Iranian Cinema

Stephen Nottingham

This essay is an introduction to Iranian Cinema. I am not writing as an expert, but as a film enthusiast from England who enjoys world cinema. The essay is therefore biased toward films exhibited to international audiences.

The first public cinema in Iran opened in 1900. Imported films and newsreels, along with state-sponsored documentaries, were shown in early cinemas. The first Iranian feature film - Abi va Rabi (Abi and Rabi) - was made in 1930. Its director, Avanes Ohanian, subsequently made Haji Aqa, actor-e sinema (Haji, the Movie Star, 1932), a defence of cinema against charges of moral corruption. With the coming of sound, Persian-language (Farsi) films became popular, starting with Dokhtar-e Lor (The Lor Girl, 1933). They were initially influenced by Indian cinema. Censorship has long shaped Iranian cinema. In the 1940s, for instance, hundreds of foreign films contravening strict exhibition codes. No film depicting revolution, strikes, anti-Islamic attitudes or "indecency" could be shown. Iranian film production flourished.

The 1960s were a period of growing Western influence. The regime of Shah Mohammad Reza Pahlavi consolidated its power, with the help of oil money and US backing. Foreign interests became dominant in the Media. However, a New Wave of Iranian film-makers emerged, who used innovative techniques and were not afraid of social commentary. Dariush Mehrju's seminal film Gav (The Cow, 1969) introduced a European-style neo-realist strand into Iranian cinema. It was the first film to be shot entirely on location in a village (a trend now characteristic of Iranian film) and unflinchingly showed the poverty that existed in rural areas. The film depicts a farmer who has a close attachment with his pregnant cow. He loses his cow and therefore his livelihood, although the villagers lie about its fate. The farmer descends into madness and eventually identifies so closely with his cow that he thinks he is one with her. The man-animal relationship is symbolic of man's relationship with nature, and by extension the ancient landscapes and culture of Iran. The parable within the film suggests that these are being undermined. The film was sponsored by the state, who promptly banned it. Its vision clashed with the progressive image of Iran that the Shah wished to project, while its prominence at International film festivals annoyed the regime. Another film released in 1969 - Mas'ud Kimia'i's Qaisar - also broke with traditional styles of Iranian film-making by using innovative techniques and similarly offered a veiled attack on the westernization of Iranian culture.

The Shah's regime was growing increasing unpopular with Iranians because of its opulence and westernization. In one disastrous piece of public relations in 1972, the Shah hired a Hollywood director to orchestrate events (a lᦣ060;/i> Cecil B. DeMille) at the 2,500th anniversary celebration of Persian culture in the ancient ruins of Persepolis. There could be no more loaded show of how the West had colonized Persian culture.

During the 1970s, high-quality Iranian films, such as Bahram Baiza'i's Gharibeh va meh (Stranger and the Fog, 1975), continued to be produced, while between 45 to 70 genre films were made annually solely for the domestic market. However, the Iranian film industry was in decline in the years leading up to the Islamic Revolution.

The Islamic Revolution of 1978 changed everything. In the early days of the Revolution, cinema was condemned because of its perceived association with the Shah's regime and western influence. Over 180 cinemas were burned, which restricting film exhibition for many years. In one incident, 400 people died in an arson attack on a cinema in Abadan. Imported films were initially banned, but later shown in heavily censored versions. Film-makers had to work within very strict censorship codes. Initially it was unclear how far censorship went. Social commentary was self-censored and women were practically absent from cinema screens for a number of years.

The seeds of a renaissance in quality film-making were signalled by Bahram Baiza'i's Cherikeh-ye Tara (Ballad of Tara, 1980) and Marg-e Yazd-e Gerd (Death of Yazd-e Gerd, 1982), and Amir Naderi's Jostoju (Search, 1982); although these films were banned in Iran. By the mid 1980s, official policy was changed in order to promote domestic film production. Old directors resurfaced and new ones emerged. Two extraordinary films released in 1985 drew the world's attention to Iran's revitalized cinema: Amir Naderi's Davandeh (The Runner, 1985) and Bahram Baiza'i's Bashu, gharibeh-ye kuchak (Bashu, the Little Stranger, 1985).

In Naderi's The Runner, an illiterate young orphan lives in a rusty abandoned oil tanker in a shantytown beside the Persian Gulf. The film honestly depicts a world of poverty, in which garbage collection and stealing are common ways of obtaining food. The boy survives by running faster than anyone else. Baiza'i's Bashu is set against the backdrop of the Iran-Iraq war (1980-89), a conflict in which half a million Iranian's died. It depicts a child witnessing the destruction wrought by the war, especially the enforced migration of women and children. Bashu migrates to an area of Iran where he is a stranger - to the language, culture and climate. The varied landscapes of Iran are effectively utilized and the universal theme of closeness to nature is drawn upon, with man's closeness to animals being associated with pre-Revolutionary times. Without overtly criticising the Islamic Revolution, the film draws attention to a rich pre-Revolutionary Iranian culture.

Baiza'i's Mosaferan (Travellers, 1992) draws on a theatrical tradition (Baiza'i is also one of the country's leading playwrights) and makes a virtue of its single house location - a necessity due to the low level of funding available. Baiza'i later returned to animal symbolism in Sag-Koshi (Killing Mad Dogs, 2001), in which a rabid dog is used as a metaphor for corruption in modern-day Iran. The rabid dog is contrasted with images of man-dog relationship that symbolize aspects of Iranian culture that are more in-tune with tradition and nature. Baiza'i's uncompromising films have been difficult to make, because of constant state surveillance, and to exhibit in Iran. These are also familiar problems to other directors in Iran who strive to make personal, challenging and innovative films.

Dariush Mehrjui (whose landmark film The Cow was made in 1969) returned to film-making after the Islamic Revolution, with Ejarehneshinha (Tenants, 1986), Madreseh-e keh miraftim (School We Went To, 1989) and Hamoun (1990). A trilogy of his films, Sara (1994), Pari (1995) and Leila (1996), explored the lives of women in modern Iranian society. The films take on the aura of Greek theatre as the women succumb to tragic fates, through no fault of their own, in a male-dominated world. The films implicate the urban middle classes for not standing up for moral decency and culture.

Mohsen Makhmalbaf rose to prominence with his films Dastforoush (The Peddler, 1986), Arusi-ye Khuban (Marriage of the Blessed, 1988), and Nasereddin Shah, aktor-e sinema (Once Upon a Time Cinema, 1992). His reputation was consolidated with Gabbeh (1995) and A Moment of Innocence (1996). Makhmalbaf's visually-rich films make effective use of documentary elements. In Kandahar (Safar 頇andehar, 2001), an Afghan journalist, Nafas, returns to her homeland from exile in Canada, after receiving a letter from her sister. The sister intends to commit suicide during an imminent eclipse of the sun, because she cannot endure life under the Taliban rule. The film depicts the obstacles she encounters trying to reach her sister in Kandahar. The film is full of telling and sometimes surreal images, such as the artificial limbs being parachuted into a Red Cross camp for landmine victims. The burkha is used as a symbol of repression throughout, with Nafas constantly lifting hers (as bright sunlight streams through its holes). Based on the true experiences of Afghan exile Nelofer Pazira (who is cast as Nafas in the film), Kandahar realistically depicts the personal tragedy and poverty caused by the conflict in Afghanistan. Real people populate the film, in this case Afghan refugees in the border village of Niatak, where there is no electricity, no clean water and inadequate sewage treatment. Yet, this is shown to be preferable to the dangerous conditions inside Afghanistan. George W. Bush was said to have seen this film before he went to war in Afghanistan. However, his stupid sabre-rattling "Axis of Evil" speech in the following year did no favours to Iranian film-makers or progressive reformers in Iran. Makhmalbaf walks a difficult tightrope in Kandahar. The Iranian authorities were said to be keen on a film that showed Afghanistan refugees as undesirables, yet the Taliban's treatment of women could be read by extension as a critique of the Islamic regime in Iran. Ultimately, the film's powerful mix of fiction and documentary is finely judged.

For me, the most interesting Iranian film-maker is Abbas Kiarostami. His subtle cinema builds upon a highly significant mise-en-sc讥 and slowly reveals information, giving audiences the space to think. It is cinema that resonates, rather than cinema that dictates, with a lasting rather than immediate power. Kiarostami has tended to blur the distinction between feature film and documentary, particularly in his early work. The line between fact and fiction is particularly fluid, for example, in Mashq-e shab (Homework, 1988) and Namayeh Nazdik (Close-Up, 1989). A self-reflexive approach is used to analyse the nature of identity, freedom and expression, to ask questions of cinema itself, and to arrive obliquely at truths (that might be difficult to arrive at directly given the political climate). In Homework, pupils at a school are questioned about their homework. They invariably lie about preferring homework to a range of other activities. From a simple set-up, this sophisticated piece of cin魡 v鲩t馣060;/i> evolves into a critique of the whole education system in modern Iran. Filmed during the Iran-Iraq war, it suggests that education has become little more than the re-iteration of militaristic propaganda.

The story of a conman Hossian Sabzian (played by himself) who impersonates the famous film director Mohsen Makhmalbaf is told in Close-Up; a film based on fact. Sabzian's real-life trial is reconstructed, as are his encounters with the family who accuse him of fraudulently obtaining money from them, because they believed him to be Makhmalbaf, and with the journalist who attempts to unravel the truth. The film then deconstructs notions of truth versus falsehood (documentary versus fiction). This intelligent and funny film concludes with the family dropping the charges and Mohsen Makhmalbaf (playing himself) forgiving the movie-fanatic Sabzian for his fraudulent impersonation.

Kiarostami's films are full of poetry and painterly images. There is a line back from modern Iranian cinema to the ancient oral Persian storytellers and poets, via the Rubai'yat of Omar Khayy᭮ Sitting awkwardly alongside modern Islamic fundamentalism is a strand of culture imbued with such poetry and echoes of Zoroastrianism, the religion that once dominated Persia, seen in the looming presence of towers and burial mounds in barren and beautiful landscapes. The mysticism that comes from these ancient sources permeates many of Kiarostami's films. This is evident, for example, in Zhaneh-Je Doost Kojast (Where is the Friend's House?, 1987), Zendegi va digar hich (And Life Goes On, 1992) and Through the Olive Trees (Zir-e darakhtan-e zeyton, 1994), films in which landscape art is a major influence. The central film of this trilogy was set amidst the devastation caused by the 1990 earthquake in Northern Iran.

In Kiarostami's A Taste of Cherry (Ta'ame-Gilas, 1997) a man drives around in his car looking for someone who will help him commit suicide, by burying his dead body. Suicide is forbidden to Muslims and he finds it difficult to find an accomplice. Eventually a museum guard agrees, but in return wants to know how it is possible to want to die when the wonders of nature are all around. The film is typical in that there are few interiors, but many haunting landscapes, which become integral to the protagonist's moral and psychological predicament. Cars are used to good effect by Kiarostami, for example, to symbolize a journey or to act as a fixed and moving frame. Ten (2001) is shot entirely from the front of a car and looks like a documentary. It examines the predicament of women in present-day Tehran, as well as exploring the usual Kiarostami themes (e.g. the relationship between truth, reality and fiction) in a moving yet playful manner.

Kiarostami's The Wind Will Carry Us (Bad mara khahad bourd, 1999) is simply one of the best films of recent years (by anyone, anywhere). An unnamed engineer and his colleagues from Tehran arrive (getting lost en route) in the small village of Siah Dereh in the mountains of Iranian Kurdistan. The car is a rare sight in this village, which appears excluded from the benefits of modern technology. The engineer's mission is obscure. He appears to be there to record an ancient mourning ceremony, but lies about this to the locals. The old lady he seeks is holding out against death, however, which is not what the engineer wants to hear. The film is a beautiful meditation on progress versus tradition, and technology versus nature. The film is one of great seriousness, but it is also witty (in a running joke the engineer has to constantly drive up a hill to answer his mobile phone) and full of unforgettable images. If the engineer represents progress, the villagers represent the ancient customs, traditions, rituals and beliefs of Iran that refuse to roll over and die. The film is a social commentary concerning rural life and examines the dilemma of intellectuals in modern-day Iran, but it is ultimately more concerned with universal truths about life and civilization.

The life of the village is finely observed. Typically for modern Iranian cinema, real people are filmed in real situations and a child plays a key role. The engineer befriends a young boy called Farzad, who he helps with his school work. In turn, the boy becomes his guide and informer ("She's getting better!"). Up on the hill, a labourer (unseen and below the ground) is continually digging a "telecommunications" ditch in a graveyard (his own grave?). He sends the engineer to fetch milk from the village. The engineer recites a poem, The Wind Will Carry Us by Forough Farrokhzad (1935-1967) to the labourer's girlfriend as she milks a cow in a darkened cellar (the cow symbolizing the values of love and beauty that have been driven underground). The poem echoes the philosophy of Khayy᭠and calls on its readers to savour life and the natural world, and to live for the present. It is unclear whether the engineer really understands its meaning. Farrokhzad is one of Iran's foremost twentieth century poets, but her intellectual and secular vision of Iran has met with official disapproval. The Islamic Revolutionaries denounced Khayy᭧s Rubai'yat as the work of a heretic.

On the engineer's fifth uphill trip to take a call, he finds the ditch has caved in. He is reluctant to help the man himself, but alerts the villagers and a doctor is called. "It's a miracle he survived", says the doctor, who demands that the labourer be given more oxygen else he might suffocate. Clearly no-one in this village is keen to die while the engineer is there. Later, the doctor and the engineer drive through the spectacular scenery around the village (e.g. billowing barley, the single tree on the brow of the hill) and the doctor (quoting Khayy᭩ talks about the importance of holding onto life while there is so much of beauty and wonder in the world. Despite his education, however, the poetry of nature is lost on the privileged outsider. He leaves the village, and washes its dust off his car. The film's leisurely pace leaves plenty of room for its philosophical investigations to develop.

An increasing number of women directors emerged during the 1980s, including Rakhshan Bani-Etemad (e.g. Kharej az mahdudeh / Off Limits, 1987), Puran Derakhshandeh (e.g. Parandeh-ye kuchak-e khoshbakhti / The Little Bird of Happiness, 1989) and Tahmineh Milani (e.g. Tazeh cheh khabar / What's New?, 1992). Rakhshan Bani-Etemad's Under the Skin of the City (Zir-e Poost-e Shahr, 2000) is an important recent film, marking a tougher direction in Iranian cinema. Set in contemporary Tehran, it presents a vision of a society undergoing profound change, while trying to balance tradition and modernization. It tackles the treatment of women, juvenile alienation, the impacts of globalization and more, with visually arresting images and a great deal of passion.

Samira Makhmalbaf, the daughter of Mohsen Makhmalbaf, made her directorial debut with The Apple (Sib, 1997). The film is a lightly fictionised account of two innocent 12-year old sisters who have spent their lives locked up at home by their over-protective parents. A social worker ensures that this situation cannot continue. The girls suddenly find themselves wandering the streets of Tehran for the first time, in scenes where the film becomes closest to documentary. The film relates a simple and charming tale of how the girl's cope with their freedom, but it is also an unsentimental depiction of the strict traditions that influence family life. Typically, image rather then dialogue is the key to the film (e.g. the gift of mirrors, the apple tantalisingly dangling on a string, and the sawn bars at the backdoor). The film can be read as a metaphor for a nation emerging from protective custody.

In Blackboards (Takhte Siah, 2000), Samira Makhmalbaf depicts a group of itinerant teachers in Iranian Kurdistan, near the Iraqi border, who are searching for pupils to teach. They carry their blackboards on their backs as they trail up steep mountain passes. The blackboards are also used as shields and camouflage against military helicopter surveillance and attack, as stretchers and splits to treat the injured, and as a form of currency (a dowry). The film depicts the devaluing of knowledge in a brutal and lawless world. The boys encountered by the Kurdish teachers are unconvinced that education will better their lives. The harsh reality of life is offset by beautiful, surreal and symbolic images of the mountains. The border divides Kurdistan, and the final bleak fog-bound image is of a group of boys and teachers who attempt the dangerous frontier crossing.

A generation of independent Iranian directors is emerging who form part of a wider social movement that seeks progressive reforms. These include wider freedom of speech, greater equality for women, and a greater separation of religion and secular aspects of state. The election of Seyyed Mohammed Khatami in May 1997 gave reformists hope. This hope is evident, for example, in Samira Makhmalbaf's The Apple. Khatami was re-election in June 2001, with 77 per cent of the popular vote, but there have been serious setbacks, including crackdowns on pro-reformist newspapers and intellectuals. The future is uncertain. In addition to the film directors already mentioned, I'll consider the films of two other rising stars of Iranian cinema: Abolfazl Jalili and Jafar Panahi (although other directors that should be noted include Parviz Shahbazi, Rassul Sadr Ameli, Majid Majidi, Hassan Yektapanah, Bahman Farman Ara and Bahman Ghobadi).

Abolfazl Jalili's distinctive vision permeates films that include Dorna (1990), Det Means Girl (1994), A True Story (1996), and Dance of Dust (Raghs-E-khak, 1998). Dance of Dust tells the story of an 11-year old boy labourer Llia, who works in a brick kiln in a remote area of Iran. He befriends a mysterious girl called Limua, who comes to the kiln with her mother for seasonal work. This beautiful film is almost dialogue-free, with the two children establishing a strong relationship based on looks alone. Delbaran (2002) concerns a typical 14-year old Afghan refugee called Kaim (mother killed, father fighting for the Northern Alliance), who finds employment at a truck-stop in the border town of Delbaran. He repairs the ailing vehicles of the region. The broken-down machinery becomes a metaphor for the fragility of life. The film begins and ends with the young man running, while the drone of war planes is a constant feature in the sky. The story is told through vivid images and has an unexpected humour and lightness of touch, in contrast to the director's more downbeat early work. Jalili's films mix harsh realism, as the protagonist's difficult lives are documented, with a poetic lyricism, which is typical of recent Iranian cinema.

Jafar Panahi (a former assistant to Kiarostami) made his directorial debut with The White Balloon (Badkonak-E Sefid, 1995), in which a seven-year old girl goes to market, but loses the money her mother has given her to buy a goldfish. Set on the streets of Tehran in "real time" leading up to the New Year (March 21), the film builds through a series of finely observed incidents. The child's point of view is used to telling effect, to create a great anxiety about the adult world on the streets. A young Afghan boy with a white balloon helps her retrieve her money from a drain. In Dayereh (The Circle, 2000) a succession of four women are depicted struggling against the overt sexism of modern Iranian society. The film deals with controversial issues, including abortion, prostitution and divorce. Filmed on the streets with a mobile hand-held camera, the action switches from one main character to another, suggesting that the characters could be any woman (Panahi has hinted that although filmed as one day, the characters can be read as one woman at different stages of her life). The Circle has been universally praised, but due to its subject matter it has never been released in Iran.

Iranian film has a distinctive look and feel, in part because of censorship restrictions. Films about children are common (e.g. Bashu, The Runner, Where is the Friend's House?, Homework, The Apple, Dance of Dust, Delbaran, The White Balloon). Majid Majidi's The Father (1996) and The Colour of Paradise (1999), and Rassul Sadr Ameli's The Girl in the Sneakers (Dokhtari Ba Kafsh-hay-e Katani, 1999), are further recent examples. This is partly because films with simple stories revolving around children are not scrutinized so closely by the regulators. A range of complex and profound meaning, however, can be arrived at through seemingly straightforward children's stories. The trials of children enable social criticisms to be made without making forbidden or direct criticism of the Islamic regime.

Directors have to find solutions when censorship constrains their means of expression. Censorship dictates that women can only be shown wearing the hajib (headscarf). Panahi has related how he filmed women outdoors in The Circle because he did not want to film a lie about them wearing the hajib in their own homes. Nevertheless, women now feature prominently in Iranian films and social issues relating to women (and children) have become a key theme in Iranian cinema. The gaze is no longer averted, but can be direct and even erotically charged. Most Iranian films continue to be uncontroversial, conform to genre, and are made for local distribution; although the new generation of directors are making an increasing number of quality films that are personal, challenging and original. However, a number of important Iranian films have been banned from home exhibition, where their impact in terms of a debate within society is weakened. Meanwhile, films by Iran's top directors are increasingly being made for the international market. The role of Iranian cinema under these circumstances has itself becoming a theme in recent films (e.g. Under the Skin of the City, 2000, which is banned in Iran).

Iranian films make a virtue out of their (deceptive) simplicity. They are often subtle and intelligent. They make good use of symbols and mise-en-sc讥 and are frequently shot on location, with some of the most breathtaking landscape photography in modern cinema. Their narratives have universal appeal. The humanity of individuals is frequently foregrounded. They are serious, but are also often playful and have a wry humour. They borrow from a rich documentary tradition and are informative. The films can be beautiful and lyrical, but are grounded in a realism that is unsentimental. They are not bombastic and provide an audience with space to think. Indeed, the audience is often required to think. They do not have special effects, explosions, irrelevant loud music, or showy star turns. They therefore offer a refreshing alternative to ubiquitous mainstream Hollywood cinema, and by doing so have found a significant worldwide audience. A number of Iranian films have won major prizes at International Film Festivals, such as Cannes (e.g. A Taste of Cherry, The White Balloon). Several of today's great film directors are Iranian. They have struggled to make honest films, but have succeeded triumphantly to produce a body of work that is highly distinctive and that ranks among the best cinema produced anywhere in the world.

There is not enough room here to do justice to every significant Iranian film-maker. There are many other recent films worth seeing. However, I hope this essay has achieved its aim, and made you want to seek out some of the wonderful films I have mentioned.

References and Further Reading