Spring has arrived—a season that always promises that winter, with all its cold and darkness, has packed its bags and gone. People hold on to the hope that hardships will end. Nothing endures; the essence of everything is impermanence.
A few nights ago, I watched the film Safar-e Sang (The Stone Journey) by Masoud Kimiai for the second time. The film tells the story of a feudal landlord in a village who exploits the people and prevents them from having their own mill. Monopoly is a tool of dictators and tyrants. A stranger, who accidentally learns about the situation, helps a minority of villagers move a millstone from the heart of the mountain toward the village. But the people—bought off by the landlord with promises and money—stand in the way. In the end, however, the millstone destroys the landlord’s house—the house of oppression and injustice.
The film was made one year before the Iranian Revolution, roughly during a time when discussions of regime change were already taking place inside homes.
Years ago, in literary and artistic circles, there was an ongoing debate about the function of art. Does the artist bear a responsibility toward society, or should they merely be the spokesperson of their own inner self? Jean-Paul Sartre examines this very issue in his book What Is Literature? Likewise, Eugène Ionesco once said at a writers’ congress: “If we imagine literature as a building, its ‘function’ may change under different governments. Therefore, literature is not function. Literature is the building itself—the bricks themselves. Literature has an inherent independence.” The world has already experienced socialist realism. By what criteria, then, do great works ultimately endure?
There were also controversies surrounding this film—some even claimed that it had predicted the Islamic Revolution of Iran. The story itself is based on the play Sang va Sornā (Stone and the Reed Pipe) by Behzad Farahani. I find myself wondering: if we consider this film within the realm of epic cinema, is our society today also passing through a similar phase in the face of global superpowers?
We know that Persian literature after Islam began with epic poetry, led by Ferdowsi. Epic spirit cannot be artificially injected into a society; it must already exist within its atmosphere. In Kimiai’s later films, we no longer see that same epic spirit. And is not the artist a mirror of their time? Kimiai never abandoned the creation of heroes, but the fate of his heroes is rarely aligned with the traditional epic tone. In many of his works, the hero’s end is dark and bitter. Yet in Safar-e Sang, the palace of oppression is destroyed, and the hero survives.
Let us remember that in epic literature, the hero never dies in public view. Death and illness seem to have no tangible existence for them. In the history of Persian literature, whenever a large and enlightened collective unites toward a national goal, this shared mindset naturally generates movement and dynamism—and this movement is reflected in literature and art. We can point to historical turning points: the Constitutional Revolution, the period after the 1953 coup, and the post-revolutionary era.
After the Mongol invasion, classical Persian literature turned toward mysticism. When neither wisdom nor the strength of Rostam’s arm could prevail, humanity sought refuge in the sound of the reed flute—in recounting separation, sorrow, and longing:
“Listen to the reed, how it tells a tale,
complaining of separations…”
When a person realizes they cannot fix the outside world, they retreat inward. Reason is set aside, and isolation is chosen. When a society, in its deeper layers, turns toward withdrawal, its poetry and storytelling follow the same path. If this perspective lacks depth, it becomes the superficial mysticism of later centuries—a play with words, where appearances replace genuine thought. Society moves on the surface, and literature follows.
So now, at this moment, we must ask: Are we epic beings? Is our society epic? Does today’s viewer, upon watching Safar-e Sang, feel stirred to rise against oppression? Is awareness of injustice enough to provoke action, or are other elements required?
An old friend calls every early spring and speaks of the feeling of the season. We share many thoughts: the smell of damp wood after rain, a house in an imagined village, distant dreams—like renting a home in Masuleh, waking up early, walking to the bakery, then sitting together in a teahouse among old men, drinking tea, looking out at the fog, and reading:
“How beautiful the forests are; they belong to the people…
Are you not tired?
Oh my dear soul…
I told you—Mirza Kuchik Khan…”
And we think of the tragic end of the hero Mirza Kuchik Khan. In our conversations, beauty always outweighs the bitterness of the hero’s death. But we are not a reliable measure for society at large. It seems to me that these days we behave heroically more in words than in action. In reality, we retreat inward, clinging to beauty. If beauty and love are taken from us, it feels as though something essential is lost. We have become servants of images—of seas, forests, waterfalls, and flowing hair. Without them, the world becomes unbearable.
My friend is now ill, and hopeless. I recall The Last Leaf by O. Henry. The story of the sick girl who believes she will die when the last leaf falls—and the old painter who, knowing this, paints a leaf on the wall so she will keep living, though he himself dies. The painter had always wanted to create a masterpiece and never could. Was his final motivation the beauty of the girl?
Perhaps the world still breathes because of beauty.
But my friend no longer sees the world through an epic lens. His is the gaze of someone who has surrendered. When people see that the mechanisms of the world are driven not by reason but by deception and propaganda, what hope remains? Yet sometimes this very despair can lead to profound change. Facing reality is bitter and overwhelming—but still better than the illusion of victory.
It seems we now understand that true joy can only exist if it is shared collectively. As long as sorrow surrounds us, seeking shallow happiness feels absurd. And so we push one another toward beauty—perhaps so that we ourselves may find some peace.
We spoke again of Safar-e Sang. We had read a quote from Kimiai saying: “Safar-e Sang is my heart.” But perhaps that is not entirely true. As one critic noted, what kind of heart is it that never appears again in his later works? We both love his films—Qeysar, The Deers (Gavaznha), Soltan, Snake Fang (Dandan-e Mar), and Feast (Ziyafat). Kimiai is a master of creating heroes, yet the trajectory of his films shows that the hero’s fate is ultimately one of defeat and bitterness—something incompatible with the spirit of epic.
Dr. Siroos Shamisa writes that one feature of epic literature is that a goddess or woman falls in love with the hero, but the hero remains indifferent. Like Ishtar and Gilgamesh, or Tahmineh and Rostam. Tahmineh comes to Rostam at night and says:
“If you desire me now, I am yours—
none shall see us but the birds and fish.”
In Safar-e Sang, there is no love. The stranger (played by Saeed Rad) is an idealist—strong, imposing, with piercing eyes—but profoundly alone. Perhaps he considers love beneath him. I think of my own generation: love was almost a taboo. Without even reading the Shahnameh, we waited for a Tahmineh to come and confess love to us. We lacked the courage to express it ourselves. Perhaps we saw ourselves as heroes—heroes who must not lower their gaze, who must always seek to create epic moments.
We did not know Abraham Maslow or his hierarchy of needs. To us, love and reason could not coexist. It was either love or reason. This duality has always existed—both politically and culturally.
I also think that world cinema has gone through similar historical phases. Films reflect their times. For example, Cinema Paradiso speaks of the condition of modern humanity, where nostalgia and a return to the past become central—unlike the forward-looking spirit of epic. In such films, retreating into memory takes precedence over envisioning the future.
