Kiarostami exploits this tension relentlessly. We watch the director of the film-within-the-film try to shoot a simple walking scene. The male lead (the actor playing the husband) refuses to walk closely to his female co-star because he feels uncomfortable. Hossein, watching from the sidelines, shouts suggestions. Finally, the exasperated director replaces the lead actor with Hossein himself. Suddenly, the fiction collapses into reality: the man who actually loves the woman is now acting opposite her, pretending to be a different man married to her, hoping the proximity will convince her to say yes for real.
For the entire duration of the shoot, we watch Hossein struggle. He pleads with her, he recites poetry, he argues that the earthquake that killed 50,000 people should have shattered the class barriers that keep them apart. He uses the film’s script as a Trojan horse to confess his actual feelings. Tahereh remains a silent, impenetrable wall of indifference. Through the olive trees- Abbas Kiarostami
Long takes, minimal camera movement, distant framing (the final shot is famous for creating both intimacy and distance), non-professional actors, natural light and sound. Kiarostami exploits this tension relentlessly
Kiarostami constantly questions the filmmaker’s role. The director in the film is kind but manipulative, using Hossein’s real desperation to add authenticity to his fiction. At one point, he forces Hossein to repeat a simple line (“Good evening, sir. My wife and I are grateful to you”) over fifty times—not for technical perfection, but to wear down the actor’s ego. Meanwhile, Tahereh’s silence off-camera is her only form of agency. Kiarostami asks: does cinema exploit its subjects, or can it give them a voice? Hossein, watching from the sidelines, shouts suggestions
: The film is known for its contemplative pace and long, wide shots that allow the natural landscape—the lush green hills and vast olive groves—to become central characters.
