A man is walking in the middle of the South Texas desert, the hottest part of the vast state. We have no idea how he got there, but he did. He is a quiet man, wearing a rugged, red baseball cap, a full beard, ripped shoes and a dusty suit. He has the face of Harry Dean Stanton, a regular in cult classics and an actor with a landscape for face. That is how Wim Wenders' classic 1984 film Paris, Texas begins.
Spoiler alert – this is a tough film to talk about without spoiling, so if you haven't seen it, stop reading and go see it.
The man Wenders' beautiful opening shots, filmed by Robby Müller, introduce us to is Travis. When he winds up in a middle-of-nowhere clinic, the doctor calls his brother, Walt (Dean Stockwell), who hasn't heard from him in four years. Walt goes to pick him up and the two begin a trek across the western half of the country to Walt's Los Angeles home, where we meet Walt's wife Anne (Aurore Clement) and Travis' seven-year-old son Hunter (Hunter Carson). Anne and Walt had taken Hunter in as their own son and Travis decides to rebuild his relationship with Hunter.
While it may seem that the film is headed in the direction of father-son bonding, Sam Shepard's story goes in another direction. We keep hearing about this woman named Jane (Nastassja Kinski), Hunter's mother and the woman that Travis was madly in love with. After Anne reveals that she has secretly heard from Jane and that she has been depositing money into a bank account for Hunter once a month in Houston, Travis decides to head back to Texas to find her and takes Hunter along.
This is really an actor's film. Sure, Wenders' view of the American Southwest may take center stage, but his camera is far more interested in capturing the emotions of Harry Dean Stanton and Nastassja Kinski, than looking at the desert. Yes, the documentarian in Wenders comes out quite frequently, as he and Müller present us beautiful, unique views of the landscape and architecture that I'm sure an American director would miss. But Wenders knows that Shepard has provided him an intensely human drama about the broken relationship between a man and a woman. Any time spent focusing on anything else might seem like an insult to the Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright.
There are two really special sequences for me in Paris, Texas. The first comes roughly mid-way through the film, when Anne and Walt decide that the best way to remind Travis of his life before he left is to show Super 8 footage of a family trip. Seeing Stanton react to these images of a life he seems to have forgotten is touching. The entire film hinges on Stanton's reactions to things and how he reacts to the home movies is simply a thing of beauty.
The second is the last half hour. Travis' monologue at the end, when he is the one reminding Jane about their life together, is a real tour de force, particularly for Kinski. She has few scenes in the film, so Wenders seems to make up for that at the end, allowing her to show off this amazing strength to act in front of a mirror. She can't see Stanton – even after she turns off the lights to see him, she still turns away. Kinski sits with her back at the wall... “Every man has your voice,” she says as a quiet tear rolls down her face. And you can feel the weight of the tear.
Wenders is a masterful director, showing lovely, singular images that do stick out, highlighting the rundown desert buildings and the beautiful Southwest vistas. It is an interesting compromise between him and Sheperd. There are so many films out there where you can say “At least it was lovely to look at, but the story was bad” or “It looked disgusting, but what a great story.” Paris, Texas brings both of those together thanks to top talent on the script and behind the camera. Throw in Ry Cooder's magnificent guitar score and the poignant performances by the actors and you have a perfect film. It is a true case of film as a collaborative medium.
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