Life is color, says one of the characters, and the dominant after-impression here is of the stunning array of bright hues; stamped against the desert like distinct life forces. In an early scene, an old man instructs a class on the colors of nature - reaching his hands outside the frame as if godlike - he touches the sky, and his hands come back blue; he stretches toward a meadow, and brings back flowers. It's too sincere and straightforwardly beautiful to be dismissed as a conjuring trick, and the film can't be regarded simply as a pictorial exercise, partly because it's just too difficult for that; the narrative is as subtle and allusive as the mastery of its dominant image - the carpet weaving. For example, when a young girl is killed while going after a kid goat on the mountain, it's symbolized simply by the rolling of a ball of black wool toward her sister; the ball then tumbles into the water and away. It would take a second viewing though to comment with confidence on all that actually happens in the film - narrative clarity is secondary to the nomadic wandering of the tribe, and above all to the film's impeccable visual design. Presumably enjoyed by western audiences mainly as a cultural digression; a lush window into another world, but I wonder how many of us are equipped to see through that window clearly.
