Iranian filmmaker shows prejudice a red card . by shirin Sadeghi
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Iranian filmmaker shows prejudice a red card
OneWorld UK
By Shirin Sadeghi, who was born in Iran, raised in the United States and is currently based in London. She is a journalist, PhD candidate, and jazz singer who speaks six languages. She was the Volunteer Editor on OneWorld's Iran Guide
Iran’s President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad announced this year that women should be allowed into stadiums to watch football matches. But it didn't take long for the Supreme Leader, Ali Khamenei, to say that it wouldn’t happen.
In Offside, which opened in London this week, filmmaker Jafar Panahi has done an admirable job of delivering the reality of what may have seemed to some a trivial law. In previous films he has portrayed the daily suffering of women in Iran: now he suggests that the deprivation of their leisure activities is a subjugation no less cruel.
While Iranian women have learned to negotiate everyday life - the hindrance of mandatory hejab, the lack of independence, their overall treatment as second-class citizens – it is harder to overcome exclusion from pleasures restricted to men. In the film and in reality, they are far from giving up their fight for equal rights, as they proved this week (https://hrw.org/english/docs/2006/06/15/iran13548.htm) during demonstrations in which hundreds were injured at the hands of police.
Panahi, who conceived the film after his own daughter prompted his admiration when she managed to disguise her way into a football stadium, tells the story of six girls who try to pass as boys in order to get into the Azadi stadium in Tehran. Using one of the most inexplicable of the Islamic Republic's laws against women as a background, Panahi coaxes out the bigger picture of the state of Iranian society: that by subjugating women, the law also subjugates men.
As one by one the women are discovered, they are corralled into a holding pen on the wings of the stadium while Iran plays it final World Cup qualifying match against Bahrain. Panahi says most of the scenes were filmed as the real game was being played, which adds a further touch of authenticity to a film that stars non-actors (even the characters aren't given names) and employs documentary techniques such as hand-held cameras.
The holding pen is guarded by a small troop of young army conscripts. They are headed by an Azeri who offers a glimpse into the mentality - or lack thereof - behind the law, especially during his discussions with the tough girl played by Shayesteh Irani.
Why were Japanese women allowed into the stadium for a World Cup qualifying match in 2005, she asks.
Because they're Japanese, he answers.
"So my problem is I was born in Iran," she retorts.
He struggles to come up with a reason why women shouldn't be allowed in, citing some of the official explanations: that they shouldn't be exposed to swearwords and rough language (though Irani's character demonstrates that women are already familiar with the worst words), that they shouldn't be close to unfamiliar men (though they literally sit on top of each other in public taxis). Eventually, he comes up short and starts shouting.
The film is marked by a natural rapport between the characters, no doubt helped by the fact that none of the cast are professional actors. There is no Hollywood bust-up. These characters, emotionally attached to the very match they risked so much to witness but now can't even see, don't ever try to break away from the pen. It's a not-so-subtle comment on the virtue of the female fans: they aren't there for the thrill, they truly care about the game. "This game is more important to me than food," says one of them.
There are moments when Panahi puts symbolism aside and overtly questions the system that has created this bizarrely inhumane situation. An old man comes to the pen seeking his daughter, only to discover his neighbour's daughter, whom, in his rage, he tries to hit. As the Azeri conscript pulls him back and tells him it is not right to hit women, they end up in an argument over who has imprisoned the girl more: a man who has so shackled his daughter that she's secretly dressed as a man and run away from him to sneak into a football game or a conscript who keeps her in a pen, forbidding her to view a match that is only metres away. The answer is that the law has imprisoned each and every one of them.
There are also more surreal moments. After learning that Iran has scored, the girls form a huddle and celebrate with a traditional Kurdish circle dance, ignoring their predicament. The camera pans out to the Azeri's back as he watches them in wonder, overwhelmed by their show of loyalty and by his own appreciation of it.
Along the way, Panahi cleverly makes a few jabs at the demarcation of gender roles, demonstrating that the Islamic Republic’s strict definitions of gender are simply not applicable in real life. The girls’ looks immediately play on the concept of visual gender differentiation – some of them, including Irani’s character and a girl dressed as soldier, are so well disguised that even the conscripts initially refuse to believe they are girls.
“Are you a boy or a girl?” one asks Irani’s character.
“What do you want me to be, baby?” she smiles back.
The characters sometimes taunt these limited definitions of men and women. A conscript shouts at a long-haired figure who he finds in the toilet: “Get out! Are you a woman?”
The man turns around and sneers, “Let me take you into the stalls and show you what I am.”
In the end, as the pre-revolutionary (and still commonly accepted) national anthem trembles through the film, all the characters capture the most fervent universality that the Islamic Republic ignores – that Iran’s triumphs beat in the heart of all Iranians, men and women alike.
Iranian filmmaker shows prejudice a red card
OneWorld UK
By Shirin Sadeghi, who was born in Iran, raised in the United States and is currently based in London. She is a journalist, PhD candidate, and jazz singer who speaks six languages. She was the Volunteer Editor on OneWorld's Iran Guide
Iran’s President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad announced this year that women should be allowed into stadiums to watch football matches. But it didn't take long for the Supreme Leader, Ali Khamenei, to say that it wouldn’t happen.
In Offside, which opened in London this week, filmmaker Jafar Panahi has done an admirable job of delivering the reality of what may have seemed to some a trivial law. In previous films he has portrayed the daily suffering of women in Iran: now he suggests that the deprivation of their leisure activities is a subjugation no less cruel.
While Iranian women have learned to negotiate everyday life - the hindrance of mandatory hejab, the lack of independence, their overall treatment as second-class citizens – it is harder to overcome exclusion from pleasures restricted to men. In the film and in reality, they are far from giving up their fight for equal rights, as they proved this week (https://hrw.org/english/docs/2006/06/15/iran13548.htm) during demonstrations in which hundreds were injured at the hands of police.
Panahi, who conceived the film after his own daughter prompted his admiration when she managed to disguise her way into a football stadium, tells the story of six girls who try to pass as boys in order to get into the Azadi stadium in Tehran. Using one of the most inexplicable of the Islamic Republic's laws against women as a background, Panahi coaxes out the bigger picture of the state of Iranian society: that by subjugating women, the law also subjugates men.
As one by one the women are discovered, they are corralled into a holding pen on the wings of the stadium while Iran plays it final World Cup qualifying match against Bahrain. Panahi says most of the scenes were filmed as the real game was being played, which adds a further touch of authenticity to a film that stars non-actors (even the characters aren't given names) and employs documentary techniques such as hand-held cameras.
The holding pen is guarded by a small troop of young army conscripts. They are headed by an Azeri who offers a glimpse into the mentality - or lack thereof - behind the law, especially during his discussions with the tough girl played by Shayesteh Irani.
Why were Japanese women allowed into the stadium for a World Cup qualifying match in 2005, she asks.
Because they're Japanese, he answers.
"So my problem is I was born in Iran," she retorts.
He struggles to come up with a reason why women shouldn't be allowed in, citing some of the official explanations: that they shouldn't be exposed to swearwords and rough language (though Irani's character demonstrates that women are already familiar with the worst words), that they shouldn't be close to unfamiliar men (though they literally sit on top of each other in public taxis). Eventually, he comes up short and starts shouting.
The film is marked by a natural rapport between the characters, no doubt helped by the fact that none of the cast are professional actors. There is no Hollywood bust-up. These characters, emotionally attached to the very match they risked so much to witness but now can't even see, don't ever try to break away from the pen. It's a not-so-subtle comment on the virtue of the female fans: they aren't there for the thrill, they truly care about the game. "This game is more important to me than food," says one of them.
There are moments when Panahi puts symbolism aside and overtly questions the system that has created this bizarrely inhumane situation. An old man comes to the pen seeking his daughter, only to discover his neighbour's daughter, whom, in his rage, he tries to hit. As the Azeri conscript pulls him back and tells him it is not right to hit women, they end up in an argument over who has imprisoned the girl more: a man who has so shackled his daughter that she's secretly dressed as a man and run away from him to sneak into a football game or a conscript who keeps her in a pen, forbidding her to view a match that is only metres away. The answer is that the law has imprisoned each and every one of them.
There are also more surreal moments. After learning that Iran has scored, the girls form a huddle and celebrate with a traditional Kurdish circle dance, ignoring their predicament. The camera pans out to the Azeri's back as he watches them in wonder, overwhelmed by their show of loyalty and by his own appreciation of it.
Along the way, Panahi cleverly makes a few jabs at the demarcation of gender roles, demonstrating that the Islamic Republic’s strict definitions of gender are simply not applicable in real life. The girls’ looks immediately play on the concept of visual gender differentiation – some of them, including Irani’s character and a girl dressed as soldier, are so well disguised that even the conscripts initially refuse to believe they are girls.
“Are you a boy or a girl?” one asks Irani’s character.
“What do you want me to be, baby?” she smiles back.
The characters sometimes taunt these limited definitions of men and women. A conscript shouts at a long-haired figure who he finds in the toilet: “Get out! Are you a woman?”
The man turns around and sneers, “Let me take you into the stalls and show you what I am.”
In the end, as the pre-revolutionary (and still commonly accepted) national anthem trembles through the film, all the characters capture the most fervent universality that the Islamic Republic ignores – that Iran’s triumphs beat in the heart of all Iranians, men and women alike.