The Wind Will Carry Us is slow-paced and meandering, and this is initially infuriating for a viewer. It is the same sort of cultural shock that hits the 'Engineer' upon arriving at the modest, quiet villages etched into the side of the mountain. Kiarostami takes time to point his camera at trivial instances - an apple falling down pipes, a bone floating down the river. The dialogue goes everywhere but ends up nowhere nearer to Behzad's goal: to film the macabre mourning ceremony that will occur once a 100 year old woman passes away. But it does not happen at once, and they are forced to wait. They are impatient - all but Behzad never even show their faces, nor does his supervisor on the phone. They are a symbolic absence that hints at their inability to re-orientate themselves within this small community. The comical recurring gag is that every time Behzad gets a call he must drive all the way up to the highest hill, ironically near a cemetery, just to again be chastised by his boss and have little explanation except to plead for a few more days.
It is in fact his hurried nature that clashes with the village and its inhabitants. The opening scene is a marvel - Kiarostami captures the 4 journalists in gorgeous overhead wide shots that emphasise the physical beauty of the surroundings, the rolling golden hills, the winding pathway, the pristine green pastures. And then he subverts this experience by placing our ears right into the car - they bicker and bicker for 5 minutes, arguing whether they are going the right way and if their directions were correct, completely oblivious to the nature around them. Even when the car breaks down and they are forced to confront the physical setting, the dialogue continues right into our ears as if we were walking alongside Behzad, constantly querying about his objective. This technique mars our experience too, because the pervasive squabbling and questioning is at odds with the distance and beauty that the camera presents.
Elsewhere Kiarostami wields his camera with a curious omniscience, ever at conflict with the keenly busy engineer. In one instance, having received bad news from his boss, he angrily kicks out at a turtle, knocking it on its back. And then as he drives away, we remain focused on the writhing creature. In most movies this would be solely to emphasise the cruelty he has inflicted, and perhaps hammer home the message of his disregard for the wilderness and nature. But lo and behold, the turtle pops back up again, with Behzad long gone. Nature is not so easily swayed, not at least by the urban touch of these visitors. Much like the turtle, the village elder also refuses to die at his command. The group are so obviously out of their depth, but do not ever seem to consider and recognise it. A evocative poem's power is neutered by a culture clash - to be able to conjure up such stirring imagery, but rush past golden fields swaying in the wind on foot, bike and car. He is scolded as he tries to discreetly capture a candid argument between two elderly villagers on the labours of life and love - this must be experienced in person. And as he has his daily shave, he looks towards the camera which doubles as a mirror, and the observer, who sees so little with his filtered perspective, becomes the observed.
It is in fact his hurried nature that clashes with the village and its inhabitants. The opening scene is a marvel - Kiarostami captures the 4 journalists in gorgeous overhead wide shots that emphasise the physical beauty of the surroundings, the rolling golden hills, the winding pathway, the pristine green pastures. And then he subverts this experience by placing our ears right into the car - they bicker and bicker for 5 minutes, arguing whether they are going the right way and if their directions were correct, completely oblivious to the nature around them. Even when the car breaks down and they are forced to confront the physical setting, the dialogue continues right into our ears as if we were walking alongside Behzad, constantly querying about his objective. This technique mars our experience too, because the pervasive squabbling and questioning is at odds with the distance and beauty that the camera presents.
Elsewhere Kiarostami wields his camera with a curious omniscience, ever at conflict with the keenly busy engineer. In one instance, having received bad news from his boss, he angrily kicks out at a turtle, knocking it on its back. And then as he drives away, we remain focused on the writhing creature. In most movies this would be solely to emphasise the cruelty he has inflicted, and perhaps hammer home the message of his disregard for the wilderness and nature. But lo and behold, the turtle pops back up again, with Behzad long gone. Nature is not so easily swayed, not at least by the urban touch of these visitors. Much like the turtle, the village elder also refuses to die at his command. The group are so obviously out of their depth, but do not ever seem to consider and recognise it. A evocative poem's power is neutered by a culture clash - to be able to conjure up such stirring imagery, but rush past golden fields swaying in the wind on foot, bike and car. He is scolded as he tries to discreetly capture a candid argument between two elderly villagers on the labours of life and love - this must be experienced in person. And as he has his daily shave, he looks towards the camera which doubles as a mirror, and the observer, who sees so little with his filtered perspective, becomes the observed.