The above scene I have carried with me ever since I first saw the film Der Himmel über Berlin in Minneapolis. To this day, (un)consciously I continuously try to emulate the themes and gestures within my own writing: the murmur of background voices, the grey tones, the stark symbolism, the subtle gestures of a hand. Every so often I have come so close with an awkward phrase, a stumbling scene. Or with a sentence that meanders endlessly across the page in Faulknerian-logic.
But borrowing intentions of a movie to translate them to a static text remains frustratingly unsatisfying. A balanced mix of bitter honesty (realism) with surreal dream logic (fantasy) persists as unattainable idealism. The ideal paragraph that embodies Wim Wender's creative product alludes me, just out of reach, a winter's moon hovering along the horizon.