A good, short appreciation of Wim Wenders' Wings of Desire. Time for a rewatch. (HND)
Wings of Desire, which won Wim Wenders Best Director honors at the 1987 Cannes Film Festival before opening in America in 1988 among a slate of summer-movie sequels and pseudo-tent-pole blockbusters, is acutely melancholic, in the way that anything can be reasonably said to be acutely melancholic. Wenders manages to capture an ineffable mood, a whole mode of being, with the knowledge that its very ineffability means that it'll slip through his fingers. It's gloomy and rapturous, imposingly grand and fleetingly light, all at once.