PARIS, TEXAS. What the Eyes Don’t See…

Every once in a while, a film comes along that leaves us with much more than we initially see. Such is “Paris, Texas”. Written by Sam Shepard, directed by Wim Wenders, and featuring remarkable performances by Harry Dean Stanton, Dean Stockwell, and Nastassja Kinski, the film won the Palme d’Or at the Cannes Film Festival. Shepard and Stanton passed away fairly recently, which makes it worth revisiting their finest work, which has fascinated generations of viewers worldwide for over thirty years.

The enigmatic title encapsulates an untraveled journey from Europe to America. Wim Wenders, a German filmmaker, has long been making films in the United States, depicting it through the lens of European sensibility and experiences. But to visit the cinematic “Paris”, you don’t have to leave Texas—there’s a town with the same name northeast of Dallas. The main character, Travis Henderson, owns a piece of land there. His place in the world. However, we first meet him in entirely different circumstances. In a ruined suit and a sports cap, he wanders across the Texas desert. An empty water bottle, shown in close-up, sufficiently expresses the danger looming over him. In just a few shots and four colors, Wenders tells us everything we need to understand the situation. The beige of the rocks, swept by the winds of time, is as faded as the protagonist himself. The blue sky, white clouds, and red cap evoke the colors of the American flag—a motif that reappears now and then, but without any trace of pathos. Travis is lost somewhere on the outskirts of life, in the most American of all the United States. The director spent three months and traveled 1,500 miles along the U.S.-Mexico border to find the right locations for filming. Each place, each setting, is an expression of Wenders’ artistic strategy—symbolizing the changes occurring in the protagonist. The costumes also play a significant dramatic role in the film.

The story is about difficult separations, returns, decisions, and journeys—both real and imagined. The script was written by Sam Shepard, who was already a respected writer and playwright before he started acting, having won the Pulitzer Prize in 1978 for “Buried Child”. “Paris, Texas” relies very little on action and dialogue—here, images, gestures, and moods take center stage—although the beautifully written, moving final monologue by Travis cannot go unmentioned. The characters are constantly on the move—and if they aren’t, they are likely preparing for a journey, stuck in inertia. The first half-hour of the film is spent on the slow but essential return of the protagonist to the normal world. It’s a record of a journey shared by two brothers who haven’t had contact in years. Words are spoken sparsely, facts are given in drips. Eventually, though, Travis manages to shake off his stupor—now a new task awaits him: he must become a parent to his son. This process, too, is slow, but at a certain point, the boy warms up to his eccentric, long-absent father. The heartwarming scenes of Travis learning to be a dad by changing his attire and finding a common language with his son serve as the prelude to the next journey. Father and son, dressed in the same color, set off in search of the most important woman in their lives.

The long-awaited reunion finally happens, and the scenes between Nastassja Kinski and Harry Dean Stanton leading up to the ending are some of the most beautiful and moving I’ve ever seen. The key fact that Travis’s wife, Jane, never sees him—separated by a two-way mirror—is portrayed poetically by Wenders and cinematographer Robby Müller (a master of lighting, who frequently collaborated with Jim Jarmusch, Lars von Trier, and was also responsible for the cinematography in Andrzej Wajda’s “Korczak”). Travis’s face is reflected in the glass, merging with Jane’s. This symbolic reunion after years apart takes on a bittersweet tone. For Travis, the meeting is too painful, pushing him back into solitude—but this time with the understanding that he did what was necessary: he helped his son find his mother. The finale unfolds in a setting bathed in green, which does not promise hope but brings catharsis. Jane and her son wear green clothes, and green light illuminates them in the hotel room—a light that also falls on Travis, standing outside but not present. One could go on endlessly about Müller’s cinematography, appreciating the craftsmanship of the framing, the sparing yet powerful camera movement, the lighting, and the composition. He is one of those cinematographers whose name doesn’t often appear at the top of the “greatest” lists, though it certainly should.

The decision to cast Harry Dean Stanton in the lead role was the right one. By the time of filming, he was already a well-known character actor, with supporting roles in films like “The Godfather II” and “Alien”. “Paris, Texas” is perhaps the most famous leading role of his career, and arguably his best. The childlike sensitivity, a degree of immaturity, and even naivety written on his weathered and worn face perfectly embody the character. Stanton doesn’t so much rely on his exceptional acting skills (though he has them) as he does on allowing emotions to quietly soak into the scene. He doesn’t overact, doesn’t grimace, doesn’t raise his voice—he doesn’t even try to draw attention to himself—and yet he leaves an indelible impression. He is accompanied by the ever-reliable Dean Stockwell, the very natural Hunter Carson, and the striking Nastassja Kinski, who matches Stanton in concealing powerful emotions beneath the surface.

The film’s music was composed by Ry Cooder, who blends ethnic influences with guitar sounds. For the film, he crafted a distinctive soundtrack that perfectly underscores the story’s themes. The lonely wail of the acoustic guitar, with its vibrating, almost crying string, takes center stage—yet beneath it, a whole range of additional emotions simmer, consisting of ambient sounds from the American South. The musical theme is simultaneously sad and uplifting—much like the film itself.

“Paris, Texas” carries more weight than the sum of its parts. It’s a story that requires multiple viewings. Despite the slow pace and the emptiness contained within its frames, there are many fleeting and elusive elements to discover. Shepard and Wenders allow the individual scenes plenty of time to settle in, unconcerned with conventions. Following Travis’s journey—his return and subsequent retreat from civilization—we can savor the views of the Texas landscape, get carried away by the sounds of Cooder’s guitar, and see in Stanton’s eyes a genuine yearning for something that can never be fully grasped. In the end, the film leaves us with more than we initially saw, and it makes you want to return to it. Not too often—just when the time is right.