Through The Olive Trees- Abbas Kiarostami May 2026

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

But then—and this is the miracle—she stops. She turns. She lifts her hand to her head, adjusts her white headscarf. Then, in the most subtle, un-cinematic gesture in film history, she looks back at him. And she runs slowly . She runs back to him. She passes him and continues up the hill. Hossein, stunned, turns to follow.

Kiarostami teaches us that the truth is not found in what the characters say, but in what they do when they think no one is looking—or rather, when they know everyone is looking. Through the olive trees, we do not see a resolution. We see a possibility. And in the cinema of Abbas Kiarostami, a possibility is infinitely more powerful than a certainty. 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. Through the olive trees- Abbas Kiarostami

He catches her at the edge of the olive grove. They stand close together. The camera is too far away to hear them; the sound design is just wind and the rustle of trees. We see Hossein gesturing towards the valley, towards the tents, towards life. Tahereh stands rigid.

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? Then, she turns

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.

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. She runs back towards the set, back towards the crew

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.