Paris, Texas

So begins Wim Wenders' most well-known and successful film, Paris, Texas (1984). The man is called Travis, played by Harry Dean Stanton, and the film tells the story of his search, firstly for himself as he recovers his mind and his memory, and then for his family – his abandoned son, Hunter, now living with his brother (Dean Stockwell), and his estranged wife Jane (Natassja Kinski). Praised by many for its masterly cinematic technique and fine performances, the film has nevertheless also drawn criticism from some commentators for being too slow, and it is certainly not universally acclaimed. Yet despite critical disagreement, the film continues to be as highly regarded today as it was when it received the Grand Jury Prize at Cannes in 1984. Consistent appearances on critics' choice lists and a continued interest from within the industry and amongst the viewing public resulted in the September 2002 release on DVD for the first time.

Since the time of its release, Paris, Texas has typically been classified with the European art house cinema that exemplifies its director's more usual output. As might be expected from the director of Wings of Desire (1987), there are distinctly European themes within the film. It is amongst other things an extremely intelligent essay on love and jealousy of which Kieslowski or Antonioni could be proud. The iconic image of Natassja Kinski in a pink cashmere sweater which haunts the film calls to mind Fellini's portrayals of his female stars in the early 1960s. There are parallels of theme as well: after the collapse of his marriage Travis had taken refuge 'somewhere without language', where the barrier shielded him from human contact much like the dysfunctional protagonists of Ingmar Bergman's The Silence (1963). Indeed, for some viewers the film has a little too much in common with the less popular (or populist) elements of European cinema, having often been derided as pretentious by enthusiasts of American film.

Yet, as the title suggests, the film represents a deliberate attempt to combine the American cinematic tradition with European art house cinema. Wenders was keen to fuse his European sensibilities with the American culture which had fascinated him as a child. As John Boorman did before him with Point Blank (1967) and Deliverance (1972), Wenders used his position as a European outsider to make a more quintessentially American film than Hollywood could have produced itself. Newsweek's comment on the film is revealing: 'It is a story of the United States, a grim portrait of a land where people like Travis and Jane cannot put down roots'. The film was regarded even at its release as a work of American cinema, just as much as it was viewed as the work of a European film-maker. Wenders also benefited from an economical script by Sam Sheppard and L.M. Kit Carson, which in its simplicity has more in common with the American literary tradition than with the discursive and involved dialogue of European cinema. The characters speak little of their feelings or desires, and Wenders clearly revelled in the space and freedom which this script afforded him.

The isolation of the characters is instead reflected vividly in the barren Texan landscape, photographed in broad cinemascope by the director of photography Rob Müller. Müller and Wenders worked hard on the film's visual style, studying the paintings of Edward Hopper and other chroniclers of day-to-day American life to give the film an authentically American feel. This attention to detail enables the tone established in the opening sequences to carry from the Texan desert and into the urban and interior scenes: rich, vivid colours set against faded surroundings creating a warm yet muted tone in keeping with the film's bittersweet themes. Ry Cooder's magnificent score is the epitome of Americana, a history lesson in American music from a master of the genre. Without it, much of the film's impact would be lost, for it takes the story out of the abstract and places it into a tradition, embedding Travis and his fellow protagonists in a tangible reality, and so making them real. On another level, it also enables the film itself to draw on the rich history of American cinema to lend substance to its themes. In the Texan context, Travis's child-like innocence and dogged persistence seems to place him almost alongside the cowboy heroes of the films of John Ford and Sergio Leone: a man with no name, arriving in town on a mission, and returning to the Texan desert once it is complete.

In the years since its release, Paris, Texas has become widely and deservedly regarded as a near perfect union between cinematography, direction and music, with Cooder's soundtrack dominating discussions of the film. Yet the film is more than a triumph of cinematic technique, for this union does not come at the expense of the actors. Harry Dean Stanton gives the performance of his career as shy but determined Travis, and Natassja Kinski almost steals the show with her portrayal of the beautiful, fragile Jane. Hunter Carson is also excellent as Travis's son, and Dean Stockwell provides wonderfully understated support as his brother Walt. Aurore Clement in particular gives the film an added dimension as Travis's sister-in-law, Anne, who has been raising Hunter as her own son since his parents abandoned him, but must now let him return to his 'real' family. She is given no words to express the pain this causes her, yet we see it so clearly in Clement's performance that her loss lends gravity and ambiguity to the remainder of the film.

Paris, Texas succeeds ultimately because Wenders was acutely aware of the need to focus on the human elements of his story, setting them firmly within context but without distracting from the emotional core of the story. In the midst of this wide, sprawling landscape and expansive visual and musical style, Wenders presents to us a finely crafted piece of ensemble acting, in which every cast member contributes as an individual to one overall performance. Through this delicate balancing act, Wenders was able to root his story in a specific time and place without sacrificing its universal human appeal.

On the surface, Paris, Texas deals with loneliness, jealousy, the breakdown of relationships and the emotional fallout which results from them. Yet in fact, the film is about healing. As Travis tells his son Hunter, 'it was me that tore you apart, and I owe it to you to bring you back together'. His jealousy destroyed his family, but the film's narrative focus is on what comes after this: Travis's attempts to put right what he once made wrong. His silent Texan wanderer persona is not bent on revenge or justice, but on making amends. When he buys an empty lot in the tiny town of Paris that he remembered as a child, we are shown an image of modern America: of ordinary people struggling to put down roots in a land that has no history. Paris, Texas is not a famous capital city with centuries of life behind it, but a strip of scrubland in the middle of nowhere, with no past to define it and only a name on a deed of ownership to mark it out from the desert to which it once belonged. Within this barren, hostile landscape, where cowboys once fought for freedom and land, now people fight for a sense of permanence. Families are created, marriages fall apart, people share their lives and their burdens but comfort and security are elusive. The characters of Paris, Texas exist on an emotional frontier that stands today where the Old West used to be. Through them, Wim Wenders has given us one of the most poignant and sophisticated portrayals of fatherhood, family and forgiveness ever committed to celluloid. On either side of the Atlantic.

Reviewed by Andy Gibson