Abbas Kiarostami is preoccupied with my tape recorder. He wonders if it's too far away from where he's sitting. He makes his translator switch from one side of him to another so that the recorder is between them. After a while, clearly still anxious about it, he picks it up and sets it down on a side table directly next to him. I can't tell if he's really worried about my sound, or if he's obliquely commandeering our conversation. "Where should I go?" I ask, half seriously. "Wherever... More >>>