“The American Friend” (1977)
Adapted from Patricia Highsmith’s “Ripley’s Game,” “The American Friend” could be seen as Wim Wenders’s attempt at something like a mainstream thriller—and with two masterful suspense sequences revolving around one character’s murder attempts, Wenders shows himself to be no slouch at satisfying the bare minimum of genre expectations. But this is still a Wenders film through and through—not just in its globe-trotting perspective, but in its moody existentialism and psychological opacity. Though the titular “American friend” refers to clingy sociopath Tom Ripley (Dennis Hopper, sporting a big cowboy hat for good measure much of the time), he’s more a mysterious hovering presence; the film instead focuses more on ordinary man Jonathan Zimmermann (Bruno Ganz), who turns to murder after he’s duped by Ripley and a French gangster (Gérard Blain) into believing he has not much longer to live. Does Zimmermann find something perversely pleasurable in his newfound amorality? Perhaps that explains why he and Ripley suddenly seem inseparable, at least for a spell, in the film’s third act. Whatever makes these characters tick, the film’s haunting final moments pulse with the tragedy of characters who have lived life on the edge and are paying for it as a result.
“Paris, Texas” (1984)
With its open-air settings, plaintive Ry Cooder guitar score, and fascination with images—especially the iconography of the American West—”Paris, Texas” certainly feels like vrai Wim Wenders. This 1984 film has an added verbal eloquence thanks to co-screenwriter Sam Shepard, who brings his brand of spare, distinctly American lyricism to much of the dialogue. Ghosts are felt everywhere in this landscape—not just in the broken-down motels and desert landscapes that these characters traverse, but in the craggy face of central figure Travis (Harry Dean Stanton), haunted by regret and desire for reconnection, expressed as much through gestures and action as through words. In its second half, “Paris, Texas” ultimately becomes a tale of redemption, as Travis searches for his former wife, Jane (Nastassja Kinski), to reunite her with her son, Hunter (Hunter Carson). His final scene with Jane remains one of the most breathtaking and unbearably poignant reconciliation scenes in all of cinema.
“Wings of Desire” (1987)
Faith-based allegory. Celestial fable. Expressionist doodle. A tale of earthbound angels and of Berlin before the wall fell. Describing “Wings of Desire” has never been easy and distilling its narrative essence, even less so. But as opaque and mystifying as “Wings” occasionally is, it’s also one of the most staggeringly beautiful films ever made: lyrical, melancholy, severe and laced with penetrating ruminative power. Ostensibly, it’s the story of two angels who watch the mass of Berlin’s human populace from the gilded rooftops of the city’s famed Cathedrals, listening in on their private thoughts, musings and confessions. And yet such a literal-minded description of the plot does no justice to the luminous majesty of Wenders’s vision. The film was shot by legendary cinematographer Henri Alekan, who also lensed Jean Cocteau’s timeless “Beauty and the Beast,” and the French D.P. brings some of that same lustrous, uncanny magic to the table here too. “Wings,” when examined more closely, is a spellbinding examination of loneliness: from God, from other people, and finally, from the world as a whole. There are some neat cameos along the way for cinephiles and culture mavens, including a memorable appearance by musician Nick Cave and his group the Bad Seeds, as well as a charming turn from Cassavetes-regular Peter Falk, who plays HIMSELF playing an angel (we always knew that Columbo was special). It’s a film you don’t so much watch as breathe in, letting its strange sensations wash over you and course through your body. One could go so far as to call it a religious experience.
