What follows is my conversation with Sohrab Khosravi, an editor whose professional journey began in animation before he became one of the key figures in Iran’s transition from film-based editing to the digital era. Over the years, he has collaborated with filmmakers such as Ebrahim Hatamikia, Majid Majidi, Kamal Tabrizi, and many others, building a body of experience that has become part of the living memory of contemporary Iranian cinema. Yet what makes this interview valuable to me is not merely the long list of acclaimed directors or celebrated films. What truly matters is Khosravi’s philosophy of editing.
For him, editing is far more than assembling shots into a coherent sequence. It is an ongoing dialogue with the film itself. Throughout our conversation, he returns repeatedly to that remarkable moment when a film gradually begins to reveal its own path to the editor—as if, even after principal photography has ended, the work of art remains alive, quietly searching for its final form in the darkness of the editing room.
Perhaps that is why, with each passing year, I have become more convinced that cinema’s greatest miracle does not occur in front of the camera, but behind the editing desk. It is there that images acquire memory, silence finds meaning, and time is rewritten one final time.
Bijan Tehrani: Let’s begin at the beginning. How did you first become interested in cinema? What inspired you to pursue this profession, and what is the earliest film you remember seeing?
Sohrab Khosravi: I was born into an artistic family. My mother, the late Fereshteh Kazerouni Timsar, was one of Iran’s distinguished graphic designers before the 1979 Revolution. She studied in France and, upon returning to Iran, joined the Ministry of Culture and Arts. She served as the graphic designer and art director of Honar va Mardom (Art and People) magazine and spent many years working in graphic design, publication layout, and advertising.
Growing up, I was constantly surrounded by art. My uncle, the late Dr. Jahangir Kazerouni, was not only a physician but also one of Iran’s leading collectors and gallery owners specializing in reverse-glass painting and East Asian art, particularly Japanese art. His collection included works by Sohrab Sepehri and many other prominent Iranian artists, and he published several books on the subject.
When I was six or seven years old, my mother often took me to the Ministry of Culture and Arts. There I became fascinated with pottery, clay, and handicrafts. Working with clay captivated me, and those childhood experiences planted the first seeds of my lifelong interest in the arts. Because my mother was a graphic designer, I naturally developed an interest in graphic arts as well. That interest gradually led me toward animation. I spent many years working in animation and was fortunate enough to find success in the field. From an early age, I was also fascinated by computers. I became one of the first people in Iran to seriously explore computer animation. I began working professionally when I was about fourteen or fifteen years old, and by the age of seventeen or eighteen I had opened my own studio.
At that studio, my team produced animated program segments and television graphics for Iran’s Channel One and Channel Two. At the time, this was highly specialized work and very few people possessed the necessary technical expertise, so there was no shortage of projects. My work in animation gradually introduced me to the world of post-production and film editing.
While working on a short project for Mohammad Ali Sheikh Tadi, I met Ebrahim Hatamikia, who was preparing to direct Dead Wave (Mowj-e Mordeh)—one of the first Iranian feature films to undergo a professional digital post-production workflow.
Hatamikia invited me to supervise the film’s post-production and digital visual effects. Although another editor handled the picture edit, I was responsible for overseeing the digital post-production pipeline and designing the visual effects. Dead Wave became one of the earliest Iranian films to complete a fully digital post-production process before being transferred back to 35mm film for theatrical release. That collaboration changed everything.
Mr. Hatamikia gradually developed confidence in my editing abilities. At first, he asked me to edit several individual scenes. Later he entrusted me with editing The Purple Color (Be Rang-e Arghavan). After that came In the Name of the Father, for which I received a nomination for the Crystal Simorgh Award for Best Film Editing at the Fajr International Film Festival.
From that point on, offers to edit feature films became increasingly frequent. Eventually, I made the difficult decision to leave animation behind. Animation is, by its nature, an intensely collaborative process, and during those years producing animated films in Iran was exceptionally challenging. Editing, however, felt far more personal to me—almost like writing. Sitting behind the editing console, I felt I was creating the film all over again, but with a much smaller team and without the enormous logistical complexities of animation production. That realization ultimately convinced me to devote my professional life entirely to film editing.
BT: I have edited films myself for many years, and I have always believed that editing is a form of directing all over again—a stage where the filmmaker’s creative vision reaches its fullest expression. How do you define the nature of editing?
SK: If I had to divide editing into technical and creative components, I would say perhaps twenty or thirty percent of it is technical. The remaining seventy or eighty percent is entirely creative. Of course, creativity has its limitations because an editor works with material that has already been filmed by the director. Editing always reminds me of my childhood, when I worked with clay beside my mother. Someone else prepared the clay. It was high-quality clay, perfectly kneaded and ready to use. But it was your decision whether that clay became a vase, a bowl, or something entirely different. Editing is exactly the same.
If the footage is strong, naturally you have better raw material to work with. But in the end, it is the editor’s imagination and artistic vision that breathe life into those images. So I completely agree with your observation. In many respects, the editor truly becomes the film’s second director. Of course, we shouldn’t exaggerate the editor’s power. Editing cannot transform a failed film into a masterpiece. But it can elevate a good film into a great one, and it can significantly improve an average film. If the foundation of the film is fundamentally weak, editing cannot perform miracles. What it can do is reveal the strongest possibilities already hidden within the material.
BT: During your career, you’ve worked with many directors. Looking back, which collaboration has been the most rewarding for you?
SK: I belong to a generation of editors that stood precisely at the crossroads between traditional film editing and digital editing. Before computers entered the industry, I had worked with film negatives, although only for a relatively short period. Some of the early films I worked on with Ebrahim Hatamikia were still edited on 35mm film. Gradually, however, we entered the digital era. I believe I was among the first generation of Iranian editors to experience that transition firsthand—from Moviolas and flatbed editing tables to computer-based editing systems. There was tremendous resistance at the time.
Even within the Iranian Film Editors Association, some editors believed computers would destroy “the feeling of film.” They argued that editing had to be done physically on film and that computers could never replace the tactile relationship editors had with the negative. But I never believed art depended on the tool. Technology changes. The art does not. If I remember correctly, this was around 1996 or 1997. Nobody had prior experience. We were discovering the process ourselves, making mistakes, learning from them, and trying again. I was fortunate enough to go through that period alongside an extraordinary variety of filmmakers—from feature films to documentaries, television productions, and short films.
I worked with directors such as the late Yadollah Samadi, Ebrahim Hatamikia, Majid Majidi, Kamal Tabrizi, Maziar Miri, Nasser Saffarian, Mohammad Ali Raisian, and many others. Each of them became a school unto himself. From Hatamikia, more than anything else, I learned the importance of precision in shot design and narrative rhythm. Even then, he was one of Iran’s most meticulous directors, and for an editor that is the best possible environment in which to grow. Alongside feature films, I also edited an enormous number of television productions—well over one hundred films. That diversity gave me an experience I never could have acquired had I worked exclusively in cinema. Those years became my laboratory.
They allowed me to experiment constantly with different narrative structures, rhythms, editing styles, and collaborations with filmmakers who each viewed cinema differently. I sometimes feel younger editors today have fewer opportunities to experience that kind of artistic apprenticeship.
BT: Among all the films you’ve edited, if you had to choose only one as the defining work of your career, which would it be?
SK: That’s an almost impossible question because every film represents a different chapter of my life. If we’re talking about recognition, then Hot Summer (Tabestan-e Dagh) certainly stands out. Editing that film earned me the Crystal Simorgh Award for Best Film Editing at the Fajr International Film Festival, so naturally it occupies a special place in my heart. But if I were choosing simply based on personal affection, there are several other films that are equally meaningful to me. One is Abadan 11:60, directed by Mehrdad Khoshbakht.
My attachment to that film is deeply personal. My mother was from Bushehr, and I have always felt a profound emotional connection to southern Iran—especially Bushehr and Abadan. Because of that, the atmosphere of the film resonated with me on a very intimate level. Another film I truly love is Spider. Years later, another film dealing with the same subject was produced outside Iran, and I’ve often found it fascinating to compare the two—not only in terms of directing but also editing. Whenever someone asks me about Spider, I encourage them to watch both versions before reaching any conclusions. Even for me, that comparison remains extremely interesting. But honestly, I cannot reduce my career to a single title.
Over the years I have edited feature films, documentaries, and television productions. Some of those television films, despite being made for TV, are every bit as rich and cinematic as theatrical features. They possess emotion, soul, and enduring life. Years later, you can still revisit them and discover something new. That is why choosing only one film feels unfair to all the others.
BT: Among Iranian film editors, past or present, whose work do you admire the most?
SK: The first name that comes to mind is Safi Yari. She edited Dead Wave, where I served as Post-Production Director and supervised the digital visual effects. That collaboration eventually grew into a close friendship. I have always admired her editing style. Among the previous generation, I deeply respected Bahram Dehghani. Although he belonged to the era of film editing, his mind was remarkably modern. The rhythm of his films, his choice of cuts, and his understanding of cinematic storytelling were always contemporary. He has been a tremendous source of inspiration for me. I should also mention Hassan Hassandoost. He is one of Iran’s most thoughtful and meticulous editors. More broadly, I sometimes feel that my generation viewed editing differently. For us, editing was never simply about connecting one shot to another.We genuinely believed we were recreating the film. I think that philosophy has become less common today.
BT: What is your opinion of editors such as Abbas Ganjav?
SK: I never had the opportunity to work directly with Mr. Ganjavi, although we occasionally met through the Iranian Film Editors Association. I actually knew his son, Sina Ganjavi, better than I knew him. I always respected Abbas Ganjavi’s work.
To be honest, however, I have never approached the history of Iranian editing as an academic subject. My attention has always been focused on my own generation and the experiences I lived through personally. But if there is one editor with whom I always wished I could have spent more time, it would undoubtedly be the late Mehrzad Minouei. The news of his passing truly shocked me. Even today, whenever I drive along Resalat Highway, I inevitably remember the tragic accident that took his life. I had always hoped that one day we would work together, but that opportunity never came.
One unusual aspect of my own career is that, unlike many Iranian film editors, I was never an assistant editor. From the very beginning, I entered the profession directly. Even on Dead Wave, I wasn’t Safi Yari’s assistant. My responsibilities were overseeing post-production, managing the digital workflow, and supervising the visual effects. Because of my background in animation, I personally designed and executed a significant portion of the film’s digital visual effects. Looking back, I realize that experience ultimately shaped everything that followed in my career.
BT: Tell us about the most recent project you completed in the United States with Ramin Niami
SK: Before that project, I didn’t know Mr. Niami personally. I had never met him, nor had I closely followed his films. We were introduced through one of my closest friends, Reza Narimizadeh, who had worked for many years with both Asghar Farhadi and Abbas Kiarostami. That friendship reminds me of another important memory.
Years ago, I made a short film called Zero Point. One day, Abbas Kiarostami saw the film. Shortly afterward, through renowned sound designer Mohammad Reza Delpak, he invited me to visit him at his office. When I arrived, the very first thing he said was: “I’ve watched your film twice.” Then he asked me something I never expected: “Would you allow me to show this film to my students in my workshops?” Hearing those words from Abbas Kiarostami was one of the defining moments of my life. What interested him wasn’t simply the film itself, but the way it had been made. I had produced it almost entirely on my own—with a small Sony camera, virtually no budget, and an extremely personal approach to post-production.
Kiarostami told me: “This is the first time I’ve seen a film that feels as though its filmmaker picked up a camera the way a poet picks up a pen—without the usual machinery of filmmaking.” Then he added: “I want to show this film to my students so they understand that meaningful cinema can be created with the simplest of tools.” At the time, that philosophy was still relatively uncommon. Today, digital filmmaking and independent production have become entirely normal. But back then, this approach was still new, and knowing that Kiarostami appreciated it meant a great deal to me. That experience also prepared me for working with Mr. Niami
Like Kiarostami in many respects, he believes in filmmaking with modest resources and small crews. His films rely less on equipment than on the filmmaker’s vision. That wasn’t new to me. I’d been working that way for years. What fascinated me most, however, was discovering that editing may be the only branch of filmmaking that truly has no geographical borders. Cinematography differs from country to country. Sound recording differs. Production methods differ. Visual effects differ. Even the way productions are managed is completely different. But once you sit behind the editing console, editing speaks a universal language. I work here exactly as I worked in Iran.
The only difference is that the process is often more straightforward because directors usually know precisely what they want before shooting begins. Their shot lists are carefully planned, and the structure of the film has already been determined. Sometimes I even joke that certain editors here aren’t really editing at all. They’re simply assembling a blueprint that has already been designed by the director. I remember watching the edit of one project and thinking to myself: “This is more an execution of the storyboard than an act of editing.” The director had already decided: First this shot. Then that shot. Then the next one. Perhaps one or two changes would be made later, but essentially the film had already been edited in the director’s mind. That was very different from the experience many of us had in Iran.
I once discussed this with an American colleague.He listened carefully before smiling and saying, “What you people do in Iran isn’t editing anymore. You’re directing.” The more I thought about it, the more I realized he wasn’t entirely wrong. In Iranian cinema, editors often influence the tone of a film, its rhythm, its narrative structure—even the way characters are ultimately perceived. Our creative freedom is much greater.
Let me give you an example. In one film, a very famous actor had been cast in a substantial role. In the first cut, he appeared in several scenes. During editing, I removed one scene. The director watched the new version and said, “It’s actually better.” Later, another scene disappeared. Again, the film improved. Little by little, we continued trimming until only a single scene remained. Finally I turned to the director and said, > “I think the film will be even stronger if we remove this last scene as well.” He paused for a moment. Then he smiled: “You’re right.”
In the final version, the actor disappeared from the film entirely. He had signed a contract. He had already appeared in promotional materials. Everyone assumed he was one of the principal cast members. Later he approached me, somewhat hurt, and asked: “Didn’t I act in this movie?” I answered honestly: “If you had spent a few days sitting beside me in the editing room, you probably would have agreed with removing those scenes yourself.” It may have been painful for him personally. But editing is about making decisions that serve the film—not individual egos.
Another example comes from The Purple Color (Be Rang-e Arghavan). In the original version, the hanging scene involving the young woman appeared at the end of the film. I suggested moving it to the opening sequence. Once that image appears at the beginning, the audience has no idea who she is, why she is standing there, or what is about to happen. Yet from that very first moment, the emotional atmosphere of the film changes completely. It’s like watching two ordinary people having a conversation…and suddenly noticing a gun hidden beneath the table. The dialogue hasn’t changed. The scene hasn’t changed. But its meaning has been transformed. That is the power of editing. Sometimes simply changing the position of a single scene can completely redefine the meaning of an entire film.
BT: If you were to name the films whose editing has had the greatest influence on you, which movie you pick?
SK: That’s a difficult question because so many films have shaped my understanding of cinema in different ways. But if I think of the films that still occupy my mind whenever I revisit them, one of the first is Martin Scorsese’s Taxi Driver. Every time I watch it, I’m amazed by the way its rhythm is constructed. I’m especially fascinated by the scenes in which Travis Bickle sits alone in his cab, observing the city through the windshield and rearview mirror while the camera patiently remains with him.
Those silences…The deliberate stretching of time…Bernard Herrmann’s haunting score… Together they create a world that isn’t born solely from cinematography or performance. It is created through editing. Another film that has always inspired me is Raging Bull. Every viewing reveals something new about its rhythm, its structure, and the precision of its editing. But perhaps the film that gives me the greatest sense of hope is Cinema Paradiso.For me, it is much more than simply a beautiful film. It is a reminder of why I fell in love with cinema in the first place. Whenever Ennio Morricone’s music begins, it has exactly the same emotional impact on me that it did the first time I heard it.
Sometimes I become exhausted by work. Sometimes I even tell myself that perhaps it is time to leave cinema behind.At those moments, all I need to do is watch a few minutes of Cinema Paradiso. Immediately my energy returns. I remember why I entered this profession in the first place.
BT: What about Alfred Hitchcock? Even today, every time I watch Vertigo, I experience the same excitement I felt the very first time I saw it.
SK: Hitchcock has always been one of cinema’s great masters in my eyes. What I admire most is how astonishingly modern he was for his time. Rear Window, The Birds, and Vertigo. These are films whose importance can never be denied.
But speaking purely from personal feeling, I now find myself returning more often to filmmakers of the next generation. For example, Steven Spielberg’s Duel continues to amaze me. To create that level of suspense using little more than a truck, a car, and a lonely highway is an extraordinary achievement. Some films remain with you forever without your fully understanding why. For me, Duel is one of those films.
BT: I’ve watched Vertigo at least 261 times
SK: Two hundred and sixty-one times? Really? I don’t think I’ve ever watched any film that many times! But let me mention someone without whom I might never have become an editor at all— Nader Ebrahimi. At that time, I was still deeply involved in animation. I had converted a small room on the third floor of our house into my workspace. One day Nader Ebrahimi came to visit. He spent several hours sitting quietly beside me, simply watching me work.
He hardly spoke. When I finished, he turned to me and said: “Khosravi, why don’t you become a film editor?” I replied: “To be honest, I’ve never even considered it.” He looked at me and said: “I’m telling you—you should become a film editor.” I was surprised: “Do you really believe that?” He answered without hesitation: “Yes. That’s what you should do. Your future is in editing—not somewhere else.”
At that point I had edited only one or two short films. I never imagined editing would become my life’s profession. Yet Nader Ebrahimi’s words never left me. Looking back, I believe he was the first person who recognized that ability in me—long before I recognized it myself. Sometimes a single sentence from a respected teacher changes the course of an entire life. For me, that sentence came from Nader Ebrahimi.
Whenever I look back on my career, I often think that had I not heard those words that day, my professional life might have followed a completely different path.
BT: A few moments ago we were talking about editing in contemporary Iranian cinema. You mentioned that conditions have changed significantly over the years.
SK: I believe the greatest change has been the changing role of the editor. When my generation began working, editing was considered a natural continuation of directing. The editor was the director’s closest creative collaborator. From the first day of production until the final cut, the editor and director lived with the film together. Today, however, I increasingly feel that editing has gradually moved away from the director’s creative domain and become part of the production system itself. In many productions, it is now the producer—not the director—who decides where the film will be edited and who will edit it. That alone has fundamentally changed the creative relationship between director and editor.
Another major difference concerns the way productivity is viewed. In our time, if an editor was working simultaneously on several films, many directors preferred not to hire that person. They believed an editor whose mind was divided among multiple projects could never devote complete emotional and creative attention to their film. Today the opposite often seems true. The more projects an editor is juggling, the more successful that editor is considered to be. Quantity has somehow become a measure of quality. I’ve never agreed with that way of thinking.
If editing were merely a technical process, then perhaps one could edit several films simultaneously. But I have never regarded editing as a technical profession. Editing is an emotional and psychological process. When you’re sitting in front of the monitor, you’re obviously editing. But when you leave the studio…When you’re driving home…When you’re taking a shower…Having dinner with your family…Even while you’re asleep…Part of your mind is still editing the film.
I’ve often awakened in the middle of the night because, all at once, the solution to a difficult scene suddenly appeared in my mind. The next morning I returned to the editing room, tried the idea, and discovered that it was exactly what the film needed. That is why I believe editing doesn’t happen only in the editing room. A large part of it takes place inside the editor’s mind. For me, the most rewarding stage has always been the fine cut. During the rough cut, the film is still searching for itself. But during the fine cut, the film begins to breathe. Sometimes shortening a pause by two seconds, removing a single glance, or moving one shot, can completely transform the emotional power of a scene.
Those tiny refinements are what I find most exciting. At that stage, it is impossible to think about another film at the same time. If someone tells me they are doing the fine cut on three different films simultaneously with equal concentration, I simply cannot believe it. From my perspective, that isn’t possible. Perhaps today’s industry produces more films. Technology is certainly better. Production is faster. But I rarely leave a movie today thinking, “What extraordinary editing.” That used to happen much more often. Not because today’s editors are less talented. Rather, because they are given less time to truly live with a film. And in my opinion, editing is, before anything else, a way of living with a film.
BT: One thing that has always intrigued me is how quickly many Western critics judge a film’s rhythm. One of the first criticisms they often make is that a film is “twenty minutes too long” or “should have been half an hour shorter.” I heard criticism repeatedly about Asghar Farhadi’s A Hero. In fact, I discussed it with Safi Yari, who edited the film. I had watched A Hero several times very carefully and never felt there was a single unnecessary scene. Sometimes I think critics confuse a film’s running time with its rhythm. Instead of analyzing the internal structure of the film, they simply complain that it’s too long. I’d like to hear your thoughts on that.
SK: When it comes to Asghar Farhadi, the first thing I should say is this: I believe he edits his films in his mind long before he begins shooting. That alone makes an enormous difference. Some filmmakers discover their films on the set. Others discover them in the editing room. Farhadi belongs to a third category. He knows the architecture of his film before production even begins. I’ve come to understand this not only through personal experience but also through conversations with people who have worked closely with him, including Mohammad Reza Delpak and Reza Narimizadeh.
Years ago I wrote a screenplay that I hoped to direct. One day Mr. Farhadi visited my office with his longtime collaborator Mohammad Fazeli, and we spent almost an entire day discussing that screenplay. Many younger filmmakers may not realize that Farhadi began his career in television. Series such as Cheshm Be Rah (“Waiting“) and several other productions came from that period. Through those early collaborations, I gained insight into the way he thinks as a filmmaker. I’ve often compared him to a master carpet weaver. When a carpet weaver begins weaving, the design already exists. Every knot has its predetermined place. The weaving may take months, but the final image has been clear from the very beginning. Farhadi makes films the same way. By the time filming starts, the structure already exists. That is why the editing stage generally involves refinement rather than fundamental reconstruction. Of course, changes are always made. But not the kind of radical transformations that sometimes occur in other films.
Other films, however, are truly born in the editing room. I’ve experienced that many times myself. With Ebrahim Hatamikia, we frequently organized preview screenings. We would invite fifty or sixty people from different backgrounds to watch an early cut. But we weren’t interested only in whether they liked the film. We asked questions. Which characters did they understand? Which scenes confused them? At what point did they emotionally disconnect from the story? Sometimes those conversations led us to remove scenes. Sometimes we changed the order of sequences. Occasionally we even restructured major sections of the film. I call this istening to the film.
Sometimes it isn’t the director who tells you what the film needs. It isn’t the editor either. It is the film itself. If you learn to listen carefully enough, the film begins to tell you where it should pause, where it should breathe, where it should be shorted, and where it should remain silent.
As for the criticism that “this film is twenty minutes too long,” I have never liked such general statements. If someone says, “This particular scene doesn’t work, and here’s why…” then we have something meaningful to discuss.But simply declaring, “The film is too long,” isn’t criticism. Every film has its own rhythm. You cannot judge the films of Amir Naderi using the same standards you would apply to another filmmaker. Some viewers may not connect with that rhythm. That doesn’t mean the rhythm is wrong. Sometimes slowness is part of a film’s language. Just as silence can sometimes communicate more than dialogue.
Before we say that a film should be shorter, we should first ask ourselves one question: Does this time serve the world of the film? If the answer is yes, then even three hours is not too long. If the answer is no, then even one unnecessary minute is too much.
BT: As we conclude our conversation, how would you describe the current state of film editing in Iranian cinema?
SK: Today, technology is available to everyone. Owning sophisticated editing software or expensive equipment is no longer a competitive advantage. Almost anyone with a personal computer can edit a film. But editing has never depended on software. Just as a writer does not become a better writer by changing pens. An editor does not become a better editor by changing editing programs. What matters is vision.
The ability to look through hundreds of shots and instinctively recognize the one image that perfectly completes the emotional truth of a scene. People often ask me: “What is the most important quality an editor should possess?” My answer is always the same. First patience. Second, the ability to listen. Not merely to dialogue. To the film itself. Films speak to editors. If you know how to listen, the film tells you which shot should disappear. Which look should remain. Where silence should replace dialogue.
That is why I believe the greatest mistake is to think editing is merely the process of connecting images. If that were true, computers would have replaced us years ago. What technology still cannot replace is human feeling. The editor’s instinct for rhythm, for silence, for hesitation, for time. Sometimes a two-second pause says more than ten pages of dialogue. Sometimes one actor’s glance communicates more than an entire conversation. Recognizing those moments is what transforms editing from a craft into an art.For that reason, I have always believed editing is the cinematic profession closest to writing.
A writer creates a world with words. An editor creates one with time. Time is an editor’s greatest creative resource. Knowing precisely when an image should begin, and exactly when it should end. Find that moment, and the film comes alive. Miss it, and even the most beautiful images in the world cannot save it.
BT: Finally, if a young person came to you today and said, “I want to become a film editor,” what advice would you give?
SK: First of all, watch films. But don’t watch them only for their stories. Watch them for their editing. Watch their rhythm. Study the distance between two cuts. Ask yourself why one shot lasts three seconds while another lasts seven. But after all, an editor is not shaped only by watching movies. You must know people. You must experience love. You must experience disappointment. You must learn patience. All of those experiences become part of your editing. The richer your experience of life, the deeper your understanding of cinema. And above all. Never think of editing as merely a profession.
If it becomes only a job, sooner or later you will grow tired of it. Editing should become the way you look at the world. When that happens, you never truly leave the editing room. Even while walking down the street, driving home, or lying awake at night, part of your mind continues making films. Perhaps that is the most beautiful aspect of this profession.
About Sohrab Khosravi
Sohrab Khosravi (born 1977, Tehran) is an Iranian film editor, director, producer, cinematographer, and post-production supervisor. He began his professional career in graphic design and animation for television and advertising before becoming one of the pioneers of digital post-production in Iranian cinema. He played a key role in the digital post-production and visual effects workflow of Dead Wave (Mowj-e Mordeh), directed by Ebrahim Hatamikia, one of the first Iranian feature films to complete a professional digital post-production process before being transferred to 35mm film for theatrical release.
Throughout his career, Khosravi has edited films for many of Iran’s leading filmmakers, including Ebrahim Hatamikia, Majid Majidi, Kamal Tabrizi, Yadollah Samadi, Mohammad Ali Raisian, Mehrdad Khoshbakht, Nasser Saffarian, Rasoul Sadrameli, Mostafa Al-Ahmad, and Ebrahim Irajzad. He received a Crystal Simorgh Award nomination for In the Name of the Father and won the Crystal Simorgh for Best Film Editing for Hot Summer at the Fajr International Film Festival. He also received the Golden Jasmine Award for the television film One Step to Death. Since 2004, Khosravi has expanded his career into directing documentary and fiction films.
His notable editing credits include The Purple Color (Be Rang-e Arghavan), 13 59, Salaam Mumbai, Spider, Abadan 11:60, Hot Summer, and Nasser Saffarian’s acclaimed documentary trilogy on the life and poetry of Forough Farrokhzad, including The Mirror of the Soul and The Cold Green. He has also directed several documentaries, among them Rebirth, and continues to be recognized as one of the leading and most influential film editors of contemporary Iranian cinema.
