Iranian films merit increased attention on campus

Walking around Princeton this spring semester, one cannot fail to notice the abundance of posters announcing new film series, each boasting a rather more eclectic repertoire of films than one might expect. My interest has been drawn to two particular choices, Jafar Panahi's The White Balloon (The Middle Eastern Film Series) and Moshen Makhmalbaf's Gabbeh (The International Film Series). Thanks largely to student selection committees, Iranian film appears to be gaining the recognition that it most definitely deserves.

The position of Iranian film is somewhat undefined in America. The absence of diplomatic and cultural ties between the two countries has made Iranian film a sought-after but usually unattainable commodity in this country. The reputations of their greatest directors run to dizzying heights (Time Out London named Abbas Kiarostami "The hottest filmmaker in the world today.") but such pronouncements are often more speculative than well-founded. Of Kiarostami's 28 films, less than half have circulated in America.

Panahi and Makhmalbaf's presence in Princeton's repertory film screenings calls for the future inclusion of work by Kiarostami who many consider the greatest contemporary Iranian director. As mentor to Panahi (whose The White Balloon is an homage to his teacher's style) and collaborator with Makhmalbaf, Kiarostami's work deserves to be included in any effort to introduce Iranian film to the campus.

The term 'Iranian cinema' might seem more a product of topography than an accurate name for a body of work from different directors. However, Iran's social and economic isolation from America has produced a distinct filmmaking style that conforms to geographical boundaries. The Iranian school continues to draw its influence from cinematic innovators of the postwar decades, particularly the French and American developers of cinéma vérité. With their emphasis on blending documentary and fiction, directors such as Panahi, Makhmalbaf and Kiarostami also look back to the earliest innovators of documentary cinema.

In his preface to a book on Iranian cinema, Andrew Sarris writes: "The pace is generally a bit slow for Western tastes, but the cumulative effect of this very slowness is one of inexorability and inevitability." As Sarris points out, the most striking manifestation of Iran's dislocation from the increasingly high-budget and action-driven orientation of Western cinema is a patient, methodical (some might call it "slow") pace common to even the most sensational of Iranian films. The "inexorability and inevitability" is reinforced by the realization that "slowness," when well applied, relies on the active mental participation of the viewer rather than on his or her passive observation of actions presented on screen. For the viewer unaccustomed to such a style, Iranian films initially might be difficult to access. Both the position and the expectations of the viewer must be reassessed as the emphasis shifts from entertainment to a search for meaning.

As with all Western viewers of Iranian cinema, my ability to speak with any definitiveness on the subject is impaired by the material's scarcity. While the work of Panahi and Makhmalbaf provide excellent introductions into this world, Kiarostami's Close Up (1990) is the most streamlined exposition of the genre's central elements that I have seen. The film not only shows Kiarostami at his best, constructing a complex temporal framework within which fiction dons the guise of reality and vice versa, but includes the camera work of Panahi (so startling in The White Balloon) and Makhmalbaf's appearance as himself.

Despite the lack of Western circulation, Close Up was a sensational and popular film when released in Iran. Important in this box-office success was the involvement of two of Iran's most famous film personalities – Kiarostami's and Makhmalbaf's collaboration on the film was something of a national event. Again, the difference between how American movies are marketed and those in Iran could not be more different. Western films essentially rely on star power for popular draw, while directors usually play second fiddle. In Iran, the director assumes the preeminent position in the production, often fulfilling the roles of writer, producer and editor as well.

One might speculate that such respect for the director is precisely the cause of Andrew Sarris' adulation. As the developer of the 'auteur theory' while writing for The Village Voice in the 1960s, Sarris suggested that one man could be held responsible for a film and relate to the finished work in the same way that a writer might relate to a novel. The theory helped to create an American 'cult of directors' – with proponents citing the French leaders of the 'new wave' as the best examples of such auteurs.

It comes as no surprise therefore, that the influence of such filmmakers as Godard, Truffaut, Bresson and Rouch is easily visible in Iranian film. Kiarostami, Panahi and Makhmalbaf operate according to the auteur method. They employ very small casts and crews and often utilize unprofessional actors or real people to play themselves.

Some of the most exciting advances in contemporary cinema have developed in Iran. Largely isolated from great technological progression (the equipment necessary for Close Up existed 20 years ago), the Iranian films to be shown this semester (as well as many others) demonstrate how far cinéma vérité has progressed intellectually. Among those dizzying quotes on the nature of Iranian cinema, a critic from ID magazine speculated that this cinematic school would lead serious cinema in an effort to sustain itself in the 20th century. Many others find the work of Kiarostami and company boring beyond belief. Princeton students now have the chance to choose for themselves.