Paris, Texas is my favorite film of all time, and my second and third are True Stories and 3 Women, both of which could arguably exist in Paris, Texas's universe. A disheveled Travis (Harry Dean Stanton) meanders out of the matte desert, where he's reunited with his eight-year-old son, Hunter, and his billboard-designing brother in the neon canyons of Los Angeles. He tries on different roles: He imagines becoming the "rich father," accomplishing nothing but to chase after his son's affection. A road trip then guides Hunter and Travis back to the root of their trauma. The result is a neo-Western that feels spiritually in tune with Twin Peaks, Repo Man, and—hear me out—the myth of Odysseus. It also did more to promote pink fuzzy sweaters than the entirety of Barbie's endless press campaign. By the way, I'd typically balk at a 127-minute runtime, but Wim Wenders' ultra-deliberate filmmaking (and Robby Müller's choreography) demands a slow read. Certain shots linger long after the credits roll.