Luke McCarthy’s review published on Letterboxd:
The kind of film which swirls around your mind like a virus. I'm no closer to solving this mesmerising enigma, but I feel like I'm much closer to understanding it. Kiarostami argues that life is just another work of art in which we interpret; whether it be a painting, a person, a marriage or even a tree - we all place our own preconceived narratives on top the world which surrounds us. Meaning is created by both the artist and the observer.
The ambiguity here no longer grinds on me, helping to enrich the potent ideas on display.
When we attempt to relive our past, are we creating a lifeless copy, or are we creating something new?
Would either answer satisfy us?