1. The scene of Farman’s murder in the film Qeysar by Masoud Kimiaei stands as a kind of turning point in the history of Iranian cinema. Beyond introducing a young and unconventional filmmaker to the dominant cinematic landscape of the time, this film opened a new path in the Film Farsi tradition—where even the deaths of heroes used to be treated lightly.
Farman appears in this film as one of the last cinematic figures of a generation that still, at times, heeds the advice of elders—walking into the slaughterhouse without a knife, fully aware that death awaits. His death paves the way for the rise of the Qeysars—heroes who stand alone against a corrupt society and oppressive figures, choosing to reclaim lost rights through their own will. These are men who, without seeking justice through official channels, opt for pure action, often mocking the wisdom of their forebears and forging their own path.
This personal rebellion later becomes the foundation for a new breed of hero, both in Kimiaei’s later works and those of other filmmakers of the Iranian New Wave. Three decades later, the stabbing of Dariush Arjmand’s character in Kimiaei’s Protest is seen as the symbolic end of this line of law-defying heroes.
2. The film Mother—the immortal work of Ali Hatami—is a cinematic homage to death, engaging with it poetically, longingly, and with a rare kind of intentionality. Death, by its very nature unplannable, is embraced in this film by a character who prepares for it with grace and composure—an old mother who, in the twilight of her life, decides to gather her rebellious children and restore peace and love among them.
Through a mystical, elderly journey of inner discovery, the mother gradually calms those around her, meticulously preparing herself for her destined encounter with the Angel of Death.
“Blessed is the caravan that traveled through the night; what a joy it is to arrive at dawn…”
Sensing that her time has come, she puts on her best clothes, freshens herself up, lies down peacefully on her bed, and with a unique awareness of death, seems to dissolve into a sweet sleep. As she had said:
“Today is the day I reunite with my beloved.”
The camera, filming her from behind the bed’s bars like a prisoner, slowly lifts upward—conveying a feeling of release and flight—and depicts her soul’s departure with complete poetic subtlety. Meanwhile, Gholamreza (played by Akbar Abdi), dictating a sentence, seals the scene with a final statement:
“Mother died… because she had no life left.”
Where else can such a beautiful, unrepeatable death be found?
3. Every character and archetype in The Glass Agency, directed by Ebrahim Hatamikia, is, at least inwardly, worried about the health of Abbas (played by Habib Rezaei)—a young man from Mashhad who was wounded in the war and whose condition is deteriorating rapidly. Each person seeks a solution in their own way, and Haj Kazem, an old comrade and friend, acts in his own way as well.
The hostage crisis and all the surrounding chaos stem from one reason: Haj Kazem’s protest against a society that has ignored someone who sacrificed everything for them. But the very tactic meant to save Abbas backfires—exposing him to more stress and worsening his fragile health.
The final scene is intended to be a happy ending, with a private jet taking Abbas and Haj Kazem to London for treatment. But Hatamikia shows little interest in offering such a cheerful conclusion. Abbas’s condition is clearly critical. In his final moments, he prefers the soothing touch of Haj Kazem’s hand on his forehead—a hand now stained with blood, marking all the day’s drama and chaos.
Abbas, ashamed of the commotion, apologizes and gently closes his eyes, smiling as he anticipates a joke Haj Kazem is about to tell. Meanwhile, the plane, having carried all this pain, fear, and struggle, must now return… to Tehran.
(To be continued…)
