Before having to shoulder the respectability of guiding light of the Australian New Wave, Peter Weir debuted into features with this more-gray-than-black social satire, whose conceptual-mildness-behind-creepy-poster has probably disillusioned many a gorehound along the way. The Paris of the title is an off-the-beaten-path Outback burg that sustains itself by swerving assorted cars off the road, with the auto parts divvied up among the townsfolk and the survivors dragged screaming to the local clinic for a bit of experimental surgery. In steps gentle schmo Terry Camilleri, already with two accident casualties on his conscience, clueless to the scheme when taken in by mayor John Meillon and knighted official "parking officer." Meekly allegorical, the plot pits the complacent old guard against their corrupted offspring, who spend most of their energies crashing roadsters on main street -- the climatic showdown between the rigid parents (frozen in time at a vapid costume ball) and the vicious youngsters (armed with porcupine Volkswagen bugs) can only leave the town burning in ruins. As an attack on consumeristic amorality, the picture seldom gets off its Twilight Zone gear, and the lure of cars was far better explored by Godard (social disintegration in Weekend) and Cronenberg (sexual politics in Crash). Within its cozily-set limits, however, the film has merits -- Weir keeps the tone eerily even, and already shows a sturdy gift for subtle visual strangeness spread across horizontal compositions. Like so much of his work, it is an intriguing concept insufficiently pushed, yet still free from the academicism of his better-known films (Witness, Dead Poets Society, The Truman Show). With Melissa Jaffa, Kevin Miles, Max Gillies, and Bruce Spence.
--- Fernando F. Croce
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