Winner of the 1984 Cannes Palme D’Or for Best Film, Paris, Texas has more than a little cult clout.

It’s been credited as the muse behind U2′s Joshua Tree and one of Kurt Cobain’s and Elliot Smith’s favorite films of all time. Scottish band Travis took their name from its sad-sack hero, and along with Lyle Lovett has referenced the picture in songs. The movie’s opening credits roll to the tune of eerie chimes, wailing wind, and legend Ry Cooder’s doleful slide guitar. Add to that the arresting tableau of Travis (Harry Dean Stanton), in sand-dusted, pin-striped suit and red baseball cap, trekking through a barren canyon — it’s definitely the stuff of artistic inspiration, evocative of Jarmusch’s Dead Man.

Mostly mute, in a film where silence often speaks louder than words, Travis stumbles from the Texas no man’s land he’s been wandering like a biblical outcast into a gas station and collapses. Unable to get a word out of Travis, a boozy doctor in a nearby clinic telephones an L.A. number he finds in his wallet. His brother Walt (former Cylon Dean Stockwell) answers. He hasn’t seen Travis in four years, since around the time both Travis and wife, Jane (Natassja Kinski), vanished and their three-year-old son, Hunter, arrived on Walt’s doorstep. Walt drives to Texas to retrieve his lost sibling and the duo embark on an existential road trip through a wasteland of canyons, motels, and neon. When Travis finally speaks, he simply says “Paris” and the fragments of thoughts he offers his puzzled brother thereafter exhibit a childlike amnesia. When they reach L.A. the enigma of his disappearance slowly unravels as Travis attempts to reconnect with his son and, eventually, find Jane.

Arguably the apex of Harry Dean Stanton’s acting career to date, Paris, Texas echoes with understated yet powerful performances, especially from Kinski, Stockwell, and Stanton. In director Wim Wenders‘ muted atmosphere of pregnant pauses and moody quiet, the tiniest gestures and the simplest utterances vibrate with significance, as when the happily humming Travis prepares to shower, then catches his reflection in the mirror, swiftly walks out of the motel room, back into the desert wilderness — the water left running — and keeps walking. Another compelling character and the seeming soul of the film, Paris, Texas‘ haunting American West scenery reflects the turmoil and despair of its human components. The sorrow that inhabits a lonely blue sky or a burning sunrise smothered by ominous clouds on a highway traversing 20th-century ghost towns is as enchanting as it is mournful and apocalyptic. Watching Travis follow still railroad tracks towards a picturesque horizon beckoning with melancholy mystery and panoramic promise, it’s easy to imagine being lured by its siren call to ramble on forever. This visual poetry is, however, not without a verbal counterpart.

Pulitzer Prize-winning bard and playwright Sam Shepard‘s memoir Motel Chronicles was the seed for Paris, Texas. As its screenwriter, Shepard infuses the dialogue with sublime intensity and tragic sensibility that culminates in Travis’ peep show monologue. Time stops while Travis recounts their ruinous passion with a poetry that hums with the hypnotic beauty of a dream. Shepard’s writing represents one of the film’s core strengths and weaknesses — the weakness owed to the wane in momentum that occurs during a gap when Sam was unavailable and Kit Carson filled in (between L.A. and the peep show). Not entirely unusual, considering Wenders began shooting with the script half-finished and cultivated it from there. Still, Paris, Texas persists as an alluring emotional odyssey with mythical resonance. It’s deserving of cult status, and well worth watching again and again.

SUPPLEMENTS: Along with the director’s commentary cut, highlights include:

Interviews: Wenders, Claire Denis (first assistant director), and Allison Anders supply the sort of insight fans of this multi-layered cinema crave. In a 2001 interview Wenders shares the story behind Shepard’s contribution, the impact WW’s theater experiences had on Paris, Texas, and a thematic analysis of the film. In ’09 Denis discusses the discovery of Devil’s Graveyard, the production’s opening location, and dire straits that plagued the project — including a teamster kidnapping. Anders reads from her on-set journal and chronicles her relationship with Wenders from letter-writing fan to Paris, Texas PA. Her fascinating firsthand accounts include how her own catatonic ordeal helped Stanton channel Travis. Lastly, A French Cinema special sheds light on music as Wenders’ muse both in Paris, Texas and previous films.

Deleted scenes (with optional commentary): Several deleted scenes are included, ranging from the clearly nonessential (flubbed dialogue from the clinic doctor) to regrettable omissions (Wender’s favorite, John Lurie playing harmonica to Jane through the peep show booth phone).

Super 8: Travis and family’s beach vacation footage set to music and his peep show monologue makes for a hauntingly lovely juxtaposition.

Galleries: Camera stills from Wenders’ location-scouting road trip — vivid, soulful, vast, and intimate images of the American Southwest. Plus on-set portraits of cast and crew from unit photographer Robin Holland.

Tags: paris, texas, the criterion collection, wim wenders