I get to the point that I forget what seeing a real movie in a real theater with real movie lovers is like. But tonight I sat with other reverently quiet humans at the Museum of the Moving Image as a true-blue projectionist sanctified us with Wim Wenders’ Paris, Texas on a big-kid screen. And lo! it was good.
Shoulder to shoulder we worshipped. For this was a real movie, thank you lord. O Brother Stanton driving into the dark past as your hopes fade in the rearview mirror and your two true loves claim each other in an ugly chrome future in the sky. O Sister Kinksi, staying out of our sight until we are blind to everything else. O faded blondes and busted bombshells and disappearing manchildren and cardboard movie stars floating above our highways. Say amen, somebody. O hamburger wrappers flapping in a sorry wind while an even sorrier Ry Cooder plays upon our fears. O lonesome hotel rooms and empty eyes and deep indigos and shattered desert light and–testify!–o rusting American cars gliding into that good night. Blessed be. O baby steps and shuffling steps and Chaplin steps and Long, Tall Sally steps. Hallelujah! O unsung swan songs and heartbroken grins and big, big neon skies. I have seen the light!
