Through The Olive Trees- Abbas Kiarostami 【Best Pick】

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.

Through the Olive Trees is the third layer. It takes place during the production of And Life Goes On . Specifically, it shows the making of a fictional film within a film—a love scene set in the aftermath of the earthquake. The “plot” of the inner film is simple: a young man (Hossein) and his wife (Tahereh) have lost their home. They are given a new one, but the path to it requires crossing a muddy stream. The husband carries the planks to bridge the stream, and at the end, he carries his wife across. Through the olive trees- Abbas Kiarostami

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. The final seven minutes of Through the Olive Trees are arguably the most perfect sequence in Kiarostami’s career. After production wraps, Hossein is told that Tahereh has left the set and is walking home, carrying a heavy bag of plaster. The tragedy of the earthquake is the backdrop;

As they move farther into the distance, Hossein suddenly stops. He turns. He looks at Tahereh. Then, he begins to run—not toward her, but up the hill to intercept her. It takes place during the production of And Life Goes On

Then, she turns. She runs. But not away. She runs back towards the set, back towards the crew. Hossein watches her go. Defeated? Perhaps.

What follows is a static, long shot filmed from the director's camera position. We see an impossibly green hillside, a winding dirt path, and two tiny figures: Tahereh walking ahead, Hossein running to catch up. He reaches her. They walk together. He gesticulates, pleading. She ignores him.

Through the Olive Trees ends by suggesting that the only place love might exist is in the frame, in the act of looking. The real Hossein might go home alone that night. But the filmed Hossein, the one who exists for eternity through Kiarostami’s lens, might have finally won the girl. In an era of bloated blockbusters and explicit narratives, Through the Olive Trees is a radical act of humility. It asks us to watch differently—not to consume a story, but to participate in the construction of meaning. It is a film about filmmaking that is never cynical; a romance that is never sentimental; a tragedy about an earthquake that is actually a comedy about a man carrying a plank.