Derakhte Golabi

There is a scene in this movie that M sweeps Mahmood's tears. This scene is the most romantic scene I have ever seen in a movie. We think if we reach to a point then there would be no pain, but when we reach, the pain still exists, in other forms. Mahmood always try to reach, but he gets nothing. As a teenager he tries to make M loves him. As a young man he tries to bring peace and comfort to the nation and as an adult he wants to be a famous writer, but in all of these periods he feels that this is not the thing he was searching for. As a teenager M asks him to steal, and Mahmood's mother punishes him. As an adult he has the mission for political hidden acts, and he ends up in jail. What if he could marry M? It would come to an ordinary life without love. He says: 'My best book is the one that I have not written' Similar things happen in different circumstances, but as growing older the problems get more difficult to solve. In his whole life he sees a web that reminds him as his life, he is bended in his thoughts.

I really love the first half of the movie and it is really nostalgic. Golshifte Farahani does a wonderful acting in her first experience. The music fits the movie, although it was not composed for it.

This is a must see.

Mehrjoui's films often deal with the existentialist encounter of the Bourgeioisie with tradition, memory, and modernity.

This is perhaps the most universal film of Mehrjoui to date. Breathtaking landscape; excellent amateur performance; beautiful photography, minimalist editing, touching plot, and much more. This is the story of a serious man in the face of his intellectual black out as he finds more meaning to his life while rummaging through his childhood memory.

Since Mehrjoui is somewhat obscure (compared to Iranian filmmakers like Majidi, Makhmalbafs and Kiarostami, although he has been one of the oldest and one of the best filmmakers Iran has ever produced), take a look at his work if you have a liking for Alain Renais, Ingmar Bergman, Viscounti, and to some extent Fellini (especially in his Hamoun)

In this particular film, you will think of Kiarostami's Le Vent Nous Emportera and Taste of Cherry, Baizai's Perhaps Another Time, Majidi's Color of God ... and all these comparisons are disservice to Mehrjoui.

A quiet gentle film guaranteed to soothe the most jangled nerves with its soft approach to life's little annoyances aand heartbreaks. A writer looks back on his early life as a twelve year old when he lived in a grand mansion and played in the extensive surrounding orchard of fruit trees. I felt like turning off in the first five minutes as the morose writer became more and more depressed with life in general as he struggles for inspiration to write more books and articles. But I'm very glad I kept watching because as he remembers about the happier days of his youth, the dark and shadowy set dissolves into a sun-kissed orchard with a family picnicking under the trees. The soft mellow tones of the photography are beautiful. This is probably what held me for there is very little story. It's more of a mood poem with a touch of mysticism. The pear tree referred to in the title is one in the orchard that refuses to bear fruit. The whys and wherefores are debated at great length. The gardener has watered it, fertilised it, spoken to it, encouraged it, begged it but to no avail...no fruit! An axe is sharpened, But as discussions proceed, the tree is imagined as a living person with good reasons to withhold its fruit. Thus it is spared. Nature they conclude knows best. There are other thought-provoking incidents, none of them overly dramatic, just simple realities of life like dressing up, climbing trees, riding bicycles, splashing about in a stream, being chastised for naughtiness, lighting fires and yearning for the girl of your dreams. Most viewers will align themselves with many of these incidents evoking memories of the days of their youth. The film ends on rather a sad note, but Heaven on earth does not last forever! The film has a lot to commend it. By the way, I am still intrigued with the arabic typewriter that the writer used to thump out the scrawling calligraphy.

Derakhte Golabi (The Pear Tree) is one of the best Iranian films. You can get the meaning of love from it.When you're watching this film you are the same as the hero(Mahmood) at the end of film. He sits under the pear tree and whispers: "Now, I'm relaxing. I'm sitting between infinite past and infinite future,..."

Story and Photography: I loved the photography in this movie. It wasn't sepia tone, it was aged and muted, as if we are looking at hazy, creased old photographs. It's probably closest in look to Bresson's "Four Nights of a Dreamer." But the cinematography in "Pear Tree" isn't the only thing it has going for it. The setting itself is a gloriously beautiful Iranian village, full of gardens, mountains and golden afternoons. The movie also offers surprising dashes of comedy to compliment its nostalgic, somewhat trite main plot about a man remembering an unrequited love he had in his boyhood for an older girl. It all passes tolerably, and is actually touchingly sweet, until about two thirds of the way when the movie seems to lose focus, and the plot gets tangled up in politics, the Iranian Revolution, women's rights, overt symbolism, and an imitation of Fellini's "8 1/2." At this point, it feels as if the writer gave up on organizing his or her ideas and decided to just dump in every tangential idea and let the audience sort it out. Luckily, by the end, the movie returns its focus back on its stronger qualities: splendid photography, splendid portraits of nature, of shadows and light, and its simple but timeless story of a man learning how to love in a finite world.

Acting and Direction: The acting by the leads is very good, though some of the supporting actors are noticeably weaker. Some of the direction sometimes seems out of place, overly dramatic, as if it is the work of theatrical stage director making his or her film debut. For the most part though, long-time director Mehrjui offers us a work of tenderness that strives and sometimes succeeds in being both uniquely Iranian and, somehow at the same time, fantastically universal.