opens on a grizzled man (Harry Dean Stanton) in a suit and faded cap stumbling alone in the desert. He cannot seem to speak and does not know what has brought him here. We watch as he wanders through the landscape of early 80s southwestern America – a stagnant landscape filled, curiously, with constantly moving people in perpetual states of pursuit and escape. There is a motif of transport – of cars and planes and trains – as well as of transitory way stations like motels and roadside diners. At times he appears a profound or mystic character, yet he is painfully human. It brings to mind a JG Ballard quote: “Deserts possess a particular magic, since they have exhausted their own futures, and are thus free of time. Anything erected there, a city, a pyramid, a motel, stands outside time. It’s no coincidence that religious leaders emerge from the desert. Modern shopping malls have much the same function. A future Rimbaud, Van Gogh or Adolf Hitler will emerge from their timeless wastes.” The cinematography, shot through in neon greens and reds, is stunning, and Wender’s visual approach is as evocative and deliberate as the film itself. A classic with both scope and intimacy, as well as a wry comic touch and several unforgettable scenes.