Before getting to the main point, I would like to write a brief explanation about the cinemas known in Germany as “Programmkino.” These cinemas, which exist throughout the country, are known for screening high-quality and cultural films for serious film lovers and for audiences who are intellectually curious. They are theaters that usually stand on their own feet, have no government affiliation, and do not sell popcorn or soft drinks.
Of course, even among them there are cinemas that merely carry this title in appearance, while in reality they eat from both sides of the trough: secretly receiving government support while at the same time boasting about their independence. This introduction may seem unrelated to the main subject, yet its connection lies in gaining a deeper understanding of the tricks, political maneuvering, and cultural and festival-related double standards that exist. For that reason, this seemingly indirect reference is necessary for the potential readers of this note.
The story refers to a night when I, together with a group of friends, went to one of these cinemas to watch the film “It Was Just a Simple Accident” by Jafar Panahi.
Given the extensive publicity surrounding the film—and the claim that it had won the Palme d’Or at the Cannes International Film Festival and had been submitted to the Oscars by France—many people were quite curious to see it.
During the screening, the constant whispering among the audience in the theater made me curious about how the film was being received. I myself quietly pointed out the film’s technical mistakes and faulty découpage to my companion, who responded with a restrained smirk. Perhaps I counted more than twenty technical errors in the film’s sloppy découpage, and even noticed that an actor was absent in several different scenes. I was so astonished that I could hardly believe what I was seeing.
Eventually the film ended. As we were leaving the cinema, an elderly woman approached us and, apologizing politely, began a conversation about the film. She said: “I was sitting behind you in the theater. I noticed that you, like me, were discussing the quality of the film. To be honest, I was quite irritated by it and wanted to ask your opinion.”
Before saying anything myself, I asked her: “Did you like the film?” She shrugged her shoulders and said: “Oh no…! I am the editor-in-chief of the cultural section of the newspaper Westfalen. I have loved cinema since my youth and I am one of the most loyal patrons of this theater. But in this film I sensed the smell of pretense, hypocrisy, and carelessness. For example, how did the motorcycle suddenly turn into a van? How was it that sometimes the actress wore a headscarf and at other times she did not?”
I replied: “Madam, we are just spectators like you. You should ask these questions of the film’s director.” But she was clearly quite frustrated. Realizing that we were Iranian, she seemed eager to vent her complaints at us. “Did you notice that in several different scenes the female actor disappears, and when she returns her mood in front of the camera is completely different from the earlier scenes? Sir, I have traveled to Iran three times. Each time I interviewed pedestrians in the street, and since it was obvious that I was a foreigner, authorities would immediately appear and ask for permits—from me and from the translator who had been introduced to me by the Ministry of Culture, to whom I had to pay a hundred dollars a day.
So how is it possible to make an underground film in such a controlled environment?” In short, she kept talking and talking, and we patiently listened.
Now, as I write this note in the midst of the horrifying atmosphere of bombardment and war in my country, and while I myself am hospitalized because of a heart condition, my intention is not to review the film. I do not wish to write about its many shortcomings and flaws—which would take too long, and you would probably have no patience to read them.
My words here are addressed to Mr. Jafar Panahi, a filmmaker about whom the late Abbas Kiarostami once said, during a trip to Paris to a friend who had accompanied him to the airport: “I am happy to be going to Paris, but I am sad when the French ask me: ‘When Jafar Panahi is in prison, why don’t you do something for him?’ And I cannot tell them the truth. Yet sooner or later, the sun will emerge from behind the clouds.”
Just as today our land and our people stand proud under the heaviest bombardments by America and its allies. I wish, dear Mr. Panahi, that you—like many other artistic and cultural figures—would give up the lust for fame, remain loyal to your homeland, and abandon begging for prizes from the Oscars. I wish.
As Foroughi Bastami once said: “If you wish, O heart, to befriend that stranger within yourself, First you must empty the house of strangers.”
