The film “Woman and Child”, directed by Saeed Roustayi, is both a departure from and a continuation of the cinematic journey of this gifted young filmmaker—a journey that began with Life and a Day, matured through Just 6.5, and reached new depths in Leila’s Brothers. In this new film, Roustayi returns once again to his central concerns: family and social tensions. But this time, he does so with a gentler, more humane, and deeper gaze into the inner workings of suffering and human relationships.
Unlike his earlier films where tension often manifested through shouting, physical altercations, and immediate crises, in Woman and Child, pain and violence unfold silently—beneath the skin of daily life, under glances and silences. Though sudden eruptions of violence still occur, Roustayi now distances himself from the external turbulence of his earlier works and ventures inward, closer to the soul of his characters. It’s as if, after years of narrating cries, he’s now listening for whispers—telling a story within that same anxious, bitter world, but with new layers of endurance, love, motherhood, and the quiet presence of poverty.
Femininity is not merely a theme in Woman and Child; it shapes the entire language and logic of the film. Visually, the movie remains loyal to Roustayi’s distinct style: dim or naturally lit interiors, decaying homes, and cramped framing that conveys suffocation. Yet within these claustrophobic frames, life pulses on—with all its wounds and bitterness. And once again, Roustayi succeeds in locating and illuminating moments of tenderness and hope among the rubble of reality.
If Life and a Day explored cycles of despair within poverty, Just 6.5 delved into systemic corruption and moral decay, and Leila’s Brothers dissected the collapse of traditional family structures under a broken economy, then Woman and Child emerges as Roustayi’s most intimate, considered, and mature work yet.
Here, maternal love stands as an act of resistance—a quiet but towering force against collapse and cruelty. The film reveals Roustayi not just as a daring and creative voice, but as a mature, reflective filmmaker who has evolved from tackling urgent subjects with noise to revealing them through quiet, meaningful resonance. His visual language is now richer, more human, and even poetic, even when dealing with pain. He builds this simple yet charged narrative using familiar elements from his previous films—but this time, with a noticeable shift in tone and cinematic rhythm. There are no police chases or drug dealers. No brutal father figures or physical brawls.
Instead, we meet a woman—Mahnaz—who stands firm, silent, and unyielding against the dissolution of her world. Through her patience, her day-to-day efforts to maintain appearances for her children, and her slow-burn determination to preserve what’s left of their lives, she becomes a quiet, unsung hero. The film shows that resistance doesn’t always require shouting—sometimes it unfolds in silence, until the moment comes when fighting back becomes inevitable.
Without ever turning preachy, Roustayi situates this woman squarely within her social context—not as a victim, but as someone who stands tall. She’s not a caricature of feminism or a mythical super-mother. She’s an ordinary woman, full of the traits that society has long overlooked—now rendered with precision and humility. Roustayi’s eye captures her humanity with extraordinary realism.
This woman, amidst societal and economic collapse, still tries to provide shelter for her family. She fights back against a merciless world—and yes, at times, even against the oppressors. It’s rare, even in global cinema, to find such a complex, authentic female character. The film’s narrative structure is simple and linear, but its strength lies in the details: the way Mahnaz walks, her clothing choices, the low lighting of the house, the sound of passing trains evoking impermanence.
The tight frames and mostly still camera convey the suffocating atmosphere of a house brimming with silence and unresolved pain. Meanwhile, the soundscape—relying more on ambient noise and silence than music—gives the film a raw, documentary-like realism.
Woman and Child is the kind of film that grows on you over time. It may seem less thrilling than Just 6.5 or less politically bold than Leila’s Brothers, but its quiet realism, precision, and depth make it a significant and lasting cinematic work. Roustayi proves that his talent doesn’t lie only in crafting high-stakes tension or masterful blocking, but in his understanding of human psychology, everyday life, and the crafting of deeply human, believable stories.
Interestingly, unlike his previous tight and well-paced scripts, the screenplay here is intentionally fragmented. Some events may seem improbable or stray from realism—but astonishingly, this narrative looseness supports the emotional truth of the characters. Roustayi’s craftsmanship ensures the viewer accepts even the uneven moments, mesmerized by the depth of the characters.
Unquestionably, the heart of the film lies in its character work and brilliant casting. Woman and Child is a character-driven film, through and through.
After her husband’s death, Mahnaz lives in a small, suffocating house with her two children. A place that feels less like a sanctuary and more like a prison of fear and fragility. Yet Roustayi paints her as a strong, independent, and combative figure—one who pushes back against the injustices of a male-dominated society and, when necessary, doesn’t shy away from violence to protect what remains of her life.
As a viewer who’s used to seeing independent women in Iranian cinema depicted as intellectuals or urban liberals, this portrayal of Mahnaz feels new, refreshing, and—most importantly—believable, largely thanks to Parinaz Izadyar’s remarkable performance.
Meanwhile, the character of Aliar, Mahnaz’s rebellious teenage son, is a standout rarely seen even in international cinema. His wild, intelligent, and confrontational nature constantly disrupts the fragile balance of their home. Watching him is like watching James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause—only with sharper edges. Aliar teeters on the edge of school expulsion, and his constant turbulence reflects not just personal pain but a broader generational crisis.
Sinaan Mohammadi, the young actor playing Aliar, proves to be a remarkable talent with a promising future, if he continues on the right path.
Another key character is Hamid, the opportunist. Initially interested in Mahnaz, he quickly switches his attention to her younger sister, Mahri, and marries her. This betrayal sparks the central conflict between Hamid and Mahnaz. Payman Maadi’s sympathetic appearance contrasts sharply with Hamid’s cold-hearted nature, making the character’s gradual unmasking more impactful. Maadi delivers a restrained, deeply believable performance—a mark of his international-caliber acting skills.
The film is a turning point not only in Roustayi’s career but also in Iranian social cinema. Without slogans or exaggeration, it explores the pain of women, the complexity of motherhood, their solitude, and the quiet strength of resilient women like Mahnaz. It portrays children who understand more than they should and a city that devours its people like a silent beast.
Roustayi is no longer just a bold, young director drawn to grand themes—he’s an artist capable of capturing the immense dignity and pain of humanity in the smallest of moments.
Within this central story, the character of Aliar plays a pivotal role. Though steeped in violence and rebellion, his actions stem from deep loss, identity crisis, and abandonment. Aliar, expelled from school, drifts further into aimlessness and rage—not as a villain, but as a symbol of a lost generation, shaped by fatherlessness, poverty, and societal rejection. His violent clashes with Mahnaz, his sudden escapes to rooftops and alleys, reflect the raw, unfiltered responses of someone desperate for meaning and care.
His death in the second half of the film is a shattering blow. It not only alters the course of the story but deepens the emotional weight of Mahnaz’s quiet endurance. The scene of his death—falling from a window, shrouded in painful ambiguity—isn’t shown directly. Instead, Roustayi opts for silence. The camera holds on Mahnaz’s stunned face. The absence of music, the stillness, the quiet aftermath—these create a searing depiction of grief without spectacle.
The character of Mahnaz’s sister adds an essential layer to the film. Outwardly the obedient, traditional housewife, she gradually reveals inner unrest and dissatisfaction. Her presence, both supportive and meddling, reveals how some women, knowingly or not, perpetuate the very structures that oppress them.
Finally, the school principal—dry-toned, cold-eyed, and dismissive—embodies an education system that rejects troubled youth rather than supporting them. His quick decision to expel Aliar, without understanding the roots of his behavior, becomes one of the key catalysts of Aliar’s downfall. This sharp critique of institutional failure is seamlessly embedded in the narrative, never preachy.
The ending of Woman and Child is extraordinarily beautiful. Roustayi offers a glimmer of hope—that a new society may be forming, like a child growing up: fragile, but worth believing in.
