"Been through the Desert..."
Sometime in the past, in a class or in a text book or on the internet, I had heard of this film. At some point whose memory is dark and cloudy it had ended up in my watch que and finally ended its journey at my home, on my television. Such was the fate of Paris, Texas, and I couldn't be more satisfied that it did. The performances, the colors, the mood, the emotions, the
direction.
A German sensibility of design and efficiency, a European point of
view on the American family and society, a completely human tale bereft
of action or excitement so riveting and captivating I could hardly take
it, a movie that lives and breathes forever. A literal work of art, the
dusky hushed landscapes of the plains settled by our fore bearers, where
we were conceived and where we now live. That is Paris, Texas. I only
wish I had seen it in a small theater with the projector whirring
softly below the sharp acoustic guitar soundtrack as this film in its
dust colored boots meandered slowly by off to parts unknown on roads
well worn.
I have rarely seen, and perhaps will never see, it's like again.
I have rarely seen, and perhaps will never see, it's like again.
10 good ole Chevys out of 10 (OUTSTANDING)
