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Rating:
This film never looks up to the sky. Literally. The camera seems weighed down by the intimate tragedy of Mr. Badii, a museum custodian in Tehran, who roams around in his Range Rover through the dusty, hilly outskirts of the large Iranian city in the hope of finding someone who will toss a few shovelfuls of earth over his body once he has taken his life. Mr. Badii wants to commit suicide by overdosing on psychotropic medications, having dug a hole on the side of a hill where he will consume a lethal mix of pills at night. Terrified by the thought that birds might desecrate his body, he is willing to pay - handsomely - anyone who will come the following morning, call his name out loud twice, and either help him to his feet if he is alive or cover him with earth if he is dead. Three people hear his plea: a young Kurdish soldier, who quickly flees in fear; an Afghan seminarian, who refuses, listing in an irritatingly distant voice the religious precepts that prohibit taking one's own life; and finally, a Turkish taxidermist who works for the local natural history museum, who listens to him and shares that he too once decided to end it all, but "the taste of cherries" (and everything hidden beneath this symbol) stopped him from taking the action. However, Badii seems steadfast in his decision, and the Turk's words seem futile and vexing to him: he only wants to know if the chore will be accepted and if he will be buried. The Turk agrees, but the beautiful words he used to dissuade him from the act now seem to have shaken Badii's spirit. Why Badii wants to commit suicide remains a mystery; we are left with only his face, bearing witness to an apathy that seems inescapable. As night falls, the camera follows Badii in his last movements: he goes home (but the camera stays outside, capturing only the shadow moving behind the curtains), exits, gets into his car, and heads to the hill where he dug the hole. He lies down and waits. Meanwhile, the night descends, dark and stormy (I humbly beg pardon, but so it is), and only the flash of a few lightning bolts illuminates his face. The screen goes black. Is he dead or not? We will never know. During the credits, images of the film's backstage alternate, with the director directing, the lead actor resting under a tree, the crew working, extras laughing and showing off, all to the tune of St. James Infirmary Blues with the voice and trumpet of Louis Armstrong.
A dark, symbolic film, "boring" some might say, yet sincere, transparent, unforgettable. Kiarostami, who declared his debt to Rossellini and Italian neorealism, received the Palme d'Or at Cannes with this film. The question I ask myself is: if a director, with very few resources, has created a film that is a memorable masterpiece, which unsettles and provokes thought, are the so-called masterpieces of directors who, while talented, have had free rein, unlimited budgets, and universal goodwill inferior or superior to it?
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