Uncapsized Captivity: Jafar Panahi’s Defiance

 - Samriddhi Chakraborty 

“Cinema is a society. No one has a right to tell us what to do, and what not to do.” – the Iranian director Jafar Panahi’s words while receiving the Palme d’Or at Cannes epitomizes what his legacy and artistry stands upon – unadulterated honesty, dedication, towards his art, inherent dissidence, and portrayal of the truth, notwithstanding anything.

In an authoritative theocracy like Iran, for artists like Panahi, to thrive has always been a challenge. Art – unrestricted art, that is, has never been given a place to breathe. The restriction, the suppression, the censorship isn’t something unforeseen, neither in the realm of Iranian art-culture, nor in world affairs, for art has always been a threat, and the artists – have always been people who were born to be outcasts. People who aren’t even given the chance to fit in. The voices have been snatched away before. Along with basic rights, historically down the line, expression has always been stolen – whether it be through Kiarostami’s montages, Rasoulof’s awards, or Kahani’s citizenship – where fighting to prove one’s existence has been an eternal struggle.

For an artist, whose art stands constantly at odds with the normalcy of existence because of the jurisdictive restriction of censorship or worse, cancellation – winning the highest accolade at Cannes marked a historic proclamation of Panahi’s legitimacy as a filmmaker, for his insistence upon creating art for the longest time had stripped him off it. His own country still sticks to it, where legitimacy and dignity remain a far-fetched dream. The Cannes victory has still barred from him the acceptance of his motherland, but it has brought him the visibility he had always been deserving of among the rest of the world. The nature of the win also dignified him as a voice of dissent symbolizing the victory of art and ideals over all restrictive notions of unity.  But why did this battle, the cutthroat struggle exist in the first place? Why was it so hard to show life as it is, in films as they were?

Panahi’s films exist on a plane unmatchable in their critical acclaim, but who he represents on a symbolic plane becomes much more interesting when trying to dissect that why does his artistic voice get suppressed so often, in the very country that he loves so much – the very country whose realities he has been trying to portray, to represent, and if not to explicitly love, then attempt to make it more lovable? Like all misunderstood artists, unfortunately, for years, Panahi’s love for his motherland has been misread as hateful criticism, instead of a constructive one, prompting his lens to often get snatched away from his reach. The notion that love and dedication is supposed to uphold the realities rather than romanticizing distorted fabrications, remains lost in translation – thus leading to authenticity, as seen in his films, getting cast off as “anti-national”. The horrifying reality slaps oneself on their face on further thinking that the threat of art portraying real life, i.e., the authenticity in it, poses the problem of raising questions, for the faults of the regime fall in too easily in front of the common eye, and that alarms them, scares them. That exactly, the power of art thus, has the authority scrambling for ways to gun the murmur down. And so, they do gun it down, for it is the greatest threat. So much, that the mundanity of life as it is, becomes “propaganda”, according to them, and true artists like Panahi fall prey to their tailored propaganda of calling Representative art an anti-nationalist propaganda – irony clearly at work.

Jafar Panahi’s descent into being an iconoclastic figure of resistance was always fated. Apprenticing under Kiarostami, learning about imbibing real figures in films rather than fabricating fictitious characterizations, he adapted to the grounded nature of his famous mentor’s filmmaking in his own creative process as well. Pursuing non-professional actors to play out roles in narratives which incentivized human mundanity, desires, and real life, Panahi weaponized the sweet, rough, terribly beautiful, and often devastating typicality. His first short film The Wounded Heads – based upon the visceral illegal tradition of mourning the third Shi'ite Imam, Imam Hossein, in which people hit their heads with knives until they bled, bears the precedence to all the portrayals of horrifying yet default incidents existing since time immemorial which get captured so well through and through in his filmography. As expected, for years, the film remained banned – which would unfortunately prove to be a constant state of being eventually, problematically normalized in regard to Panahi’s oeuvre. His art stands on the ideology of portraying events just as they are/were – visceral, or not, beautiful, or ‘disgusting’, all deserving in his eyes to be seen, to be heard. Even with his projection of reality censored, he of course, didn’t stop, despite all the hardships and tragic impositions of having to commit his artistry in secrecy. The drums of trouble were calm for a while with the initial apparently innocent feature films like The White Balloon (1995), and The Mirror (1997). Havoc wreaked starting from the 2000, when the seemingly simplistic filmmaker focusing on juvenile characters/themes threatened to dabble in critical commentary through the politically charged narrative of The Circle. The film was outright conscious about its critique of the Iranian Islamist regime’s treatment of women. The authority of course, thus, received this unsurprisingly enough, as a scathing blow to their image rather than as an incentive to improve, eventually banning the film nationally. Thus began the canonical curbing of Panahi’s artistic autonomy – the very event that provoked him only more to create more pieces of protest and resistance against the subjugation, as is seen today.

The Circle had to struggle to attain a permit from the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance for it to be legitimized. Panahi did not want to wait for the approval he knew he would not get, thus illegally shipping it off to the Venice Film Festival and winning the Golden Lion subsequently. Despite all achievements however, the Ministry ultimately overruled Panahi’s incense and banned the film – marking the first of a very long and withstanding rivalrous suppression that would haunt him throughout his career. One by one came other pieces focusing on what he calls the “humanitarian aspects of things” – whether it be through Crimson Gold showcasing the struggles of the working class, or through Offside, a very socially relevant film dealing with the issues of unfair, imposed restrictions based upon gender identities. Offside portrayed the intense passion of young girls trying to sneak into a football stadium (from where they were banned and barred) to catch a glimpse of a pivotal match for Iran. Where men were allowed entry without batting an eyelash, these girls were shunned to spaces nowhere near it for no fault of their own – Panahi sought to capture that very struggle of women to fit into spaces which do not subscribe to the constrictions of their gender roles. This was an outright protest, a criticism, and a bullet to the suffocating laws, and knowing all the threats in it, the film was made with as much privacy possible, so as to not get the blueprint destroyed. Though eventually the authorities caught up, and as is the fashion, banned the film – illegal copies of the film had spread all over Iran, breeding intent of protests and non-adherence to suppression among young girls, evoking the Ministry’s annoyance. Jafar Panahi, the filmmaker had unmistakably made an impact, much to their horror.

Panahi’s consistent, badgering voice of resistance was becoming an element of utmost threat to the theocratic regime where the fight for the rights of people was taking a turn of overruling God, and thus came the blow. ‘Jafar Panahi banned for 20 years’ read the headlines – his right to create art in any shape or form – writing, directing, screening, giving out interviews, was snatched away. In 2010, for nothing but for incentivizing a fight of basic human rights which got read off as hateful dissent, Panahi was imprisoned. However, due to overwhelming support of filmmakers around the world he was eventually released – with no pass though, to flee. But Jafar Panahi didn’t want to flee. His love for his country was overwhelming, contrary to the regime’s belief. In an encounter with Sreemoyee Singh in her docu-feature And Towards Happy Alleys he proclaimed while talking about the overall ban and suppression – “…why should I escape? This is my country. I like my country. I don’t want to lose my country…”, showcasing genuine patriotism unfortunately too complex to grasp for the authoritarianism too focused on escaping constructive criticism emphasizing on improvement.

Artists like Jafar Panahi sustain on their work – i.e., the portrayal of the world through their lens like it is their whole life. No amount of restrictions could hold him back from speaking his truth. While all controversies were in order, in secret the docu-feature shot mostly on an iPhone from the corners of his home – This Is Not a Film was conceived in 2011 as an appeal to the watchers worldwide to bolster on with him in his plight. Making out of Iran’s grasp through a smuggled USB thumb drive, the film had reached the audience, making them acutely aware of Panahi’s insistence on never giving up work. For he had pledged to himself, as he confessed, that the idea of never getting to work again took away the meaning of his life and thus on getting another go, he had decided that, “no matter what happens, I will find a way out to make films” – proving the extents to which he would genuinely go to, attesting his unfeigned dedication to his resolute ideologies.

Keeping up with this very sentiment and ideal of never giving up, and always finding out a way to create his art, came films such as Taxi (2015), and No Bears (2022) – which were borne out of curiosity, persistence and perseverance, fighting off uncomfortable barriers. All of this tireless struggle culminated into the induction of his 2025 feature It Was Just an Accident (also adhering to his tradition of being conceived in secret) – into getting a recognition as high as the Palme at Cannes, permanently securing his legacy. His compelling speech will forever haunt the landscape as long as this stands as the reality where he said – "Today, I'm here with you, I receive this joy, but I feel the same emotion. How can I rejoice? How can I be free while in Iran, there are still so many of the greatest directors and actresses of Iranian cinema, who, because they participated in and supported the demonstrators during the Femme Liberté movement, are today prevented from working? – Panahi won’t ever simply be a selfish figurine trying to establish and secure his own legitimacy, but time and again keeps on proving himself as the voice of an entire generation of Iranian/outcasted filmmakers, the artists who dare.

Jafar Panahi undoubtedly stands as a figure of resistance for whom, his art and his pursuit of realizing life through it soldiered through all oppression proving an uniquely identifiable subversion of state-imposed restrictions even while remaining banned – which leads to an inquiry of whether “Restrictions” are indeed Restrictive since, artists like Jafar Panahi clearly dismantle the notion and look at restrictions as further more provocation to march, and protest. For Resistance, at the end of the day, all you need is a spine, intent, and a vision - and Jafar Panahi stands as an unwavering proof of exactly that.

Soumil