When a filmmaker does not make films, it is as if they are jailed. Even when they are freed from the small jail, they find themselves wandering in a larger jail. The main question is: Why should it be a crime to make a movie?
- Jafar Panahi (Translation)
When I was younger, I would plead with my parents not to watch Persian movies on a Saturday night on account of them being “too sad”—instead begging to watch Western movies for a happier, more gratifying ending.
A losing battle.
The thing that scared me the most was that, in reality, sometimes, the heroes didn't get their happy ending. The kid never found his friend's house. Prawns do not activate your inner genius. And those young girls will never make it into the stadium.
And when my sister and I would cry through tears, “Why on earth would you make us watch that?!” to our Maman and Baba, they’d simply remark, “Because this is real life, azizam. You want a happy ending? Go watch a shallow Hollywood movie.”
This year's Sydney Film Festival (SFF) was hallmarked by the appearance of Jafar Panahi, director and producer of the award-winning film It was just an Accident, with sold-out screenings at various cinemas across Sydney. In tribute to Panahi, the New South Wales Art Gallery presented a ‘Retrospective’ of his previous works. I was lucky enough to see five of these feature films.
I could not shake how Panahi said so much while he had a regime targeting him, trying to force him into silence.
For readers who may be unaware, the government of the Islamic Republic of Iran views cinema as a symbol of “Cultural Invasion”. This is governed by a supervisory board known as the ‘Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance’, set up after the Islamic Revolution in 1979. This body requires all artists to have a permit to create their works, ensuring that they abide by ‘Islamic Values’. The works go through countless screenings at all stages of production, and sometimes, when artists finish their work, the body may change its mind. It is not uncommon for artists to be sent to prison, accused of social protest or a lack of adequate censorship. Panahi has been imprisoned twice and was banned from filmmaking for 20 years. Despite this, he has produced films under house arrest, including This Is Not a Film (2011), Closed Curtain (2013) and Taxi (2015), which won him the Golden Bear at the Berlinale Film Festival. In a sold-out Directors Masterclass, I was lucky enough to attend at the end of SFF, he stated that his recent award-winning film was a manifestation of his time in prison, although he didn’t know it at the time.
There is a certain irony in the fact that the failure of the regime to silence these voices has led to more creative cinema produced by Persian filmmakers. Their experiences of torture, imprisonment, their time spent in solitary confinement and the stories that they heard from their fellow inmates have accorded them standing ovations and accolades. Every rule of censorship is thought of not as a dead end, but as an alternative route.
And maybe that’s just what makes them so impactful.
Prior to the screening of his film The White Balloon, Panahi explained that one of the ways Persian directors engage in social commentary at the beginning of their career—under such a critical regime—is by using the stories of children as a vessel to reflect society at large. Panahi stated, “My earlier works may be about children, but they are not for children”.
New-wave Persian cinema relies on two things: innovation and courage. Watch any of these post-revolution films—they are visual poetry. Where the regime says two characters of separate genders who are neither related nor married cannot share a heartfelt moment on camera, film practitioners say, “Ok fine, we'll use the intimacy of space to show it instead.” More often than not, this will be a car, a liminal space between public and private. It is where the regime is not looking for filmmakers to do a sleight of hand.
The Islamic Republic has done an excellent job at one thing—shooting itself in the foot. Rebellion has become akin to the Persian cinematic genre, making waves as a result. It Was Just an Accident, took out the Palme d’Or at the Cannes Festival and won at the SFF. And it’s not just Panahi in the spotlight; this year's Academy Awards saw two Persian films nominated, with In the Shadow of the Cypress taking home the Oscar for Best Animated Short Film.
I remember harbouring a certain level of resentment towards those filmmakers for subjecting me to cinema that felt like a death by a thousand cuts every Saturday night. It is only now, as an adult, that, in the words of a very dear friend of mine, “I feel a certain duty to watch these movies”, knowing that these creatives worked while suppressed under a totalitarian regime, risking their lives for their messages to be heard. These stories are an extension of their reality, experiences and hope. Who am I to say they are “too sad”?
As a member of the Iranian diaspora, seeing all my khales and amoos, hearing my mother tongue at each and every screening of Panahi’s films during the SFF reminded me that while we may be oceans away from the action, watching these films is still an act of resistance.
Here are my current top 5 Persian films if you, too, would like to delve into the genre;
Offside (2006), Panahi
Where’s Friends House? (1987), Abbas Kiarostami
It was Just an Accident (2025), Panahi
Children of Heaven (1997), Kiarostami
Leila’s Brother’s (2022), Saeed Roustayi
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