The Old Bachelor, a landmark film in Iranian cinema, draws its distinctive strength from the way it uses the language of psychology to expose power structures and the wider social order. The film operates on two main levels: on one, it invites a psychological reading that could be the subject of specialist analysis; on another, it develops into a socio-political critique rooted in the family relationships at its core. At the centre of this world stands the father, the figure around whom all the damage and cruelty revolve. His presence is deeply unsettling, but he is not a clichéd villain. Grounded in a precise understanding of “malignant narcissism,” a severe, sadistic form of narcissistic personality disorder (NPD), this character—through Hassan Pourshirazi’s outstanding performance—becomes one of the most convincing and complex portraits of evil in Iranian cinema, and at the same time can be read as a stand-in for an authoritarian “totalitarian regime.” The Old Bachelor is rich in symbols, yet they are so tightly woven into the fabric of its realism that they never overpower the film’s credibility or its internal logic. In what follows, I briefly outline part of the story—without spoiling the film’s major surprises for viewers who have not yet seen it—and then turn to the film’s second layer: the way its characters and symbols open onto a wider social and political reading.
Gholam Bastani, a tyrannical, addicted, and vicious father, fraudulently seized a house in the early years after Iran’s revolution—a house that had originally belonged to his first wife’s father—and after four decades, he has turned this once-prime property into a ruin. While the neighbours have renovated and expanded their homes, he stubbornly refuses any change, despite his sons’ repeated pleas, and blocks every attempt at rebuilding, clinging to his authority through sheer bullying. His sons live in poverty and are crushed under their father’s rule. Gholam deliberately keeps them poor and dependent in order to maintain control. Their only entertainment is a broken television set, and the house is overflowing with dirty dishes, yet Gholam buys a dishwasher and hands a bag stuffed with cash to “Rana,” the young woman living upstairs. His sons’ lives have been stuck in an exhausting limbo for years; all they can do is wait for their despotic father to die so they can finally rebuild the house.
The father, the central figure of the film, is the source from which every crisis and turning point grows directly out of his choices and actions. His name, “Gholam Bastani” (literally “slave of the past”), already suggests that he himself was once the victim of a similar patriarchal system—someone crushed under an oppressive father who has now, within the same pattern, turned into a monster and is passing that violence on, turning his own children into the next victims in the chain. He has been broken under the weight of a brutal father, and his behaviour now displays the full profile of what clinical psychology calls “malignant narcissism,” a severe, sadistic form of narcissistic personality disorder (NPD). The traits of this personality structure line up almost exactly with the logic of a “totalitarian regime”: a system that seeks absolute control over every aspect of public—and even private—life, concentrates power in the hands of a single leader or party, imposes a single ideology, and relies on propaganda and harsh repression to keep the entire society under its thumb. In the paragraphs that follow, I first trace how this structure appears in the film’s characters and symbols, and then connect it to the mechanisms of a totalitarian order.
Ali, the forty-year-old eldest son, used to work in a bookshop, but after being humiliated at work, he has withdrawn, is riddled with anxiety, and now barely leaves the house. He should legally be the owner of the house, yet he remains trapped in it under his father’s rule. With his clenched fists and bottled-up anger, he seems in every way the opposite of his father: quiet, obedient, conflict-averse, a man who has never had a relationship with a woman. In an authoritarian system, Ali stands in for intellectuals who are pushed to the margins or forced into silence at home.
Reza, his half-brother, works in real estate. He is very different from Ali in temperament, but he is also a victim and, at the same time, carries the potential to continue his father’s legacy. Growing up under a violent, domineering father has left him with a split, conflicted personality, and lying has become one of his main defence mechanisms. Reza embodies that flexible, self-interested social class that survives by adapting to the regime, cutting deals, and lying whenever necessary to protect its own interests.
Ali and Reza, in their apparent lack of reaction to their father’s humiliation and violence, may seem strange at first, but from a psychological perspective, their behaviour is entirely coherent. After years of being belittled and having their natural emotions suppressed, their bodies have been subjected to constant, chronic stress. As a defence mechanism, their emotional system has gradually shut down, leaving them in a state close to “emotional paralysis” – unable to react, or even to put their most basic feelings into words. This emotional numbness is a direct product of the suffocating atmosphere Gholam creates inside the family – and that totalitarian systems reproduce on a societal scale: a space where anger, protest, or even a different kind of joy can be dangerous, and people learn to hide or suppress their emotions to stay alive. Their quarrel with the father over their inheritance becomes a metaphor for a people fighting an authoritarian regime for their most basic rights: they are beaten, wounded, killed, knocked down over and over again, yet eventually they rise again – battered and scarred – and deliver a decisive blow.
Rana, a divorced, elegant, and attractive woman, lives in the upstairs flat. Her family lives in Karaj: a father with serious mental health issues and a mother who is anxious, traditional, and controlling. After getting married, she found her way into Tehran’s artistic circles, but it never turned into a real career. She can neither go back to her family nor build a genuinely independent life. Most of her decisions come from a place of desperation rather than real choice, and that leaves her extremely vulnerable. Rana stands for women who attempt to carve out an independent life within this system, only to absorb the heaviest physical and psychological abuse.
The house, the film’s central and most powerful symbol, is a dark, chaotic building with damp-stained walls, cluttered rooms, and windows barred with iron. The space constantly evokes confinement and isolation. It becomes a metaphor for a closed, suffocated society that has been denied any real renewal for years and is now slowly decaying and falling apart.
The mirror, in this film, is the place where characters come face to face with their inner selves—the point where a quiet question surfaces: “How did I become this person?” After “Ali” fails even to take “Rana’s” hands in his, he sees himself in two mirrors: one clear, and inside it a smaller, dusty, clouded one. These mirrors echo two sides of Ali: on the surface, a seemingly obedient, numb self who has lost the ability to express emotion; beneath that, a dim, grimy face filled with rage and fear, buried deep inside him. Rana, too, confronts herself in the mirror. After accepting “Gholam’s” money, she wipes the steam from the bathroom mirror and suddenly faces a self whose boundaries have been broken; in that moment, she comes to the brink of suicide. “Reza” wipes the dust from his mother’s old mirror only to be confronted with his own distorted reflection—a face with a wig and lipstick, like a degraded doll on a stage. In this house, the mirror is where the mask slips: it is where each character briefly glimpses the person they have been turned into by years of domination and repression.
Gholam Bastani’s sword dance, one of the film’s most emblematic moments, is an exaggerated display of masculinity and power that exposes his pathological, narcissistic hunger for admiration. Earlier, he had handed “Rana” bundles of cash and, purely for the sake of showing off, asked her to spend the night on the couch in his apartment. The sword dance makes it clear that his whole life is built on empty performance, staged to cover up the emptiness and despair inside. In his eyes, the beautiful, “classy” Rana is not a person but a status symbol—a luxury object he can parade, like property, in order to feel important. By flaunting her presence, he tries to feed his narcissistic need for validation and bask in an illusion of grandeur.
Shoes, in this film, function as a symbol of power and control. When the father demands “Ali’s” shoes, he is effectively trying to confiscate the last sign of Ali’s independence and his ability to move, to act. Ali’s refusal to hand them over is one of his few moments of resistance to that confiscation. “Reza”, by contrast, takes back his slippers—the cheaper, downgraded version of shoes—and puts them on. The gesture suggests that, although he is a victim, he is unconsciously ready to continue Gholam’s path.
Rana’s shoes, in turn, reveal Gholam’s sexual repression and deviance. When “Rana” first enters the story, the camera briefly isolates her feet in feminine dress shoes; later, “Gholam” lifts her shoe to his face and smells it, making it clear that he uses this object as a stand-in for his repressed desires. This fetishistic relation to the shoe points to unresolved complexes and deep psychological trauma. His behaviour and the way he reduces women to objects reflect a history of intense sexual and emotional repression in his youth. In a conservative, patriarchal culture where sexuality is tightly controlled, such repression can resurface in adulthood as sexual fetishes (such as a foot fetish) and sadism—finding pleasure in humiliating and hurting others.
Parallels between “Gholam’s” “malignant narcissism” (NPD) and the logic of a “totalitarian regime”:
Grandiose sense of self, in Gholam, means he sees himself as the sole authority; his word is an unwritten law, and his sons must obey without the right to question him. In a totalitarian system, the leader is likewise placed beyond criticism and feels no need to be accountable.
Lack of empathy, for Gholam, shows in his having virtually no empathy for anyone, not even his own sons; their lives below the poverty line mean nothing to him. In totalitarian regimes, too, the suffering of citizens and the idea of human rights are effectively meaningless.
Craving for admiration, in Gholam, means that what he demands is not just obedience but fearful admiration. His relationship with the beautiful “Rana” stems from this pathological need to be admired. In a totalitarian system, the same logic applies: “forced admiration” is staged to stand in for genuine legitimacy.
Instrumental exploitation, in Gholam’s behaviour, appears in the way he sees the people around him purely as tools to satisfy his desires, just as citizens in a totalitarian state are reduced to instruments for carrying out the regime’s goals.
Evasion of responsibility, for Gholam, means he never takes responsibility for his actions; there is always someone else to blame. Totalitarian regimes function in the same way, constantly inventing or inflating an “eternal enemy” in order to deflect accountability.
Suspicion and paranoia, in Gholam’s world, take the form of distrusting everyone and constantly feeling surrounded by plots and betrayal. Totalitarian governments, with their built-in paranoia, use the same mindset to justify extreme surveillance and repression.
Sadism and systematic abuse, in Gholam’s exercise of power, are visible in the way he maintains his authority by endlessly humiliating and terrorising his sons. In the same way, a totalitarian regime relies on organised violence and torture, ruling through fear in order to secure its authority.
Gaslighting, deliberately twisting reality so that the victim doubts their own perception and becomes easier to control, is one of the key tools of a narcissist, and Gholam uses it repeatedly. In one scene, he keeps telling “Ali”, “You’re blushing,” until Ali, who knows he isn’t, starts doubting himself and asks “Reza” several times, “Am I red?”, slowly losing trust in his own senses. He does the same to Reza by constantly calling him a bastard, loading him with shame and confusion about his identity, and weakening him from within. Ali’s conversation with Rana about “right-eye” and “left-eye” vision is, in fact, an attempt to separate reality from the distorted stories he has heard all his life under such a father, and it exposes the inner split caused by long-term gaslighting. On a larger scale, totalitarian systems use propaganda and censorship in a similar way: they construct inverted narratives, talk about “prosperity” in the middle of economic collapse, and dismiss clear signs of breakdown as mere pessimism or the work of hostile enemies.
Trump’s image, in a key scene, “Gholam Bastani” suddenly snaps out of his drugged haze when he sees Donald Trump on television and starts praising him with excitement. Trump functions as a kind of mirror, reflecting back the idealised version of himself: a power-hungry, self-righteous man who distorts reality and is ravenous for admiration—the very pattern Gholam has enacted on the domestic scale. In another shot, Trump’s image appears on the cracked television screen while Gholam stands behind it; this composition makes the link between individual malignant narcissism and global, power-driven ideologies explicit. In this mise-en-scène, Gholam, as the “domestic model,” stands behind the scratched, flickering image of the “global model,” and the broken, unstable screen underlines the fragility of this kind of power. In this way, Gholam at the level of the family, the totalitarian system at the level of the state, and Trump as a global public figure emerge as three manifestations of the same underlying structure: a form of narcissistic power.
Acting, a large share of the film’s force comes from its performances, especially Hassan Pourshirazi’s work as the father. He plays a role that could easily have slipped into a clichéd villain, but he handles it with sharp control, bringing out the contradictions in “Gholam”—his power and fragility, his cruelty and his own woundedness—and creates a completely believable figure of a middle-aged, addicted man with a serious personality disorder. Hamed Behdad, as “Ali”, works in a sharply contrasting acting style to Pourshirazi. His performance is entirely introverted: through small, contained gestures and very little outward expression, he convincingly embodies “emotional paralysis” and the inability to act. Leila Hatami, as “Rana”, relies on minimalist acting—a tightly controlled, understated presence that conveys the character’s psychological pain and desperation. Mohammad Valizadegan, as “Reza”, blends fear, compliance, humiliation, and rebellion, shaping a character suspended between breaking away and repeating his father’s path. Taken together, this stylistic coherence among the performances underlines Octay Baraheni’s precise direction and the film’s carefully constructed psychological tone.
Ultimately, The Old Bachelor is destined to endure in Iranian cinema, and it has a great deal to say to international audiences. It is truly unfortunate, though hardly surprising, that it never made it to the Oscars. All the key elements of the film—from cinematography and lighting to production design, music, and acting style—are finely tuned to its psychological world and to reflecting the characters’ inner lives. The Old Bachelor shows how the cycle of patriarchy perpetuates itself, producing seriously disturbed personalities who go on to destroy other people’s lives. At the same time, on a deeper symbolic level, the film’s motifs carry meanings that feel painfully familiar to those of us who have spent years in an authoritarian, suffocating atmosphere—generations whose lives have been suspended in a long, exhausting limbo, who have grown old without ever really having had a youth. All of this forms part of the bitter reality of a society that is slowly falling apart, a reality that The Old Bachelor holds up to us like a mirror.
