Jafar Panahi Speaks Out for First Time in 14 Years as New Film ‘It Was Just an Accident’ Premieres at Cannes: I Spent ‘Eight Hours a Day Blindfolded’ and ‘Being Interrogated’ in Iran Prison

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The acclaimed Iranian filmmaker Jafar Panahi, often hailed as one of the nation’s most distinguished living cinematic artists, is currently attending Cannes with his new production titled “It Was Just an Accident.” This project represents his first venture since serving a prison term spanning several months in 2023, following accusations of criticizing the Iranian government.

In 2010, the renowned filmmaker, recognized worldwide for award-winning films like “The Circle,” “Offside,” “This is Not a Film,” “Taxi,” and most recently “No Bears,” was prohibited from creating movies, giving interviews, or traveling. However, he secretly continued to work on his films during this time. The ban was finally lifted in April 2023, and now Iranian officials have granted him permission to attend Cannes to premiere “It Was Just an Accident.

In one of his initial interviews following the end of a 14-year ban, filmmaker Jafar Panahi shared thoughts about his movie “It Was Just an Accident” with EbMaster, using a translator. He explained that the story, focusing on ex-prisoners’ intense emotions towards a cruel guard, was inspired by his own imprisonment. Moreover, Panahi expressed his hope that Iranians would view this film, as it marks his debut of featuring women without the mandatory hijab, symbolizing the evolving nature of our society today.

In a straightforward manner, your recent movie seems to delve into the struggles of individuals dealing with anger stemming from their incarceration experiences. Coincidentally, I found myself pondering if the inspiration behind this powerful piece could be traced back to your own time spent in Tehran’s Evin prison as a political prisoner for several months.

If you spend eight hours daily, sightless and seated facing a wall, being questioned by someone standing behind you each day within the confines of a prison cell, you can’t help but ponder about the nature of your interactions with this individual. Given such unique circumstances, I wonder what our connection would be like if we were to encounter each other again in the future. This thought isn’t necessarily born out of an immediate desire to make a film, but rather it’s the kind of introspection that arises during these specific prison experiences.

As a cinephile, I can’t help but be influenced by my surroundings, and when I found myself isolated in a place like a prison, it was inevitable that introspective thoughts and ideas would emerge. Initially, I never intended to create a film from this experience. However, once I was released, every time I passed or even walked by the prison, I couldn’t help but wonder about my former cellmates who were now on the other side of that imposing wall. What were they doing? How were they coping while I lived my life on the outside? Slowly but surely, these musings coalesced into a compelling narrative, leading me to write this script and ultimately bring the story to life as a film.

Is it fair to say that this film is an attempt at some kind of reconciliation?

From a passionate perspective, I’d rephrase it like this: I’m not about the black-and-white narrative of war and peace. Instead, I focus on the recurring pattern of violence that shapes us all. As a filmmaker with a social consciousness, I don’t believe in absolute good or evil characters. We’re all complex individuals, products of a system that imposes its rules and values upon us. So, it’s not just about reconciliation. It’s about unraveling the intricate web of this system, understanding how people conditioned by decades of divisive propaganda can coexist peacefully, and finding ways for them to genuinely communicate their needs and aspirations.

Did you once again choose to film without a permit, as you’ve done in the past? Was it any more challenging to pull off compared to earlier productions?

The circumstances surrounding my work have altered significantly as the longstanding ban on my filmmaking, interviews, and travel has been lifted. On paper, I’m now just like any other filmmaker subject to censorship and permit processes. However, in practical terms, due to the sensitive topic I wanted to explore and the script I had prepared, I couldn’t submit it for approval. Consequently, I found myself once more working covertly, with only my closest crew aware of the film’s subject matter and script. Only my cinematographer, sound technician, and actors were privy to our project details, and we had to maintain this secrecy throughout the entire production process.

Are you making a movie for the first time where a female character isn’t wearing a veil? That’s interesting if it’s accurate. Could you share the reasons behind this decision and the significance you attribute to it?

In Iranian cinema, it’s been customary since the revolution to prohibit the depiction of women’s hair. As a result, filmmakers like myself have consistently sought creative ways to navigate this restriction. One early solution was to set our films outside, rather than inside homes, where even devout women wouldn’t wear head coverings. This way, we could justify the characters wearing veils while adhering to societal norms.

In all my films, I’ve made a point to depict women authentically, reflecting their roles in Iranian society, such as veiled while on the streets, in the countryside, and outside. However, approximately three years ago, the Woman, Life, Freedom movement emerged following Mahsa Amini’s death, drastically altering Iranian society. While we were imprisoned, we couldn’t fully grasp the societal transformation that was taking place. I came to understand the extent of the change when I faced a health issue and persistently requested hospital care for weeks on end. It wasn’t until a few months later that they finally agreed to transport me to a hospital in a vehicle.

As I navigated through the city, it struck me all of a sudden that Tehran had undergone a transformation, as some women were strolling about without traditional veils. It seemed that many women had discarded their veils, and despite the ongoing repression and conflicts surrounding this issue, these women were walking freely, unveiled after four decades. This was an entirely novel sight. This was the emerging truth of our society. Given that we are social filmmakers, portraying the authenticity of our nation is crucial to us. Therefore, it was impossible for me to produce a film with female actors donning veils, since that’s not how most Iranian women – or many of them – live their lives today. Consequently, when I filmed this movie, I showcased the character in the way she would truly exist in real life.

To clarify, it’s important to mention that it wasn’t just my actresses who were given freedom, but also the extras visible on the streets. We made no requests for them to cover their heads or remove their head coverings – they simply went about their business as usual.

During the filming of the bookshop scene, some curious bystanders approached us and recognized that we were making a movie. As they chatted among themselves, I inquired whether they would be willing to join our cast as extras. The women responded that they had no objections, but under one condition – they wouldn’t wear a veil if asked to do so.

Are you under the impression that Iran’s government is trying to demonstrate a more relaxed stance on repression by granting you permission to travel?

In essence, my action wasn’t necessarily significant in terms of choice, but rather adhering to the mandate imposed upon me, which was a 20-year ban. I served 15 and 16 years of it, so I came quite close to serving out the entire punishment I received. Therefore, I believe that according to their own laws, this sentence should not be renewed or extended anymore as it has already been served. However, I don’t interpret this as a sign of reduced oppression or increased openness. Instead, I see it as them following their own rules as they proceed.

It seems that your movies can’t officially be distributed in Iran, which is a common occurrence. Yet, during my visit to Tehran a few years back, I noticed posters of your films and awards you received at Cannes on display at the national cinema museum. It was evident that you were recognized as a significant figure in Iranian cinema. When creating your movies, do you take into account that they might not reach their audience through conventional means? Or are you primarily aiming to communicate with your own people?

To clarify, we’re filmmakers who draw our creativity from the fabric of society, and our primary audience is the Iranian people. We’ve faced challenges in achieving this goal, as we’ve sought a venue to screen our films at no cost. Regrettably, such an arrangement has never materialized. This reflects the longstanding nature of the current regime, which exerts control over various aspects of life, including what one says, what films are made and shown, clothing choices, diet, and more. Essentially, they dictate many decisions in people’s lives.

Although they present a certain image to the Iranian populace regarding their compliance with these regulations, it’s essential to understand that not all Iranians adhere to these laws. They continue living their unique lives, guided by their personal preferences and traditions. As part of this lifestyle, they naturally engage with our films, which are an integral aspect of their social and cultural experiences.

Fortunately, we now live in an era where advanced technology and the digital world simplify and expedite the distribution of our films to Iranian audiences. Despite any potential financial losses, we prioritize making our films accessible to the Iranian public over economic concerns. Ideally, we would have a theater to screen them officially, but even if that’s not possible, it’s reassuring to know they can still view them through unofficial or illegitimate channels.

Regarding the museum you mentioned earlier, the honors and accolades found there stem from the movies I made prior to my incarceration. During my time behind bars, my interrogator constantly harped on these awards, film festivals, and recognition of my films, causing me immense distress. Upon seeing my wife again after that ordeal, I asked her to retrieve these awards from the museum as they had become a source of trouble for me since then. Now, they are back in my home.

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.

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2025-05-20 16:18