Terrestrial Verses
“Terrestrial Verses,” is one of the most dazzling and puzzling movies that have recently come out of Iran. The film links, in some ways, with both modernist formal traditions of post 1979 Iranian cinema and the current wave of social and political asperity aimed at the authoritarian repressiveness of the Islamic republic.
The stylistic approach in the film is both simple and audacious. In each of its nine episodes, the camera does not move an inch but stares at a single person being interrogated by someone off-screen who represents authority in one shape or another. Each scene runs without any cuts, which makes it more akin to a one-act play with documentary and dramatic elements.
“Terrestrial Verses” (the title is derived from a work by renowned poet-filmmaker Forugh Farrokhzad) was written and directed by Alireza Khatami and Ali Asgari. Perhaps the best way to convey its unique tone would be to describe its first two scenes.
In the first scene, we see a young man in Western clothes telling an off-screen official that he wants to name his new baby boy David; his wife likes this name too. The officer asks sternly: Why David? The young man says it’s his wife’s favorite author’s first name (we never learn what this writer’s last name is). But it’s Western, objects the official, they need a good Iranian name for their son. They go back and forth like this for some time until finally asking who is his favorite author.
“Gholam Hossein Saedi,” he replies at which an Iranian audience would surely laugh not only because of this character choosing one of Iran’s most famous leftist writers who also happened to be an enemy of Islamic Republic but also because it seems strange that officer has never heard about Saedi whose immensely influential story “The Cow” was made into Dariush Mehrjui’s film of the same title widely considered to have launched Iranian New Wave in 1969 (Asghar Farhadi pays tribute both story and movie his “The Salesman”).
The young man says he doesn’t want Gholam Hossien for his son’s name and officer suggests Hossein instead (the name of one of the preeminent figures in Shia Islam). The young man retorts that this name is Arabic, not Iranian.
While an Iranian audience would find much droll comedy in such exchange, non Iranians will recognize both familiarity with the conflict (who hasn’t had to deal with overbearing obstinacy petty bureaucrat?) and its undeniably foreign character: In what other country does government presume right to determine what couples can call their children?
I will not describe how this episode ends except note that like some others it does so abruptly and unexpectedly a poetic technique I once noticed post-revolutionary Iranian films particularly those by Abbas Kiarostami.
Khatami and Asgari have accepted Kiarostami’s impact, which can also be seen in the second episode the only one with a child. She’s called Selena, looks about 8 years old and when we meet her is dancing to Western pop music she’s listening to on her headphones while standing in the aisle of a clothing store wearing an adorable Mickey Mouse shirt. This mini Beyonce could be found in almost any country in the world, but soon we’ll see why this one can only exist here.
Off-screen, two voices discuss a uniform Selena will be required to wear at an upcoming school event. The voice of the saleswoman is harsh and demanding, spelling out what the outfit must look like, the other voice belongs to Selena’s mom, who reluctantly agrees. The action of the scene begins when Selena is told to come try on an article of clothing. She returns to frame wearing a long gray abaya, which covers her body shape. Asked to come back again, she comes back with a white hijab that covers her hair.
This goes on until all traces of Selena as an individual are gone and the uniform is complete, now she looks like an anonymous junior-size medieval Islamic automaton. Any non orthodox Muslim viewer must regard this little girl’s transformation with both wonderment and horror. But don’t think for a second that her mind has been quelled by sartorial imprisonment. When the fitting ends, she rips off each layer with rapidity and something close to contempt before resuming dancing.
Like other episodes in “Terrestrial Verses,” this one hums with an undercurrent of dissent so piercing it situates itself within Iranian cinema at this moment in particular. In 2022 at New York Film Festival where Jafar Panahi’s “No Bears” played, Iran was roiling with protests featuring as their slogan “Women! Life! Freedom!” that followed the death of a young woman who’d been arrested for not wearing a proper hijab. More than previous protests, this felt to me like a moment that was not just political but cultural. In my festival report I predicted that “The current moment will mark the ending of one era of Iranian filmmaking and the beginning of another. Going forward we may see much more outright defiance on the part of filmmakers even as the government flails to tighten the screws.”
“Terrestrial Verses” contains no violence, no mentions of politics or even the current regime in Iran, and yet it could be the most dramatically affirmative realization thus far of that prediction. It is an excoriation of the poisoned power relations within the Islamic Republic, which corrupts any interaction between people at any level of Iranian society. And you can be sure they understood it as such. After rave reviews and public acclaim around the world, co-director Ali Asgariwas banned from leaving Iran (Alireza Khatami was spared because he’s Canadian) and some members of cast reportedly had their passports, laptops and phones confiscated.
It is remarkable that films such as “Terrestrial Voices” continue to emerge from Iran when one considers the extreme limitations placed on filmmakers in the country. Asgari and Khatami themselves recognize the irrationality of these restrictions, and do so cleverly at times. For example, in one scene a filmmaker is being questioned by an official who keeps criticizing his script for having unrealistic actions or ideas. In response, the filmmaker becomes increasingly frustrated and starts ripping out pages by the handful. The only thing keeping this moment from being purely comedic is how painfully close it hits to home.
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