Can you truly love a film and not understand one lick of it? I like to think so. Appreciation for films can often be found in the way they manipulate your mood, create a sense of elevation, and transport your mind into a realm far removed from the everyday. Oh, Wings of Desire, how you intrigue me.
Don't get me wrong, a good sixty percent of your dialogue sounded like the ramblings of a traumatized philosophy professor. Not to mention all the wrapped in layers of reiteration, subtext, and reflection on an eternal scale. You certainly don't make it easy, but you indisputably make it enchanting. So enchanting in fact that once the credits began to roll I felt a sudden jolt, thrusting me back into reality. What a harsh thing for you to go and do.
There's a definitive style to Wings of Desire. You can feel it in every scene, in every moment of dialogue. A fluidity to the language that rolls with the tongue. A strolling, indifference that trudges along with the camera. Then - a snap - all that color suddenly thrust right out at the viewer amidst an onslaught of black and white. Humans - color, Angels - black and white. It's an interesting superimposition that serves somewhere in the heart of Wender's tale.
A collage of esoteric beliefs colliding with introspective desires. At times trapped in moody contextualization, Wender blends new age lifestyle with a sort of frail longing to simultaneously escape and embrace a German past so distraught with conflict.
As entrancing an experience as I've had in some time, Wings of Desire lives up to the high acclaim it has garnered over the years. Not the kind of film built for those who seek mindless entertainment, Wender's tale of two perennial angels juxtaposed against the backwash of life is a wondrous affair.
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