So much cinema is happening right now

Wings of Desire (1987) dir. by Wim Wenders

Wings of Desire is an arthouse film par excellence. My father, a stolid, practical, military man with little time or tolerance for the arts would put it firmly in the category of cinema—pronounced, in his mocking, inimitable fashion, as 'see-nay-mah—and I would have to agree with him. It is as cinema as it gets. Among other cinema tropes, the film features:

·      Subtitles

·      Long, abstract meditations

·      Black & white cinematography

·      Poetry

·      Collage

·      Commentary on the act of filmmaking itself

·      Monologues

·      Juliette Binoche

Actually, Juliette Binoche isn't in this movie, but the rest of the list is accurate. It's a great film to namedrop to show that you know what's what. A weaker-willed person might use a film like Wings of Desire to look down her nose at the hoi polloi. So, given the film's seriousness, and my own tendency to lightly tease gravitas wherever I detect it, why did love this movie as much as I did? The answer lies partly in the film's unabashed sincerity. The central conceit in the film is that there are angels wandering around Berlin, invisible, able to listen to the grave and quotidian concerns of the city's denizens, and unable to do anything more than offer fleeting spiritual encouragement. The film's protagonist, Damiel, an angel, wants to become human. He wants to leave a world that is black and white, literally in terms of film stock, and, like Dorothy, enter a world of color, and feeling, and passion. His impetus for this decision is his love for Marion, an aspiring trapeze artist for a minor circus. Yes, you're reading that correctly. An angel falls in love with a circus performer.

That Wenders is able to execute this plot without resorting to the sort of maudlin, romantic banalities of the (superficially) similar City of Angels, or turning the movie into farce is a miracle. The film is carried through dangerous straits by an absolute sincerity matched by impeccable craftsmanship. At one point early on in the film, while the rules of the narrative are still being established, an angel puts an unseen, unfelt arm of comfort around one of Berlin's suffering citizens, and the latter is cheered, if only for a moment, and forgets his problems. I was touched. I may have even teared up a little. Let's change the subject.

There is also something attractive about angels desiring to leave a world of contemplation and spirit in order to experience the filthy, joyous, extravagant, mundane human world, especially since so many humans are attempting to flow in the opposite direction and attain a level of existence unstained by sensuousness. There is a danger here in yielding to a simple, perverse criticism of the longing for transcendence. This is avoided by having Damiel, once he takes human form, being moved by what would generally be considered trifling phenomena. "What color is that?" he asks a passerby. "That's blue," comes the response. "Blue," says Damiel, with the awe that only a man cured of congenital blindness could experience. The world as it is is already transcendent enough. Who needs heaven when there's blue in the universe? he seems to ask. Who, indeed? Excuse me, I seem to be tearing up again.

[Also, Nick Cave, who was recently shortlisted for Most Badass Musician in Existence, performs the song From Her to Eternity in a smoke-filled bar, and it is everything you could possibly hope for]