Lost in an America that overvalues the representation of reality, Paris doesn't offer easy solutions for finding one's way out of the jungle. Its elliptical ending only obfuscates whether the representation (billboards, motels) is where the self is lost or found. This writer-ly quality only minimally detracts from the majestic, painterly 3 quarters, an achievement in image that required no dialogue at all.
It's intoxicating journey into one man's cell that spreads no matter how far does he try to reach - and it's beautifully accompanied with wasteland scenery and cold designs of monolithic megalopolis as if it is a reflection of man's own mind. The peak reaches at the end as it manages to break into the darkest corner of soul searching, where late hours and neon lights are just motifs of eulogy that no one's gonna know