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Mohamad Sardari has served for over thirty years in his remote railway crossing station. Dutifully he has lowered and raised the crossing guard each time a train has come by. In his small home his wife sits and makes rugs from sunrise to sunset; his son has long since left to join the military. With minimal contact with the outside world, Mohamad has long since settled into his quiet, uneventful life – a life that he sees no reason should ever change, nor does he desire it to do so.

Whether or not this is the brilliant film that many viewers proclaim it to be is a thing I'm unsure of but, regardless of that praise, it is certainly a memorable one that achieves a very strong sense of the remoteness and ultimate pointlessness of some lives. If you haven't already guessed yet, this is not a cheerful feel-good movie to take that girl who keeps smiling at you to for your first date. Instead this is a slow, patient film that has long periods of nothingness punctuated by sudden moments of, well, comparative inactivity. Despite this though it manages to be surprisingly engaging because it is well observed and interesting – that sounds contradictory but you need to see the film to understand it.

The railway line stands as Mohamad's thin connection to a life that he has never explored – one of other people, experiences and interaction; his life is empty and isolated and it is easy to relate to that sort of existence. Perhaps not physically (few of us have that amount of space or silence), or even in terms of diary entries (many of us can easily keep busy) but perhaps in terms of emotion. As Mohamad empties the only home he has known for decades, you do have to wonder what the point of it all was – a thought that stayed with me as I drove to work the next day, a job I enjoy but ultimately doesn't define "me" or my meaning any more than the reviews I write here, the way I spend my weekends or anything other one thing that is fleeting in the longer term. It is not really depressing because, for all its emptiness it is thought provoking and interesting. The character of Mohamad is hard to relate to but his sense of loss at times is tangible and it was easy to go along with him to the point where I was engaged in his story. Bonyadi's performance is one of understatement, patience and understanding. Saless' direction is impressive, setting the empty tone well but also providing plenty of lingering interesting shots that add to the memorable quality of the whole film.

Well worth seeing, although you should be aware of how far removed it is from the MTV-edited, action movies that are served up as an increasingly large portion of our cinematic diet (in terms of what is on offer at multiplexes – more screens, less choice). It is a bleak and empty film that has remoteness and isolation running all through it; it engaged my interest and brain equally and I imagine it will stay with me for quite some time to come.

I really didn't know whether the actors were really actors or an old railway cross guard and his old wife.. they weren't acting or pretending..they seemed that they were living their real everyday life beside the scenes all looked like a still life painting.

In par with the best Italian Neo-realist Masterpieces, this haunting film is a Chekovian tale of the wasted lives of a railway line-worker and his wife. The pace, the directing and the actings are so good that

it will stay to haunt you for a long time, probably forever, once you have watched it. A masterpiece by any definition.

A stark, minimalist study of the disposability of the individual in the industrial age. De-dramatised to focus on only the absolutely essential, the film shows an existence defined by a railway track, which is the source of sustenance, but at the same time the cause of virtual exile to the monotonous alienation of being responsible for one single routinised function. It is almost the only link to the outside world, yet it has isolated the individual from any kind of organic link with natural production or broader humanity.

A restrained, quiet film, in which nothing is touched up or beautified, that will reward the patient viewer.

Stark and absorbing minimalist examination of alienation and the daily ritual of working life. It works on both a literal and symbolic level: its unfurnished aesthetic grounds its subject matter in a sparse, gruelling existence wherein the railway track brings both daily sustenance and contact from the wider region; but there is a point at which the narrative casually, unexpectedly folds back on itself, makes us aware of a continuity error, of a flashback after the fact, so that time itself becomes the subject of the camera's observant gaze (another moment sees a conversation repeated from earlier drowned out by the sound of a ticking clock). Quiet and demanding, but devastating by its end.

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