Why am I me, and not you?

Last night, I went to see Wim Wenders' Wings of Desire at the Dryden, the theatre at the George Eastman House . It had been over ten years since I first saw Wenders' film on the big screen, and at least six since I'd watched some lousy VHS copy of it at a friend's house. So, enough time had passed for it to seem new to me. Then again, nothing can compare to the first viewing of a film you really love, nothing can bring you back to that naive sense of awe. My first encounter with Wings of Desire occurred when I was in college, a sophomore, when my eyes were still wide open enough to allow me to frequently experience art, literature and film as "life-changing" experiences. I saw Desire for a class, one that also introduced me to the likes of Bergman, Bunuel, Godard, Deren, Jarman. I was immediately entranced by the film's haunting, mostly monochromatic imagery, its black undercurrent of dissatisfaction and angst, its meditative qualities, its subtle spirituality and persistent, sentimental faith in humanity. Watching it at 19, I was like the poetic child Damiel longs to become; it felt like I was seeing the world in colour for the first time. This time around, however, I had to actively try to be like Damiel, to say "ah" and "oh," rather than "yes" and "amen." Although I still find its beauty uterely entrancing, I can''t help but fall short of the mark; experience has left me less wide-eyed, made the colours seem a bit less vivid. On the other hand, my recent trip to Berlin added a new hue to my understanding of the film. Having seen some of Berlin's streets, read about its history while standing next to its monuments, I can now engage with Wings of Desire as a "haunting documentary" of the city itself, a phrase I'd often seen used to describe the film but one I had not fully undestood, until tonight.