Wings Of Desire [Dir. Wim Wenders]

Those of you who read the above title and assume, as I once did, that you are unfamiliar with the film in question are, most unfortunately for everyone, quite mistaken. You see, Wings Of Desire is a film that most people (and by people, I mean, of course, North Americans) are at least somewhat familiar with. Why is that? Because, as is too often the case with foreign-language masterpieces such as this, Hollywood decided it needed to do an English-language remake. Because, obviously, subtitles are like, totally lame and hard to read. The steaming pile of --- poorly acted, schmaltzy, Goo Goo Dolls-soundtracked, completely-misses-the-point-in-every-conceivable-way --- shit in question?

Why, City Of Angels, of course.

But let’s not get stuck on that. Sure, after watching Wings Of Desire my hatred for the Hollywood whore-factory that allows such bastardizations to be made (and, even worse, to be made with great financial success) is freshly re-ignited. However, none of this is the fault of the film being discussed here, and I fear focusing too much on what-they-got-wrong-in-the-remake will overshadow and obscure all-they-got-right-in-the-original, which, to be quite honest, is just about everything.

Wings Of Desire, released in 1987 and set in Berlin, tells the story of an angel who grows tired of his ageless immorality, spent endlessly observing, but never experiencing, human life, and decides to forsake his painless but (literally) black-and-white world in order to join the ranks of the living, with all its myriad colours, even if that means suffering; even if it means eventually having to die.

Deeply philosophical, meditative, beautifully acted and gorgeously shot, with a terrific soundtrack, Wings Of Desire is the kind of movie that one watches not realizing that their mouth has fallen open in complete and utter awe. A love story, certainly, but one built with such graceful artistry, such appreciation for the minute and all-important details of life and what exactly it is to be human, that it reaches a level of transcedance and evocation that great art so often attempts but so rarely achieves.

A special mention must also go the work of Peter Falk, better known to older generations as Lt. Columbo, who plays himself (and perhaps a bit more) in what is easily the most inspired bit of stunt-casting I have ever had the pleasure of viewing.

I, for one, am now very psyched to see some of Wenders’ other films (Wings being my first foray into both his work and German-cinema in general). Criterion, ever the handy resource, is releasing Paris, Texas early next year, till then I suppose it’s the video store for me.

Enjoy.