And, Towards Happy Alleys

Life is perhaps a rope with which a man hangs himself from a branch

Life is perhaps a child returning home from school

Or the absent gaze of a passerby who takes off his hat to another passerby

With a meaningless smile and a good morning

Life is perhaps that enclosed moment when my gaze

destroys itself in the pupil of your eyes

And it is in the feeling which I put into the moon's impression

and the night's perception.

In a room as big as loneliness my heart, which is as big as love

Looks at the simple pretexts of its happiness

At the beautiful decay of flowers in the vase

At the sapling you planted in our garden

And the song of canaries which sing to the size of a window

Ah! This is my lot

My lot is a sky taken away at the drop of a curtain

Your eyes are very beautiful.

Don't you want a lift?

I can be your taxi driver. You can pay me the fare.

We don't want to go to the Spring of Ali now.

Goodbye.

Is it okay to film here?

Yes.

You said you want to make a film based on your PhD research

- that centres around the cinema of Iran. - Yes.

Where do we begin?

When I first came to Tehran, it felt like I had been there before.

As I looked out at the streets from the crowded morning bus

I was overcome by a strange dejavu.

The alleys and the women surrounding me seemed familiar.

I didn't know how to speak a word in Farsi

but could feel the verses of poetry and scenes from Iranian cinema

that inspired my journey, had suddenly come to life.

I felt like a spectator marvelling at the film unfolding before my eyes.

Miss, are you filming me?

About ten years ago, I remember being in a dark room

with other young and agitated students

who had joined the cinema course for many reasons.

I did not have a reason then. I was 21.

The films that we were to watch shortly, changed everything.

Some of the first Iranian films shown to us during our Film Studies classes

were those by Mohsen Makhmalbaf, Abbas Kiarostami and Jafar Panahi.

This cinema and the simultaneous readings of the poetry of Forough Farrokhzad,

a rebel poet and filmmaker from the '60s,

broke the image of Iran that reached us through conventional news and media.

These films spoke of hope and poeticism

despite being made under an obsessive, totalitarian regime.

The film The House is Black faced a lot of censorship in its time.

Even before the revolution, some special institutions believed that

The House is Black was a metaphor for Iranian society.

'The House' was a direct reference to Iran

and 'The House is Black' referred to Iranians living in dark times.

In my opinion, even at that time,

the film was not presented to Iranians appropriately.

A film that won awards out of Iran, in Iran...

Was prohibited.

Was not prohibited, but did not receive the attention it deserved.

In Iran, even if you have a little sense of poetry

Forough will be the first person you'll know.

Because Forough voices the feelings of an Iranian woman.

Not just an Iranian woman

but women from any part of the earth can connect with her feelings,

her language and expressions.

Just like how Forough attracted you even in India

and here you are now, following her traces even to her grave.

Where did this hope emanate from?

How could such life affirming stories of beauty

emerge from the claustrophobia of censorship?

I wanted to learn.

Fuelled by passion, I let myself be taken to the land of unheard stories

on the wings of cinema.

- Hello. - How are you doing?

Very well, thank you.

- I have a guest - Hello, I'll film with your permission.

- What is your name? - Sreemoyee

She has come from India. She is researching Iranian cinema.

I thought I'd make her buy some glasses here.

I had called to say your glasses are ready.

- What song were you singing? - Soltane Ghalbha.

- Why don't you sing it? - What, now?

Yes.

You are the king of my heart...

What's the next line? Breaking the... What was it?

- Don't you know the line? - Yes, I do.

- What are you doing? - So your voice doesn't go out.

- Will you film me? - Why don't you sing and film together?

The heart says it wants to leave

The heart also says it wants to stay

The heart cannot do without you

It doesn't know what to do without you

Before love, so beautiful

The world seems so tiny

I wander everywhere with your memory

So I keep you within

You, the king of my heart

Have broken all the doors to reach the soul

You pledged to be my lover

You reside within me

Okay, that's enough.

It's beautiful, but stop or else people will gather at the door.

Seen what a voice she has?

What's wrong if people gather here?

- Nothing. - Then?

In Iran it's forbidden.

You're afraid!

No, because no one would buy glasses from him anymore,

they'll think you are singing to earn money.

Thank you. Goodbye. Let's go.

I was learning Farsi more through the songs I heard than the language classes I took.

While music instantly got me closer to everyone,

it seemed to be a privilege I had only as an outsider.

Women could not publicly sing in Iran.

Everyone I met asked me to sing Persian songs

as though desiring to fill the absence of a feminine voice.

Is this a good place to film?

It's lovely here.

He knows I want to talk about sexuality...

and eroticism... so he starts his work.

He is censoring you.

I think he's been sent by the Ministry of Islamic Guidance...

to repair the house next door.

Every time I want to talk, they tell them to turn the drill on.

Okay then...

Let's talk about religion.

Look, it's off!

We are talking about religion now...

Silence!

They are silent.

As I was saying...

One of the reasons why...

people consider some of my films erotic...

is because I come from a religious background.

I grew up in a religious family.

In religious families...

like you see in Iranian cinema, the body is never seen.

The body is covered.

The mother would not only cover herself, but also her daughter.

The absence of the body is of utmost importance.

For this reason...

For this reason, many consider a lady wearing a chador sexier.

Look! Talk about sex appeal has made them start again.

I want to talk about hijab... look, they are silent.

Let's talk about hijab, and the chador...

Look, there is no noise.

They stopped when we talked about the chador.

I'm afraid if I again start talking about...

how the chador or hijab could make a woman erotic...

they will start making noise again.

See!

Let's skip the questions...

and drink tea.

Let's have tea until they stop.

Censorship in Iran cannot be escaped from.

Censorship is not just in the hands of the Government or the Ministry of Guidance.

We keep censoring ourselves all the time.

Sometimes knowingly, sometimes unknowingly.

Unveiled, Forough openly spoke about her desires in this patriarchal society.

Not everyone was impressed with her audacity to express herself as a lover.

Her only crime was that she chose to write as a woman, not a man.

She wanted others to realise these feelings came from the depths of feminine existence.

She wanted to write about the desires of a woman stemming from love.

There was nothing masculine about them.

From the very first day, Forough made me feel like a woman.

This feeling grew deeper in me.

I was studying Persian literature at that time.

It led me to write my thesis on the role of women in literature and Iranian cinema.

I found that Forough is the point at which our cinema and poetry meet

In our discussions of poetry and Iranian cinema, Forough couldn't be left behind.

Do you know Forough?

Yes.

- Who is Forough? - Gohar's daughter.

No, the one I mean is a poet.

I'll read one of her poems while you milk the cow...

to pass the time.

- You're not answering. - Go on.

It goes like this:

"In my night so brief, alas

"The wind has a rendezvous with the leaves of the trees"

Do you know what a rendezvous is?

A date.

There it is.

You see the last house? That's Kiarostami's house

- This one? - Yes.

Ali, do you think we can go in?

There is a bell, but I'm not sure it's a good idea.

I had walked up to Kiarostami's house one afternoon, hoping to meet him.

Instead, I slid a note under his door.

He died a week later.

That was the closest I could get to him.

Except through the memories recounted by his friends.

That's the album of photos.

- You want to see it? - Yeah.

One of the first friends I made in Iran was Farhad.

He had acted in two of Kiarostami's films.

We spent endless afternoons discussing cinema,

Kiarostami and stories of a generation that witnessed had the revolution.

This is Ansari. This is Keshabarz and me.

Cinema happened to him by chance one day

when he caught Kiarostami staring at him at a party.

Soon he was called for an audition for And Life Goes On.

There was a scene where I converse with my son while driving.