Making a Movie in Secret, and Living With the Repercussions
Every aspect of The Seed of the Sacred Fig, onscreen and off, evokes the rhythms of a political thriller. In the movie, Iman (Missagh Zareh), an investigating judge for Iran’s Revolutionary Court who is responsible for determining the guilt or innocence of people charged with crimes against the state, begins to suspect that his wife, Najmeh (Soheila Golestani), and his daughters, Rezvan (Mahsa Rostami) and Sana (Setareh Maleki), are keeping secrets from him. During the film’s secret production, director and writer Mohammad Rasoulof — who had already served time in prison for his regime-criticizing work — stayed away from the set, aware that if anyone spotted him on the street surrounded by a cast and crew, they’d know what he was up to. The film’s plot and the process by which it was created share a fraught tension, one that’s only been exacerbated by everything that’s happened after the existence of the film was revealed in an April 2024 Cannes announcement.
In May, Rasoulof fled Iran by foot and sought asylum in Germany, which has selected the film as its Best International Feature Film submission for the upcoming 97th Academy Awards; three of the film’s young actresses relocated to Europe, too. Cast and crew members who stayed in Iran were harassed, and they’re all facing charges for participating in the film. Rasoulof, who recurrently held up photographs of Zareh and Golestani at the film’s Cannes premiere, speaks about his collaborators often, and when he does, he slips into a tone of pride and awe. The same goes for when he discusses the bravery of the women and girls involved in the Woman, Life, Freedom movement. He heard their chanting while serving time in Evin Prison in 2022 and their actions provide the background drama of The Seed of the Sacred Fig. “You saw this extraordinary amount of exceptional young women who were so courageous, and so clearly were demanding to be able to show their identity, from the state and to the state,” Rasoulof says through interpreter Iante Roach. “I just listened very intently to what they had to say.”
The film was made in secret, and within the film, Iman is keeping secrets from his daughters, and his wife and daughters are keeping secrets from him. Do you think secrecy has become a component of Iranian identity under this regime?
With Iman and his family, it goes back to what happens to people in that position in the regime in Iran. I’ve had so many dealings with censors, interrogators, prosecutors, judges, and what I found that they all have is this need to always keep a certain guard, even when they’re dealing with their closest people. They can never really reveal who they are. More generally, I think that’s what totalitarianism does to everyone in a totalitarian society. It forces everyone to wear a mask, and to fit within a certain framework that the government has established for you. The interference of the state within every aspect of life of its citizens is pretty clear. With Iman, what interested me was the drama that the secret could engender, in terms of not only his story but his relationship with his family.
You were watching the Woman, Life, Freedom protests from inside Evin Prison with other prisoners. After you were released, were you able to meet with any of the protesters?
When I came out of prison, I was immediately very curious to understand and to see what had been happening on the street. I went straight away and looked up all these videos, many of which made their way into the film. In these videos, you saw this extraordinary amount of exceptional young women who were so courageous, and so clearly were demanding to be able to show their identity, from the state and to the state. I interviewed a great number of very young female protesters. I had accrued all this direct experience from people working within the system — the kind of characters I mentioned earlier — and I now had this direct confrontation with this young generation that had taken us all by such surprise. These two formed the raw materials for the story.
The film is interspersed with actual footage from the protests, which show these women being beaten, harassed, crowded into vans and disappeared, and even some laying dead on the street. How did you collect that footage to use in the film?
It’s important to note that during the Woman, Life, Freedom protests in Iran, journalists were barred from attending and documenting the protests — from doing their natural work, really. It was the protesters themselves who recorded what was happening on their phones, and uploaded and circulated anonymously all these videos, in order to share with the world in a pretty tangible way that they were protesting but also the really savage repression that the state undertook. I tasked a number of my collaborators with collecting all these videos and filing them according to certain topics they represented. We watched them in great detail. Once I had ascertained the absolute need to use this footage in the film, I chose to primarily use the more well-known videos that would elicit a very strong emotional reaction, and in a way, remind you of the reaction you had the first time you watched them. The choice of the actual videos was in collaboration with the film’s editor, Andrew Bird. Some material was on social media, so we simply downloaded it. It was about four hours of footage altogether.
The actresses who played Rezvan, Sana, and Sadaf said when they were approached about the movie, they initially didn’t know who the director was. How did you handle casting? Did you have specific actors in mind for each part?
I was actually writing the role of Iman for Missagh, whom I had already worked with, and I knew how keen he was to play this role. But I had no idea who should play the other characters. The casting process was very difficult, because you couldn’t just go to the actors you had in mind and talk to them. At the same time, it was easier than in the past, to some extent, because one of the things that the Woman, Life, Freedom movement did in Iran was it enabled many people, across all straits of society, to rip off the mask that they’d worn up to that point and state clearly who they were and what they wanted. I was confronted by many colleagues who had expressed very clearly, or who had made the decision, that they were no longer willing to work on films that complied with the compulsory hijab or with censorship more generally that got in the way of showing and being who you are. I knew that there was a group of people it was possible to start talking to.
Constructing a family onscreen is always difficult. I actually tasked four collaborators with that casting. Drawing on their knowledge of both the cinema and theater worlds, they compiled a very long list of potential candidates. From this long list, we compiled a shortlist based on basically who we thought had the guts to undertake such a project, the courage. We collected the photographs of all these actors, and put them beside one another to try to work out, can they absolutely look like a believable family or not? I was getting the advice of my makeup artist, Mahmoud Dehghani, who is a close friend, and they were able to guide me — like, yes, we can actually make these people look like a family, or we cannot. We got to a shorter shortlist because quite a few people fell off the grid. We did makeup tests with lots of different actors, and many of the actors still didn’t know that I was the director. They thought that they were being cast for a short film. We finalized the casting decision as to who would play the father, the mother, and the youngest daughter, Sana. But we had to find the eldest daughter, Rezvan. By now we had limited options, and we needed a very special face in order to make the family believable. Quite a few people were almost chosen, then they got afraid and they abandoned the project. In the end, Mahsa Rostami, who joined us at the very last minute, was an amazing choice. The first time she read the script, she still didn’t know who the director was. She later told me that as she was reading the script, she was deeply touched by it, but that she was also really afraid. She felt, “This is a character I know very well and I’ve wanted to play for so long, but I’m so afraid.” But when she had to choose between following her fear or her desire to take part in the film, she chose the latter.
Setareh, Mahsa, and Niousha have left Iran. At Cannes, you held up pictures of Missagh and Soheila. Are they both still in Iran?
When the news that the film would be presented at Cannes came out, the regime placed a huge amount of pressure on everyone from the cast and crew who were still inside Iran. Everyone was interrogated multiple times, the office of the DOP was raided, the sound recordist’s passport was confiscated. They did everything in their power to place the utmost pressure on the cast and crew. And of course, this is all orchestrated to push them to a point where they would feel compelled to ask me to withdraw the film from the competition. But they never did. They simply let me know what was happening to them.
After Cannes, so many bizarre things happened in Iran. The president died in a helicopter crash. There’s been this building escalation between Iran and Israel, with missiles launching back and forth. It’s a bit as if the regime was too busy with more important matters. When things calmed down a little bit, Missagh was able to leave the country and go to Australia, where he’s currently acting onstage. The sound recordist was also able to leave the country. But the DOP is still in Iran. Soheila is still in Iran. So are various designers; actually, the great majority of the crew are still inside Iran. Soheila is free on bail. There are currently court proceedings against every single person involved in the making of the film, but especially the principal cast and principal crew, on three main charges: spreading corruption and prostitution on Earth, because of the hair of the actresses being shown, and two other charges that basically amount to attempts against national security and propaganda against the regime. We’re awaiting the outcome. And throughout all of this period, whoever was in Iran is banned from working and banned from leaving the country.
You’ve said that although you’re now not in Iran, you want to continue making “Iranian stories.” What does an Iranian story mean to you?
For me, an Iranian story is a story that talks about the country I know, the society I know, which I was born into, and which I’ve been able to touch, to hear, to tangibly interact with. I think the place you’re born in gives you a specific window onto life, onto the world. That’s why language is so important, because that informs your outlook on the world, your way of thinking.
Because of the restrictions placed on you, you were not able to be on set. I understand that you sent your assistant directors out with a shot list every day. How else did that process work? Were you reviewing footage after filming each day?
No, I didn’t work that way. I was watching from a certain distance and directing in real time. Thanks to livestreaming, I had a monitor in front of me, through which I guided the whole cast and crew. We realized that the only way we could get the filming completed was to be very careful, and so we established three protocols. First was to have a tiny cast and crew, without bringing down the production value; to have very light equipment, really akin to what most student films are made on; and that I should not physically be present on set, because if I’m recognized, then it would give away whatever’s being filmed. For instance, for exteriors, we had all these fake filming permits. But if I were to be associated with it, then it would become immediately apparent that they were fake. Thanks to the advancement of technology, it was possible to direct remotely. Of course, it was much more difficult. It’s almost like being on set but with one’s entire concentration focused on what’s happening on the monitor. I did have two assistants on set through which I communicated with the various departments. One was in charge of the image, so they worked with the DP, sound, and the more technical side. The other one was in charge of the actors, and it was through that person that I guided their performance.
Can you talk to me about Iman’s office and the cardboard cutouts decorating the hallways of the building, like of Revolutionary Guard commander Qasem Soleimani?
[Slaps hands over his face.] I know, it’s very strange.
Once we’re filming, we have to do everything really quickly. We always get that feeling of I wish I had more time.
I don’t think it’s strange. I think it’s very recognizable for an Iranian person to see those cutouts.
If you were to ask me who created the aesthetics of those spaces — if it was me as the director, if it was my set designer, or something or someone else — I’d have to indicate something or someone else. This is not our aesthetics. It’s not our choice. It’s the aesthetics of totalitarianism. Anyone who has been to the judiciary building next to Evin Prison will recognize this. The wall of my prosecutor looked like this, with those posters and pictures. Whoever has been in that building and in that room will recognize it straight away. The reason why it’s in the film was not only to re-create reality — because we simply re-created the room I’d been in — but also to document it at this moment in time, that such a place exists. As for the cardboard cutouts, we didn’t create them. We simply bought them. They are visual propaganda of the regime that is created and placed in all official spaces, so that people see them and they somehow enter into people’s subconscious. They are real.
I’d like to say one more thing. I was always blindfolded while I was being interrogated, so I actually never saw what that space looked like. However, when you are interrogated by the prosecutor, you get asked exactly the same questions that you were asked by your interrogator, and it might be six months later. You might have been kept in solitary confinement all that time; there might be a quite large time span between the two. You’re asked exactly the same questions. They have access to all of your file. They see the answers. You have to answer them again, then sign each one of them. It’s a very lengthy and extremely harassing, disturbing process.
You and your collaborator over the years, fellow filmmaker Jafar Panahi, were in prison at the same time while the protests were breaking out. You’ve said when you told him about your idea to make this movie, he said, “Just get started. Go in, and you will forget about your fears.” Was his advice correct — did you lose your fears as the production went on?
Yes. The fear didn’t disappear quite as soon as Mr. Panahi had predicted, but eventually it did. [Laughs.]
Have you shared the film with him?
He was able to watch the film on the big screen in Paris, then he rang me up, and of course, he had some constructive feedback. [Laughs.] You know, what really upsets me is that because of the circumstances we have to operate under, we do not have the opportunity to talk very much. Once we’re filming, we have to do everything really quickly. We always get that feeling of I wish I had more time, and I wish I’d been able to reach out and get the opinions of and advice from others.”
In an interview about There Is No Evil, you said, “To be honest, neither I nor my crew are completely satisfied with the finished film. When we make a film, we have to exert so much energy to work in secret and escape the eyes of censorship.” Was there anything about this film that you wish could have been done differently? Do you feel the same way as you did then?
It’s even worse than with There Is No Evil. It’s not that I watch it and say, “I wish I’d done that.” Rather, I watch it and say, “Oh, I wish I’d had the time and the opportunity to do this differently, that differently, and so on.” There Is No Evil was much easier. It was shorter. It was divided into four episodes. We filmed one episode at a time, and when it was over, we immediately sent everything we’d filmed abroad. We’d take some time before moving on to the next one, and we knew that at least we’d got that episode done correctly. This one was much longer; even the script is much longer. And we had this terrible feeling. It was really like always being on the edge of the abyss. From the first to the last day of the shoot, if any day we were not able to film what we’d plan to film that day, if we had to interrupt the filming or the shoot didn’t go well for any reason, it felt as if all our efforts, all our work up to that point, had been completely useless. There was no difference between filming 0 percent or 99 percent of the film. It was only when we reached 100 percent that we felt it was not useless.
The film’s primary tension comes from Iman’s certainty that one of his daughters has stolen a gun, and their continued denial of his accusations, until Sana casually reveals that she had it all along. Can you tell me about deciding that it would be Sana who took her father’s gun? It’s such a surprise.
That’s exactly what happened in prison, in the sense that we were all absolutely stunned by this young generation, and I wanted to bring this into the story of the film — the sense of absolute surprise and almost disbelief. This had to be in the film for me, even if it might not work, even if it might break all rules of story or filmmaking. And of course you need a reason, in the sense of the story’s development, that explains why she would undertake such an action. And that’s where the story of Sadaf, the friend of the girls, acquires major significance. On one hand, it shows the savage repression that the state undertook, but on the other hand, it also shows us how a teenager such as Sana can make such a huge, huge decision based simply on a very strong emotional reaction — vis-à-vis, seeing what the state can do to her friends.
What came first, writing the chase through the ruins, or finding the ruins in Kharanaq? When I saw the shot of Iman falling through the ruins and being buried in the dust, with only his hand and his aqeeq ring sticking out, I thought of the Persian saying “khak be sareht.” Did you want Persian speakers to think of that phrase with what happens to Iman?
I scripted it first, then I needed to find the appropriate location. But I scripted it because, in the final act of the film, the cinematic language changes. It moves to a metaphorical level, and so it’s important to find the visual means to explore that. It’s almost as if I’m projecting the story of this family on a historical dimension. A relationship must be established between Iranian history and the vicissitudes and the events of this family. And “khak be sareht,” not really. That is warm, soft. [Laughs.]
[Laughs.] In my family, it’s not as soft of an expression, so it’s interesting to know there are differences in how it’s used.
What I wanted to indicate through that finale is how tradition and antiquated thoughts will be buried because of the requests, the wants, the needs of the young generation. Patriarchy is falling down, is plummeting, is drowning. That doesn’t mean it’s disappeared. That shot of the hand emerging from the dust indicates that things may still happen, that it’s not gone, necessarily.
The final act is like a horror movie in how it’s paced and shot, and the hand sticking out made me think of a zombie film, and the possibility that Iman and all he represents could come back.
[Nods and gives a thumbs-up.] Completely right.
Related