
Through The Olive Trees- Abbas Kiarostami Now
Through the Olive Trees is streaming on The Criterion Channel and is available on Blu-ray. It is rated Not Rated (suitable for all audiences, though younger viewers may find its pace challenging). For those new to Kiarostami, it is recommended to watch Where Is the Friend's House? first, though Through the Olive Trees stands magnificently alone as a testament to the stubborn, beautiful, heartbreaking act of trying to turn life into art.
At the heart of this structural labyrinth is a romance that is simultaneously absurd, tragic, and achingly real. Hossein (Hossein Rezai) is a young bricklayer who has lost everything in the quake. He has been hired as a bit-part actor in the film-within-the-film. Tahereh (Tahereh Ladanian) is an upper-class girl from the village, also hired, to play the wife of the protagonist in the interior film. Through the olive trees- Abbas Kiarostami
What did she say to him under the shade of those olive trees? The Director didn't record it. The audience couldn't hear it. Through the Olive Trees is streaming on The
Here lies the meta-gag: Tahereh is playing the role of a traditional, chattering spouse opposite a different actor. But Hossein, who is cast as a silent, background militia soldier with no lines, uses every break between takes to propose marriage. The central irony is exquisite. Tahereh, who is virtually mute in reality (we rarely hear her speak), is paid to speak scripted lines. Hossein, who cannot stop talking, is paid to remain silent. first, though Through the Olive Trees stands magnificently
In the pantheon of world cinema, few filmmakers have blurred the line between documentary and fiction with the philosophical rigor of Abbas Kiarostami. As the leading light of the Iranian New Wave, Kiarostami constructed films that were not merely stories but meditations on the very nature of storytelling. While his 1997 masterpiece Taste of Cherry won the Palme d’Or, it is the final film of his informal “Koker Trilogy”— Through the Olive Trees (1994)—that serves as the most breathtaking and vertiginous essay on the relationship between art, reality, and obsession.
Kiarostami builds the film around this contradiction: Hossein and Tahereh must repeatedly rehearse a scene where, as fictional characters, they look lovingly at each other and speak as husband and wife. Between takes, Hossein pleads his real case, while Tahereh remains silent and avoids eye contact.
Kiarostami’s style is deceptively simple. He favors long, static takes and deep-focus cinematography (by Hossein Jafarian). The film’s most celebrated sequence is the final seven-minute shot: a fixed camera watches from a hillside as Hossein, a tiny figure in white, chases Tahereh in black through a vast, green olive grove. They disappear behind trees, reappear, stop, and separate. No music swells. No cut resolves the tension. The viewer becomes a distant observer, forced to interpret the gesture alone. It is a radical act of cinematic trust.