Through The Olive Trees- Abbas Kiarostami · Works 100%

Through the Olive Trees (Persian: زیر درختان زیتون, Zir-e Derakhtān-e Zeytūn) is the final film in Abbas Kiarostami’s informal “Koker Trilogy,” following Where Is the Friend’s House? (1987) and And Life Goes On… (1992). Released in 1994, the film is a masterful exercise in cinematic self-reflexivity, blurring the boundaries between documentary and fiction, director and subject, actor and character. It won the prestigious Prix de la mise en scène (Best Director) at the Cannes Film Festival, cementing Kiarostami’s reputation as a leading figure of the Iranian New Wave.

Abbas Kiarostami’s Through the Olive Trees is a film that builds a universe out of a single, simple question: What does it mean to say the wrong thing to someone over and over again?

On its surface, the plot is deceptively slight. In the earthquake-ravaged landscape of Northern Iran, a film crew (the same one from And Life Goes On...) is shooting a scene. A young, poor bricklayer named Hossein is cast opposite a young, literate woman named Tahereh. The problem? Hossein is desperately in love with Tahereh in real life, while she refuses to even acknowledge his existence, believing him to be beneath her social standing. Between takes, Hossein follows her, pleading his case in a relentless, circular, almost comical monologue.

But to describe the plot is to miss the magic entirely. Kiarostami is not making a romance; he is making a meditation on cinema, reality, and the chasm between human beings. Through the olive trees- Abbas Kiarostami

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.

The narrative engine of the film is the off-screen, one-sided love affair between Hossein Rezai (playing himself) and Tahereh Ladanian (playing a role). Hossein is poor, speaks informally, and lives in a tent. Tahereh is educated, literate (she reads her lines from a script, while Hossein must memorize them), and comes from a family of landowners.

The tragedy of the earthquake is the backdrop; the foreground is the hilarious, agonizing, and ultimately transcendent pursuit by Hossein. He follows Tahereh through the rubble, badgering her with the same question: "Why won't you marry me?" He argues that his poverty is irrelevant, that she should look past material things, that he will treat her better than any wealthy man. It won the prestigious Prix de la mise

Tahereh, conversely, refuses to speak to him directly. When the director (playing a version of Kiarostami) calls "Cut," she retreats into stony silence. Her only line in the film that addresses Hossein personally is whispered so quietly that the crew cannot hear it. We, the audience, are left to guess what she says.

This creates the film’s central tension: the conflict between cinematic reality and social reality. In the movie-within-the-movie, Hossein and Tahereh play a loving married couple. In the "real life" of the production, they are separated by a chasm of class and pride.

One of Kiarostami’s most charming innovations is the portrayal of the film director (played by Mohamad Ali Keshavarz). This is not the auteur-as-tyrant stereotype. Instead, he is a tired, pragmatic mediator. He doesn’t care about Hossein’s romantic obsession; he cares about getting the shot. In the earthquake-ravaged landscape of Northern Iran, a

The most revealing scene occurs during the rehearsal of the "carrying the wife" sequence. The director needs Tahereh to look at Hossein with "loving eyes" as he carries her over the stream. But Tahereh, in real life, refuses to even look at Hossein. The director tries to coax her, then demands, then finally gives up. He tells the actors to simply go through the motions. Kiarostami seems to be asking: Can you fake love? If you perform the actions of love enough times, does love emerge? Or is the performance a lie that reveals a deeper truth?

Kiarostami (the real one) is playing a cruel, beautiful joke on his audience. We are rooting for Hossein, despite his arrogance. We want the fiction to win. We want the poor boy to get the girl. But the film refuses to give us the easy satisfaction of a Hollywood romance.