The Penguin’s Shohreh Aghdashloo Couldn’t Let Nadia Stay Quiet
Spoilers follow for The Penguin through the fifth episode, “Homecoming,” which premiered on Sunday, October 20.
On The Penguin, people who threaten Oswald Cobb don’t tend to stay alive. Colin Farrell’s scheming villain was partially responsible for the institutionalization of Sofia Falcone and killed Alberto Falcone, and now he’s expanded his body count into the rival Maroni family, too. In “Homecoming,” he burns alive Maroni matriarch Nadia, played by Shohreh Aghdashloo, and heir Taj (Aria Shahghasemi), making them the latest victims of his plan to ascend to the top of Gotham’s criminal ecosystem. It’s an agonizing scene, soundtracked by Nadia and Taj’s screams and complemented by Oz’s customary smirk — and beloved by Aghdashloo for its Iranian-culture specificity.
“That scene means so much to me. I’ve been asked, ‘Why does Nadia go there? She can send people to bring her son back,’” Aghdashloo says of Nadia’s characterization as an Iranian mother. “But she doesn’t, because she calls her son ‘joon,’ ‘dear,’ and she is ready to sacrifice herself for him. We can’t help it.”
On The Penguin, the Maroni family is now Iranian, an ethnicity switch from the DC Comics in which these characters originally appeared. The change was inspired by series creator and showrunner Lauren LeFranc writing Nadia specifically for the gravitas-exuding, distinctly gravelly voiced Aghdashloo (who was recovering from bronchitis when we spoke), and helps build out this contemporary version of Gotham as a multicultural city with myriad competing crime families jockeying for power. For Aghdashloo, Iranian mobsters count as a representation win: “Why not?” she remembers saying in response to a red-carpet question about their inclusion in the series. And although Aghdashloo’s role is contained to only four episodes, her Nadia is an effective foil for Oz, a representation of how brutal he’s willing to be. “Maybe today, where we’re standing at the junction of history, we need to get to know our villains so we know how to deal with them,” she says with a wink.
What interested you about Nadia Maroni? Were you approached for the role?
I was offered the role. I worked with the amazing writer-producer Lauren LeFranc before [on the 2019 YouTube series Impulse]. She trusted me and she sent me the scripts. She said, “I wrote it for you.” And when I asked her, “Why Farsi? Why do you want me to speak Farsi?” She said, “I love the sound of this language.” And she’s right. When you speak Farsi, it sounds like poetry. When people tell me, “I wrote this with you in mind,” it’s such an honor. This writer is aware of my strengths, my weaknesses.
I was so excited to be able to work with Colin Farrell. When I saw The Banshees of Inisherin, I felt, I wish I could work with this actor. And I knew that this was going to be unique because already, the title: The Penguin. For the first time, we’re going to get to know who the Penguin is. How incredible! I read it and I fell in love with it. I knew that my participation was a short participation, a few episodes. But what intrigued me was that my character has an arc. Every actor would love to take an arc, not just stay monotonous throughout the piece. And this character needs to take the arc overnight, because she’s a housewife, and all of a sudden she has to turn into a mob boss and play the role of the boss. So it’s playing a role within a role within a role.
What made that arc difficult?
Turning around 180 degrees from a housewife to a mob boss was challenging, especially because she’s Iranian. Iranian housewives, no matter who their husbands are, they are not in key positions outside. They’re very loyal to their family, to their husband, to their sons and daughters, whatever. Most probably she has no idea of half of what her husband is even doing out there. And now all of a sudden she needs to change her shoes, come out, and play the mob boss. That was challenging for me. Then I thought, Wait a second. If this woman has left the Revolution behind, then she is a courageous lady who’s got stamina. She would be able to do this.
I’m intrigued by you saying it was difficult to turn Nadia from a housewife into a mob boss, because in the scenes you have with Clancy Brown as your husband, Sal, it really seems like you are his most trusted adviser. How did you and Clancy work together to create that comfort?
Working with Clancy was fantastic. Actors, we need to trust one another. As soon as we saw each other, we clicked. He was like, “Oh my God, my beautiful wife is coming.” And I said, “Sweetheart! I worship you to the moon and back.” Because that’s how Iranian wives are, if they decide to marry someone. During a marriage ceremony, the very last words a bride’s father says are, “You are wearing a white gown, going to your husband’s home. You’re becoming a housewife. At the end, you’re wearing a white shroud and go to your grave.” It’s very dramatic! When I tell my American friends, they’re like, “What? That’s horrible!” And it’s just an expression. We are pretty dramatic, Middle Easterners in general, and of course, Iranians. My friends ask, “You have to stay married to the guy for the rest of your life?” I’m like, “No, you don’t have to. You can always ask for a divorce. But your father needs to say that, no matter what.” That’s how they are. That’s how they’ve been raised and sent to their husband’s home. Here, my husband and I are partners. I’m not saying that I’m not devoted to him. But it’s not as heavy.
You said a lot of the Iranian characterization was in the script already. Did you have a certain detail that felt most authentic to you?
Lauren is one of those writers who does her research thoroughly before she even puts the pencil on the paper. I don’t double check her because I know she checked it herself a million times. The only change I made was, whoever had translated the line, “Do not lose your control,” had translated it to, “Controletoh as das nadeh.” I wrote back to them and I said, “Control is an English word. It came to our vocabularies back in Iran because we kept using English, French, Russian words in between our Farsi speaking. Allow me to use the word ghodrat. Ghodrat is control. If you want to use a Farsi word, it means the same thing.”
My understanding of ghodrat is that it means not just control but also strength and fortitude, right? So that adds to the line and makes it mean “Don’t give up your position of strength.”
Exactly. Control means control the situation. But ghodrat means both “control” and “power” in Farsi. Don’t lose your control, don’t lose your power, because when you lose your power, you lose your control, and vice versa. If you want this to sound more authentic, then it’s ghodrat.
You mentioned how interested you were in working with Colin. Was there a moment from set where he surprised you the most?
I was never surprised, because I knew I was working with an actor with such gravitas. The crew loved him, the cast loved him, everyone loved him. One night, we had to work a couple of extra hours. He had started way before me, 4 a.m.; I started at 10 a.m. Now it’s 9 p.m. and the very last scene of the day is between the two of us. They’ve already taken his side. Now the camera is turning on my side. I felt really sorry for him. I thought he must be very tired. I said, “Colin, you don’t have to wait for me. I can do it on my own. I would just figure out a way to imagine you’re standing in front of me.” And he said, “No, Shohreh. I would never do that. I have never done this to my fellow actors. I need to be there, and I will be there. We can go until midnight. I am not going to leave you alone here.”
The two of you really sell the rivalry between Nadia and Oz. I want to ask you about the death scene, in which Oz burns you and Taj alive. Did that ending feel right for your character?
Whether my character deserved it or not, it was all Oz. He needs to get rid of his enemies, and my character is one of them. When Nadia was burning, she was supposed to stay quiet. But I couldn’t help myself. I thought, These are her last moments. She would have to say something here. I asked my doctor, and the questions I ask my doctor, they make him laugh. I said, “How long would people be able to say something when they start burning?” And he said, “You have 30 seconds. If you’re a strong person, maybe 60 seconds.” That’s why when I was going down in the fire, I thought, No, no, no. And all I could manage to say was “Oz!” [Stretches out the word in a scream, her hand extended outward.] Which is a combination of all the curses, and asking for karma for him. “Oz!”
What made me love this particular scene is the fact that although Iranian women worship their husbands and they do whatever they can for their husbands, with their sons, it’s a different story. It’s beyond worship. Every time an Iranian mother talks to their son, their name is always followed by “joon,” or “dear.” And at the end of the conversation, it usually ends like this: “ghorbunet beram.” “I sacrifice myself for you.” Nadia literally sacrifices herself for her son. That is the best part, for me, of this scene. If she were a real mob boss, she wouldn’t get herself involved with this. But she is a housewife. She makes mistakes. That scene means so much to me. I’ve been asked, “Why does Nadia go there? She can send people to bring her son back.” But she doesn’t, because she calls her son “joon,” “dear,” and she is ready to sacrifice herself for him. Ghorbunet beram.
That’s exactly how my mom talks to my brother.
We can’t help it. That’s in our DNA.