Paris, Texas (dir. by Wim Wenders)



Adapted from a review by Roger Ebert

A man walks alone in the desert. He has no memory, no past, no future. He finds an isolated settlement. Eventually the man’s brother comes to take him back home again.

We never do find out what personal cataclysm led to his walk in the desert, but as his memory begins to return, we learn how much he has lost. He was married, once, and had a little boy.

The boy has been raised in the last several years by the man’s brother and sister-in-law. The man’s young wife seems to have disappeared entirely in the years of his exile.

The man has a mad dream of finding his wife and putting the pieces of his past back together again. He goes looking.

This isn’t a movie about missing persons, but about missing feelings.

It’s not the standard attack on American alienation. It’s fascinated by America, by its music, by the size of its cities, and a land so big that a man might easily get misplaced.

It links unforgettable images to a spare, perfectly heard American idiom.

It’s a defiantly individual film, about loss and loneliness and eccentricity.

It is true, deep, and brilliant.





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