A middle-aged man in a weatherworn suit and red ball cap walks dazedly through the south Texas desert. We don't know where he's coming from, where he's headed, or why he's wandering beneath the punishing sun in what was once his Sunday best, and it makes for a fascinating opening sequence that ends with the man passing out on the floor of a sweltering, filthy establishment that he happens upon. A German doctor arrives to examine the man, who doesn't speak, and finds a card with a phone number on it. The number belongs to Walt, the brother of the wandering man, and Walt makes the trek from Los Angeles to this tiny border town to retrieve his sibling, who we come to learn has been missing for four years.
During their journey back to Walt's home in Los Angeles, we pick up tidbits about the man and his life prior to taking to the desert. His name is Travis, and he had a girlfriend, Jane, and son, Hunter. There was a falling out between Travis and Jane, and Hunter was sent to live with Walt and his wife after Travis disappeared. Despite Walt's increasingly exasperated efforts to coax details of what happened out of Travis gaining no traction, he does succeed in getting his brother to start speaking again.
Once they arrive in Los Angeles, Travis lets it be known that he wants to develop a relationship with his son. Walt is understanding -- his wife, less so -- but the couple is honest with their son about who Travis is, and they allow the two of them to start forging a bond. Hunter is receptive and curious about Travis and the mother he doesn't remember, and part of what makes Paris, Texas the intimate and grounded experience it is is the unaffected performances from the cast, most notably Hunter Carson as Hunter and Harry Dean Stanton as Travis.
Also lending the movie its verisimilitude is the use of the Texas locales that capture the state's at-odds combination of vastness and small town isolation and claustrophobia. It calls to mind the Outback, with tiny pockets of languid civilization being strangled by the omnipresent sun and fruitless terrain to which they cling. Ry Cooder's spare and twangy score feels born of the land, and the screenplay by recently deceased actor and writer Sam Shepard is a masterclass in writing with an ear for not just what people say, but how they say it.
This brings me to the film's hallmark scene between Jane and Travis, which culminates in an uninterrupted monologue by Travis that is among the most beautifully written in the history of cinema. Travis has tracked down Jane in Houston and finds her working at a sleazy peep show venue, where the men on one side of a booth can see the woman on the other side while they remain unseen. It is here that Travis, invisible to Jane, tells her the story of two people he used to know who were very much in love, but whose relationship deteriorated due to the man's jealousy, insecurity, and self-loathing. He starts off speaking in generalities before dropping in pointed details about the tumult that arose between the couple, and it's wrenching to watch Jane's playful interest slowly dissolve as she comes to the realization that the story is her's and Travis's own. Though not as lengthy, her response to Travis is equally affecting in its honesty and depth of feeling. It's a small detail, but note how each character chooses to turn their back to the other when sharing their side of the story, unable to bear the pain of sharing such truths, afraid of the love they still share but which once gave way to destructive bouts of resentment. This scene could be cut into a short film, and it would stand on its own as a masterpiece.
Director Wim Wenders, a native of Germany who has oft explored themes of loneliness and isolation in his acclaimed career, found in Shepard's script the opportunity to probe both. It's easy to feel trapped when it feels like your surroundings are closing in on you. For some folks, it might help to walk out into the desert night and find that there are no barriers keeping them from going further.
