When the 1990 Manjil–Rudbar earthquake hit and killed fifty thousand people, director Abbas Kiarostami made the decision to return to the Iranian village of Koker and find the little boys who were part of the cast of his earlier masterpiece, Where is the Friend's Home? It is during that trip that Kiarostami was struck by inspiration, going back to retrace his steps and film his own journey as his second entry into the eventual Koker trilogy. What follows is a surprisingly hopeful film about the vast reserves of resiliency in the face of hardship for these Iranian citizens, and how the end, life simply must go on.
The events are captured in an unadorned verite style, with harsh, slightly overexposed natural light and a free camera, recalling the neorealist and non-fiction roots of Kiarostami's early career. Those familiar with his work will recognise one of his favoured shots; an extreme wide overhead, surveying the tiny car with amusement as it slowly chugs through the ravaged countryside. This is usually coupled with diegetic sound that contradicts the distance of the shot; we can hear Kiarostami (his actor) and his son right in our ears, although we are much too far away. The moment gently mocks their progress, the foolish ideal that such an insignificant machine could instantly make the arduous journey (think of that horizontal wide shot, with the gigantic, jagged cracks in the ground dwarfing their vehicle). Kiarostami used the same shot in his later masterpiece The Wind Will Carry Us, cutting deeper with his critique. Here he eventually allows his surrogate a POV shot through the windscreen, as if to consider his perspective too, but does this only further emphasise the lack of forward momentum, the fixed perspective? To truly find what he is looking for, he must exit the car and walk on his own two feet, not merely make enquiries through the window as if he was peering into a zoo exhibit.
There is little artifice beyond this point, except for the bits where Kiarostami uses the film's self-reflexivity to play with ideas of cinematic representation and truth behind the screen. They bump into Mr Ruhi, who played a character in one of Kiarostami's previous films, and is now purposefully transporting a urinal to another place of need in the aftermath of the earthquake's destruction. When the director queries him on his new home, he nonchalantly replies: "Well, that was my house in the movie." The big one with the terrace was just for show. Later, though, he does complain that the film made him look older and uglier than he really is. His moment is Kiarostami's apology and admission of his past inaccuracies, of how the movies have conditioned us to make certain assumptions of the reality presented on the screen. Now he slowly but surely trudges on, remarking that even in the wake of such devastating disaster someone will still have need of a urinal - something that the director seemingly bypasses as his son runs off into the bushes.
In The Wind Will Carry Us, a crew arrived in a rural village to film the imminent death ritual of an elderly woman, but found that life would not bow over so easily to their gaze. In Life, and Nothing More..., a director and his son search endlessly for two boys and the village of Koker, but do not ever find it. But what Kiarostami does find in the latter that was scarce in the former is a deeply humanist and optimistic view of life, of people not weeping and cursing at the sky, but shouldering this burden and carrying on best they can. Listen to how innocently Puya attempts to rationalise the earthquake, and how his perspective is scattered within everyone they meet: of tragedy reaffirming all that is precious in our lives. That little pearl comes from the same boy whose face is earlier emblazoned by darkness and the opening credits as they enter a tunnel, sleeping on his back and unaware of their destination. And witness the gentle beauty in the film's final shot, where Kiarostami and a stranger help one another up a winding, zig-zagging hill. Their toil across the landscape is hardly easier after all, but now the shot is not of mockery, but celebrating their compassion in the face of adversity.
The events are captured in an unadorned verite style, with harsh, slightly overexposed natural light and a free camera, recalling the neorealist and non-fiction roots of Kiarostami's early career. Those familiar with his work will recognise one of his favoured shots; an extreme wide overhead, surveying the tiny car with amusement as it slowly chugs through the ravaged countryside. This is usually coupled with diegetic sound that contradicts the distance of the shot; we can hear Kiarostami (his actor) and his son right in our ears, although we are much too far away. The moment gently mocks their progress, the foolish ideal that such an insignificant machine could instantly make the arduous journey (think of that horizontal wide shot, with the gigantic, jagged cracks in the ground dwarfing their vehicle). Kiarostami used the same shot in his later masterpiece The Wind Will Carry Us, cutting deeper with his critique. Here he eventually allows his surrogate a POV shot through the windscreen, as if to consider his perspective too, but does this only further emphasise the lack of forward momentum, the fixed perspective? To truly find what he is looking for, he must exit the car and walk on his own two feet, not merely make enquiries through the window as if he was peering into a zoo exhibit.
There is little artifice beyond this point, except for the bits where Kiarostami uses the film's self-reflexivity to play with ideas of cinematic representation and truth behind the screen. They bump into Mr Ruhi, who played a character in one of Kiarostami's previous films, and is now purposefully transporting a urinal to another place of need in the aftermath of the earthquake's destruction. When the director queries him on his new home, he nonchalantly replies: "Well, that was my house in the movie." The big one with the terrace was just for show. Later, though, he does complain that the film made him look older and uglier than he really is. His moment is Kiarostami's apology and admission of his past inaccuracies, of how the movies have conditioned us to make certain assumptions of the reality presented on the screen. Now he slowly but surely trudges on, remarking that even in the wake of such devastating disaster someone will still have need of a urinal - something that the director seemingly bypasses as his son runs off into the bushes.
In The Wind Will Carry Us, a crew arrived in a rural village to film the imminent death ritual of an elderly woman, but found that life would not bow over so easily to their gaze. In Life, and Nothing More..., a director and his son search endlessly for two boys and the village of Koker, but do not ever find it. But what Kiarostami does find in the latter that was scarce in the former is a deeply humanist and optimistic view of life, of people not weeping and cursing at the sky, but shouldering this burden and carrying on best they can. Listen to how innocently Puya attempts to rationalise the earthquake, and how his perspective is scattered within everyone they meet: of tragedy reaffirming all that is precious in our lives. That little pearl comes from the same boy whose face is earlier emblazoned by darkness and the opening credits as they enter a tunnel, sleeping on his back and unaware of their destination. And witness the gentle beauty in the film's final shot, where Kiarostami and a stranger help one another up a winding, zig-zagging hill. Their toil across the landscape is hardly easier after all, but now the shot is not of mockery, but celebrating their compassion in the face of adversity.