A film industry faced with a 'circle of traps'

A complicated web of government censorship and economic restrictions is starving the Iranian new wave
By JEHANGIR POCHA
Special to The Globe and Mail

Friday, Feb. 14, 2003

TEHRAN -- Censorship and imprisonment have always threatened the existence of Iran 's "new-wave" film movement, which has attempted to confront the excesses of the Islamic revolution with art-house classics such as Abbas Kiarostami's Close-Up (1990).

In the West, the intimacy and lyricism of Iran 's new-wave films have made them popular with the art-house and film-festival crowd.

"Iranian films are startling different . . . they have the simple directness of the Italian neo-realists," said Piers Handling, director of the Toronto International Film Festival, which first showcased Iranian films in 1992 and screens new ones every year. "There is no manipulation of the audience with fast cuts and special effects . . . it's like comparing a body built on steroids with one worked out in the gym."

In Iran , the subversive subtexts of these provocative films are rattling religious conservatives in government. Iran is poised on the cusp between religious extremism and political reform. Conservatives believe the imbedded politics of new-wave films directly challenge their power by giving voice to the swelling discontent within the country. Enraged by the negative international attention the films bring to Iran 's drastic social and political policies, they are attempting to subvert the filmmakers.

"The government has created a circle of traps for us," said Amir , a new director currently working on his debut film who requested that his full identity be withheld.

By law, the government vets all film scripts and no film can be critical of Islam, the clerics, the armed forces, or about domestic politics and sex. Stylistically, the restrictions range from the predictable ban on sensuality to the quirky detail that men cannot wear neckties.

All films must also pass a censor board and apply for an export licence before they can be shown abroad. Government-controlled theatres and TV are the only distribution channels available and both often refuse to screen films arbitrarily. Producers also have no copyright protections and receive no royalties if their work is broadcast on TV or distributed on video.

While the growing power of reformers in parliament has allowed them to provide openings and protection to a handful of prominent directors, the conservative Guardian Council, which can overrule parliament, supports the complicated maze of regulations that are suffocating the film industry.

An even greater threat, some filmmakers believe, comes from a more innocuous source -- the price of cinema tickets. Patrons in Iran 's movie theatres often pay as little as 3,000 rials (about 57 cents) for a night at the movies.

"As a result, all involved in this industry are broke," said Ahmad Talebinejad , a film critic and writer whose book A Simple Event chronicles the history of Iranian cinema. "Prior to the [1979] revolution, you paid 30 rials for a movie ticket and 10 rials for a sandwich. Now you pay 3,000 rials (55 cents) for a movie ticket and 8,000 rials ($1.40) for a sandwich . . . which in my opinion is totally senseless and unreasonable."

Many filmmakers see the move as a deft manoeuvre by the government to squeeze Iran 's independent film industry.

"Controlled ticket prices [and] the absence of ancillary rights are killing Iranian cinema economically," said Bahman Farmanara , an award-winning director whose latest production A House Built on Water was banned last month. Despite being in the midst of a legal battle over the fate of his film, Farmanara identified the regulatory warfare the government is waging against filmmakers, not censorship, as the greatest threat to the industry.

With the average Iranian film costing about $200,000 to make, the producer's share of a 55-cent ticket makes it virtually impossible for them to make a profit.

Many Iranian filmmakers now try to win foreign financing and distribution deals. But the lure of the euro and dollar markets has its own unintended consequences, says Minaz Fatouhi , a fine-arts student at Tehran University and an aspiring filmmaker.

"Our new-wave films were meant to inspire Iranians . . . but now they are being made more for foreigners," says Fatouhi . "Instead of trying to make their films speak to Iranians, many directors are more interested to win awards."

Walking through the film exhibits at the elegantly designed Museum of Contemporary Art in Tehran , Fatouhi pointed out that the distinctly Western-oriented short films flickering on the monitors around her have little resonance with most Iranians.

"I find the so-called new-wave films boring, technically unsophisticated and predictable," says Javad Ghatta, who teaches English literature and criticism at the University of Esfahan . "They may seem important to Westerners, but we [Iranians] do not need to watch slow-moving discourses on our problems. We know them . . . we live them."

The market appears to concur. The Iranian films celebrated in the West find little favour with ordinary Iranians who seem to prefer dubbed versions of Hollywood hits. In Tehran , massive hand-painted billboards advertising the uncovered dark hair of Catherine Zeta-Jones in Traffic are more ubiquitous than posters for local films, including Iran 's Bollywood-style crowd-pleasers called " Filmfarsi ."

Ironically, a new war -- America 's war on terror -- might give Iranian films another unexpected chance. The fall of the Taliban in neighbouring Afghanistan has re-opened a major market for Iranian films. Film-starved Afghans have been rushing back in droves to the cinema and Iranian films have become hot favourites with them, second only to Bollywood's rambunctious musicals in popularity.

In addition to the increased revenues, Amir says the Afghanistan situation gives Iranian filmmakers the opportunity to expand into new subjects that will have local and international interest. Growing media attention for Samira Makhmalbaf's yet untitled new film, which is being shot entirely in Afghanistan , is a good indication of this.

Yet, with Iranians continuing to pay for movie tickets with spare change, the fate of Iran 's film industry remains precarious. But more than intimidation this seems to fuel resolve. Despite the falling audiences and rising financial losses, in 2002, filmmakers produced 30 per cent more films than in 1999. While pundits peering into the future proclaim this unsustainable, the filmmakers themselves seem more focused on the present.

"We are Persian. Art is part of who we are," Amir said. "Give us a drop of water and we will give you a garden."