One woman drives through the streets of Tehran over several days. Her journey is comprised of ten conversations with various passengers, including her sister, a hitchhiking prostitute, and a jilted bride. As Kiarostami’s “dashboard cams” eavesdrop, a portrait of Iran comes into focus.
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Yikes--no seatbelts! I liked that she listened to her son's aunt and was able to change her stance significantly. You could see relief in the boy's posture--and after that first incredibly painful argument between the two of them, I wasn't sure I was going to make it to the end. I liked the compassion in the scene with the woman who cut off her hair, and the repetition in the final scene. Satisfying.
A deceptively simple, minimalist, cinematic poem. Kiarostami humbles, astounds, and confounds at the same time. And what I love about him is not necessarily what he does well, but what HE doesn't. (For isn't that the best way to determine an artist's style?) He continues to inspire. A living genius (there aren't many) and although Jafar Panahi is closer to my spirit - Kiarostami gets closer to my heart.
Kiarostomi has created a brilliant and wholly realistic universe through the use of extremely simple means. Every moment of this film felt entirely genuine to me, and I was very deeply moved by the raw humanity on display before me.
Breillat is correct to address the film's absence of image & mise en scene--the viewer's relationship to the screen is utterly tranformed by the stylistic limitations--but such a profound statement from one director about another does a disservice to the way such restrictions mythicize every gesture, every touch of light, every movement towards the outside world. Pure thought filtered through cinema; RIP, Kiarostami.