Jafar Panahi, acclaimed Iranian dissident director, won the top prize, the Palme d’Or at this year’s Cannes Film Fest.
In his winning film, It Was Just an Accident, what begins as a minor accident sets in motion a series of escalating consequences for a diverse group of citizens.
What has happened in your life since your 2022 film No Bears?
I’ve entered a new phase as a filmmaker. From my first film, The White Balloonin 1995, until Offside, I focused on my issues as a director. There were pressures, of course, but I could concentrate on finding solutions to cinematic problems.
After my first arrest in 2010, where I was banned from travelling or making films, my focus shifted to my own circumstances. Before, my camera was turned outward ,but since then, it has turned inward, toward what I was experiencing–as can be seen in the films that I made from This Is Not a Film to No Bears.
But now that those restrictions have been lifted, I’ve felt the need to look outward again–only differently this time, shaped by everything I’ve been through, including a second prison sentence between July 2022 and February 2023. So yes, the camera turns outward again, but with a different point of view than before.
Your two prison sentences mark the evolution of your work?
Yes, but not in the same way. The first time I was incarcerated, I was put in solitary confinement for 15 days, and then placed in a cell with just two or three people.
I barely saw anyone. But during my second sentence, I was among many other prisoners–people from very different walks of life. I had long conversations and exchanges with them throughout the seven months I was detained.
When they let me out after my hunger strike, I felt disoriented. I didn’t know how to exist on the outside. I was torn between the relief of being fre hand my attachment to those I had left behind. And that tension has stayed with me. I still can’t shake it.
Restrictions were lifted, is that official?
Yes, the sentence that bannedme from making films, writing, giving interviews, and travelling has been officially annulled. But in practice, I remain on the margins: for example, it would make no sense to submit the script for this film to the authorities for approval–so I have no choice but to keep working outside the system.
A Minor Accident grew directly out of your second incarceration?
Absolutely. From the beginning, my films have dealt with what’s happening in society and my immediate environment. So naturally, spending 7 months in the very specific context of a prison is bound to find away into my cinema.
Back when I was first arrested in 2010, my interrogator asked, “Why do you make these kinds of films?” I replied that my movies are based on what I’m going through. So what I was experiencing at that very moment would inevitably appear in a film, in some form or another.
That’s exactly what happened in Taxi Tehran, particularly in the conversation with lawyer Nasrin Sotoudeh.
But the second prison experience left an even deeper mark. When I got out, I felt compelled to make a film for the people I’d met behind bars. I owed them that film. Even though I’m speaking from personal experience, it aligns with what was happening in Iranian society more broadly–especially with the Woman, Life, Freedom revolution that began in the fall of 2022. A great deal has changed during that period.
How does an experience like that transform into this film, in particular?
The initial idea came quickly: I asked myself what would happen if one of the people I’d met in prison were released and came face-to-face with someone who had tortured and humiliated him? That question triggered a writing process with two screenwriter friends, Nader Saeivar and Shadmehr Rastin.
We began sketching out possible developments, butI quickly realized that what mattered most was the authenticity of the stories about life in prison, and the different ways they can be told. I brought in someone who had spent lot of time in prison, and who is unfortunately back there again–Mehdi Mahmoudian. He helped with the dialogue, drawing from what actually happens in detention, and how differently people talk about it, once they’re out.
Characters like Vahid, Shiva, Hamid represent specific individuals?
They’re fictional, but the stories they tell are based on real events experienced by actual prisoners. What’s also real is the diversity of these characters and their reactions. Some become very violent and driven by desire for revenge.
Others try to take a step back and think about longer-term paths. Some were highly politicized–or became so. Others weren’t at all and got arrested almost by chance. That’s the case with Vahid, the main character: he was worker who simply asked to be paid his wages. The regime doesn’t distinguish between these people.
Each of the other characters represents one of the many loosely or tightly organized opposition groups. These groups often clash, even behind bars. They all agree on opposing the regime, but beyond that…Since Mahsa Amini’s death and the rise of Woman, Life, Freedom, regime rejection has become widespread.
Often, people don’t know what to replace it with. You can see it plainly today–for example, many women now appear in public without the hijab. That kind of mass civil disobedience was unthinkable just a few years ago.
But the scenes in the film, which were shot in the streets with unveiled actresses, reflect today’s reality. Iranian women are the ones who have imposed this transformation.
Able to shoot openly, or in secret, as with earlier works?
Since I didn’t apply for official permits–which I wouldn’t have received anyway–I had to use the same clandestine methods as for previous films.
Just before we wrapped, plainclothes officers turned up and demanded all the footage. I refused. They continued to put pressure on us by threatening to arrest the crew and shut down production. In the end, they gave up. We paused the shoot for a while, then resumed. Nothing further happened. Is it important to know where the film is set, or in what city or region it was shot? No. It was filmed in and around Tehran simply because it was the most practical. But it could be anywhere.
Who are the actors?
Vahid Mobasseri, the actor playing Vahid, is Azeri [The northwestern region of the country where Panahi is from and where a previous film of his was set]. He works for the local television station in Tabriz, and previously played the man who rented me a room in No Bears. When he’s not acting, he drives a taxi.
Maryam Afshari, who plays Shiva, is not an actress–she’s a karate referee. Hadis Pakbaten, who plays the bride, is a stage actress. The groom, Majid, is my nephew, who also appeared in Taxi Tehran.
Mohamad Ali Elyasmehr, who plays Hamid, is both carpenter and studied theatre.
Salar, the older man in the bookstore, is played by Georges Hashemzadeh, an actor-director.
The only professional film actor is Ebrahim Azizi, who plays Eghbal–but he only works on films outside the system and refuses to participate in productions that have been approved by the censors.
Was any of it improvised?
No, everything was written. When I cast the actors, I invited each of the mover to my home, gave them the script, and asked if they were willing to take part in a project that was potentially risky. Once mutual trust was established with each of them, we worked from that shared commitment.
It Was Just an Accident is stylistically different from earlier films
Initially, I wanted to shoot in a conventional style–with clear, clean shots focused on the action. But during the shoot, I felt the directing needed to be more expressive.
As the characters met and grew closer, I wanted there to be more freedom in the framing and length of the take. The idea was that, inspite of all their conflicts, they would all end up in the same frame. I also wondered how to film Eghbal, and whether to frame him in a different scale. I made sure he was always alone in the frame, never with the others. But at the end, when he realizes what he’s done, he shares the frame
Iranian films that openly criticize the regime usually omit the names of cast and crew from the credits. But not this time. If anyone had asked for their name to be left out, I would have done so. But they all wanted their name to appear. And most are coming with me to Cannes. So you’re going to Cannes. But isn’t there a risk you won’t be able to return to Iran afterward? That hasn’t even occurred to me. I can’t live anywhere else.
Many of my fellow Iranians have chosen–or have been forced–to emigrate. But I can’t do that. I don’t have the courage! I’m unfit to live outside Iran. We’ll see what happens. In any case, this film had to be made. I made it, and I’ll accept whatever consequences may follow.
