Quiet, meditative, and stripped to its essentials, Taste of Cherry unfolds more as a journey than a traditional story—measured, searching, and quietly profound. A man drives the dusty outskirts of Tehran, asking strangers for a peculiar kind of help. No backstory, no clear reason—Just his quiet persistence, met with response that range from wary to tender.
Kiarostami directs with the patience of a poet. Long takes, uncluttered framing, and a cast of mostly non-professional actors lend the film a realism that borders on documentary. Homayoun Ershadi brings a quiet intensity to the central role—composed, courteous, unreadable. His restraint creates space for the passengers' reflections to carry the emotional weight.
What emerges is less a film about death than one about the meanings people attach to life—through faith, work, family and small, fleeting moments of beauty, The conversation that take place in the car touch on kindness, despair, religion, poverty, and perspective. Kiarostami's minimalism isn't cold or austere—it's generous, leaving space to think, to breathe, and to listen.
Taste of Cherry is a fable as much as a film. It raises questions without offering tidy answers, and its refusal to define or conclude feels like an invitation rather than a dodge. The film doesn't hold your hand—but does leave one outstretched.