I’d Love To Turn You On At The Movies #152 – Wings Of Desire (1987, dir. Wim Wenders)

Damiel: When the child was a child, it was the time of these questions. Why am I me, and why not you? Why am I here, and why not there? When did time begin, and where does space end? Isn't life under the sun just a dream? Isn't what I see, hear, and smell just the mirage of a world before the world? Does evil actually exist, and are there people who are really evil? How can it be that I, who am I, wasn't before I was, and that sometime I, the one I am, no longer will be the one I am?

Wings of Desire is Wim Wenders’ gorgeous, philosophical, poetic love note to humanity. When I first stumbled upon this film I was in a very strange place in my life, trying to find my footing and direction, and working toward a somewhat unknown goal of the future. The tone, tenor and the inquisitive yet hopeful nature of this film resonated with me on an unforeseen level. The beauty of human kind is that we all have a story, and that the journey, filled with good, bad, and everything in between, is what makes life worth living. The preceding lofty statement is what Wenders successfully attempts to encapsulate in this beautiful and timeless piece.

The narrative follows Damiel, an angel constantly in love with humanity and engaging in the intense mental battle of whether to fall and become a human to create his own narrative. Damiel is accompanied on his journey through Berlin (during the tumultuous time before the fall of the wall) by another angel named Cassiel. Both of the angels are tasked with observing and cataloging the day-to-day lives of humankind as they walk unseen among them, listening to each person’s every thought. They spend time discussing the simplest, seemingly mundane activities with an infectious adoration. The film follows the angels as they observe a number of interesting characters. There is Homer, “The Aged Poet,” who wanders pondering the great mysteries of life and what lies ahead for him as he nears the end of his life; Peter Falk (playing himself) is an actor shooting a film set in WWII Nazi Germany and questioning the nature of art and his place in the world; and finally there is Marion, the beautiful trapeze artist who steals Damiel’s heart through her poetic ruminations on life and love.

The film, which was shot by Henri Alekan, strikingly moves in between stunning black and white representing the world of the angels and luscious color representing the world of mankind. This creates an amazing dynamic that mirrors the idea that Damiel, Cassiel, and the rest of the angels are merely there to observe and cannot affect the work around them, or fully experience or appreciate human life/existence. This visual cue/metaphor is incredibly effective in creating that divide, which is key to the motivations of Damiel.

With a film that is so philosophical, where the majority of the dialog is in thought, the actors are truly put to the test. Being able to convey certain emotions without actually speaking any line (except that of the mental voiceover) can be difficult to do without falling into the trap of overacting. This is yet another facet where this film shines. Bruno Ganz, as Damiel, and Otto Sander, as Cassiel, are perfect in the roles as the pensive but lovingly optimistic angels. Curt Bois brilliantly plays the aged poet with reserve and subtlety; Peter Falk brings some well-placed levity to the story; and Solveig Dommartin is perfectly seductive as the melancholic yet hopeful goth-rocking trapeze artist. There is true depth to the acting talent in this film.

To recap, this is quite possibly one of the most poignant and poetic cinematic love letters to human kind. It’s beautifully shot and acted, the narrative is brilliant but pensive, and if you need any more of a push to check out this film there is an awesome cameo from Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. It’s hard for me to fully express how much this film means to me, but I would just honestly love to turn you on to this movie, so please check it out!

-         Edward Hill

I'd Love To Turn You At The Movies #18 - Paris, Texas (1984, dir. Wim Wenders)

I’ve watched Paris, Texas many, many times since I first saw it in the late 1980s, but it wasn’t until very recently that I realized it has a second plot, a completely abstract one, starring the color red.

I was delighted to discover this, but not surprised to have made such a finding after so many viewings. Paris, Texas is a film full of secrets and revelations. It begins with a man emerging from the desert near the border between Texas and Mexico, dressed in a suit and covered with dust. Little by little, we learn things about him: his name is Travis; he has a brother who lives in Los Angeles; he’s been missing for four years. But each new clue raises more questions. When we find out that Travis has a son, and that his brother and sister-in-law have been caring for the boy, we wonder where the mother is and what happened between her and Travis that would make the two disappear so quickly and completely.

Everything about the film is top-notch. The script is by Sam Shepard, and it’s one of his best, with characters who ache with longing to be alone and to be loved, and a storyline that runs through the seamy underside of the American dream. The acting is amazing, especially the performances by Nastassja Kinski and Harry Dean Stanton, who plays Travis. There’s a scene near the end with the two of them that’s on my shortlist for the best in cinema, an emotion-filled ten minutes in which two people’s lives come together, reconcile, completely change and drift apart right before our eyes. The soundtrack by Ry Cooder, nearly all of it played on a haunting slide-guitar, is a masterpiece in its own right, a must for any guitar lover’s collection. And, of course, the cinematography, which is completely out of this world; nearly every frame is like a museum-quality photograph of the American Southwest.

That’s how I discovered the abstract plot-within-a-plot about the color red, by really studying the shots. Beginning with the first image of Travis, in which he wears a bright red baseball cap, almost every shot in Paris, Texas contains an element of this very same hue of red. Sometimes it’s just a tiny dot, such as the ember of a cigarette. Other times it fills the sky at sunset. But it’s clearly a distinct element that the director, Wim Wenders, deliberately positioned in the composition of each shot. And there’s continuity from shot to shot: if the bit of red in one shot is small and contained in the lower right corner, it will be in a similar place and of a similar size in the next, where it will move and grow or shrink and draw us visually to the next shot where it will appear again. Wenders even plays openly with color storyline late in the film when two of the characters try to follow a pair of red cars on a busy maze of freeway.

Now that I’ve discovered this aspect of the film, I can’t watch it without thinking of the red as another character in the film and wondering how it fits in with the plot. It’s become a metaphor of sorts in my mind, signifying love, maybe, or passion or the idea of family. And as I continue to watch, I start to wonder about the blues and the yellows, too. What might they be saying about these characters?

It’s been almost 25 years, and Paris, Texas is still raising questions, inviting me back to discover more. 

- Joe Miller