‘Esrafil’: A Woman Caught Between Tradition and a Film Constrained by Censorship

Another challenge in the concept of tradition and ideas such as 'morality' and 'honor' in a small town forms the basis of Aida Panahandeh's second feature film, 'Esrafil', which can be seen as a continuation of her previous film, 'Nahid' (which gained attention at the Cannes Film Festival and won an award). 'Esrafil', currently experiencing its world premiere at the London Film Festival, is not as strong as the first film, but still reflects the concerns of a filmmaker trying to portray female characters facing emotional and psychological challenges in a patriarchal society with a feminine sensibility; reminiscent of Asghar Farhadi in the first film and visually and atmospherically similar to the works of Mohammad Rasoulof (though lacking the same boldness). The film begins with a death; we soon learn that 'Mahi' is a lonely woman who has lost her son, and now, after twenty years, her youthful love Behrouz has returned from abroad to this small town; a love that has reached a dead end due to Mahi's family's opposition, forcing Behrouz to leave. The film acts cautiously (perhaps to avoid censorship) and does not reveal that Mahi's lost child (the starting point of the film that finds equivalence in the final dialogues between Behrouz and Sara regarding 'having children') is actually Behrouz's son and not the child of Mahi's next forced husband; a son that Behrouz likely knows nothing about. However, an astute viewer can pick up on clues towards this interpretation: at the very beginning of the film, after the mourning ceremony that Behrouz has entered, Mahi is in the room, and when she asks about the reason for Behrouz's return, the camera slowly moves from her face to a childhood photo of her lost child and lingers on it. Mahi is an intriguing central character that the film unfortunately neglects. From the fortieth minute, we accompany Sara, a girl who has been in contact with Behrouz via the internet and now they intend to marry. For over half an hour, there is no news of Mahi, and the small town that the film was depicting is entirely forgotten, effectively splitting the film into two parts; with two separate stories that the filmmaker struggles to connect at the end. Sara's life story and her problems - including her sick mother and her brother contemplating emigration - completely diverge from the film's main theme and create its most significant issue. However, the film's strength lies in the first forty minutes; in its minimalist narration of events that occurred twenty years ago, from which there is now no escape. The film tightly interweaves the atmosphere of this small town with its morals and traditions, and like the previous film - which also took place in a small town - it attempts to portray the loneliness and defenselessness of a woman whose weakness and silence we see in the very first scene against a guardian who picks up a knife and intends to spill blood for 'not being honorable'. Mahi's silence and weakness bring about a kind of surrender that is not particularly compatible with feminist principles. Although both of Panahandeh's films speak about women, neither can be considered feminist in any sense. Both female characters in 'Esrafil' are depicted as very weak and overwhelmed by the force of circumstances. By the end, neither of them rebels against these conditions, and it seems they readily accept their not-so-pleasant fate. The film, in a way, submits to tradition and becomes subdued by the closed and frightening society around it: even the male character - who clearly has feelings for Mahi - instead of trying to change the circumstances, submits to a mechanical traditional internet marriage just to 'not be alone' and ultimately easily gives up on his love. The final scene of the film provides the most regressive ending possible for this story. The filmmaker acts very cautiously and conservatively in narrating the characters and the societal atmosphere, and ultimately - consciously or unconsciously - becomes subdued and resigned to that closed society; and likewise succumbs to the censorship prevailing over Iranian cinema.