The Evolution of Rakhshan Banietemad’s Films

Veiled Voice and Vision in Iranian Cinema: The Evolution of Rakhshan Banietemad’s Films

Hamid Naficy

Introduction

IN the early 1990s, a journalist in Paris asked renowned Iranian filmmaker Abbas Kiarostami to evaluate the status of the current Iranian cinema. With a mixture of pride and sly satisfaction, he answered: “I think of it as one of Iran’s major exports: in addition to pistachio nuts, carpets, and oil, now there is cinema” (Rosen, 1992, 40). Called “one of the pre-eminent national cinemas in the world today” by both the Toronto International Film Festival and the New York Film Festival, Iranian cinema is a new, vital cinema with its own special industrial and financial structure and unique ideological, thematic, generic, and production values. It is also part of a more general transformation in the political culture of the country since the revolution of 1978-79. However, this cinema is not an “Islamic” cinema, which upholds the ruling ideology. In fact, at least two major types of cinemas have evolved side by side. The “populist cinema” affirms the post-revolutionary Islamic values more fully at the level of plot, theme, characterization, mise-en-scene, and portrayal of women. The “quality cinema,” on the other hand, engages with those values and tends to critiques current social conditions. In terms of quantity, Iranian cinema is quite productive, with its output in the last five years standing at around 60 feature films annually.

A unique and unexpected achievement of this cinema has been the significant and signifying role of women both behind and in front of the camera. Here, I will provide a brief historical analysis of principles of modesty as practiced in the Islamic Republic, followed by an account of the institutionalization and evolution of these principles in cinema as offered in the context of the emergence of women filmmakers, particularly that of Raskhshan Banietemad. What is unique is the inscription of modesty rules and what is unexpected is that more women feature film directors emerged in a single decade after the revolution than in all the preceding eight decades of film making–and this in a patriarchal and traditional society, which is ruled by an Islamist ideology that is highly suspicious of the corruptive influence of cinema on women and of women on cinema. This achievement was made possible partly by the incorporation of a complex system of modesty (hejab in its widest sense) at all levels of the motion picture industry and in the cinematic texts. A major goal of this system was to disrupt the direct discursive link between representation of women and promotion of corruption, amorality, and pornography which the pre-revolution cinema was said to have established. To that end it became necessary for the post-revolutionary government to strengthen two existing discourses: the “injection” theory of cinematic power and the “realist illusionist” theory of cinematic representation. The injection theory posited that the mere exposure to unveiled or immodest women would turn autonomous, centered, and moral individuals (particularly the men) into dependent, deceived, and corrupt subjects. The realist illusionist theory claimed a direct and unmediated correspondence between “reality” and its representation (or illusion) on the screen. For the illusion to be Islamically modest, reality had to become (or to be made to appear) modest. This necessitated a total “purification” to cleanse both the film industry and the movie screens of the offending vices and corruption. The result was that both the industry and the screens became open to women as never before as long as women abided by very specific and binding Islamic codes of modesty.

Modesty as Social Practice

Iranian hermeneutics is driven by a dynamic and artful relationship between veiling and unveiling, which together constitute “modesty.” Indeed, this hermeneutics is based on distrusting manifest meanings and concealing core values. People are thus motivated to search for hidden, inner meanings in all they see, hear, and receive in daily interaction with others, while trying to conceal their own intentions. Since women are a constitutive part of the male core self, they must be protected from the vision of unrelated males by following a set of rules of modesty that apply to architecture, dress, behavior, voice, eye contact, and relations with men. Walls, words, and veils mark, mask, separate, and confine both women and men (Milani, 1992). Instances abound in Iranian culture: high walls separate and conceal private space from public space, the inner rooms of a house protect/hide the family, the veil hides women, formal language suppresses unbridled public expression of private feelings, modesty suppresses and conceals women, decorum and status hide men, the exoteric meanings of religious texts hide the esoteric meanings, and the perspective-less miniature paintings convey their messages in layers instead of organizing a unified vision for a centered viewer. Modesty is thus operative within the self and pervasive within society. Veiling is the armature of modesty, requiring further elaboration.

With the onset of menses women must cover their hair, body parts, and body shape by wearing either a veil or chador (a head-to-toe cloth) or some other modest garb, including head scarf, loose tunic, and long pants. Further, the related/unrelated rules (mahram/namahram) govern the segregation and association of men and women. Chief among these is: a woman need not wear a veil in front of male members of her immediate family (her husband, sons, brothers, father, and uncles). All other men are considered unrelated, and women must veil themselves in their presence, and men must avert their eyes from them. It must be noted that many of these psychological and social practices of veiling and unveiling predate the Islamic revolution in Iran, although some of them have been intensified since then. Significantly, many of them are present in other Muslim societies (Abulughod, 1986; Mernissi, 1991, 1987) and they are applied not only to the women but also to the men. Finally, veiling does not necessarily imply lower status: in ancient Persia, for example, it conferred higher status to the women who wore it and to their men, and among the Tuareq of North Africa today it implies the higher status of the men who wear it (Murphy, 1964). In the aesthetics of veiling, the voice has a complementary function: before entering a house, men are required to make their presence known by voice in order to give the women inside a chance to cover themselves and to organize the scene for the male gaze. Women must not only veil their bodies from unrelated men but also to some extent their voice. Veiling of the voice includes using formal language with unrelated males and females, decorous tone of voice, and avoidance of singing, boisterous laughter, and generally any emotional outburst in public other than expression of grief and or anger.

However, veiling as a social practice is not fixed or unidirectional; instead, it is a dynamic practice in which both men and women are implicated. In addition, there is a dialectical relationship between veiling and unveiling: that which covers is capable also of uncovering. In practice, women have a great deal of latitude in how they present themselves to the gaze of the male onlookers, involving body language, eye contact, types of veil worn, clothing worn underneath the veil, and the manner in which the veil itself is fanned open or closed at strategic moments to lure or to mask, to reveal or to conceal the face, the body, or the clothing underneath. Shahla Haeri aptly notes the dynamic relationship that exists between the veil and vision:

[N]ot only does the veil deny the penetrating male gaze, it enables women

to use their own judiciously. Because men and women are forbidden to

socialize with each other, or to come into contact, their gazes find new

dimensions in Muslim Iran. Not easily controllable, or subject to religious

curfew, glances become one of the most intricate and locally meaningful

means of communication between the genders (1989, 229).

This “communication” involves not only voyeurism and exhibitionism but also a system of surveillance, of controlling the look and of being controlled by the look. Veiling-unveiling, therefore, is not a panoptic process in the manner Foucault (1979) describes because in this system vision is not unidirectional or in the possession of only one side. Both women and men see and organize the field of vision of the other. Furthermore, although the other dualities of religiously related/not related (mahram/namahram), inside/outside (baten/zaher), religiously allowed/forbidden (halal/haram) are structured psychically and socially, they are not only porous but also invite transgressive pleasures. In addition, although the veil restricts and oppresses women, it can also empower them through anonymity (Mills, 1985).

The social principles of modesty and veiled vision govern male/female social interactions both in daily life and in movies.

Modesty as Cinematic Practice

Although veiling and modesty existed in Iranian cinema before, they were first codified and instituted in cinema in 1982 (for a full discussion of these, see Naficy, 1994, 1992). However, they did not remain static, as they evolved gradually and steadily toward liberal interpretations. The evolution of the codes and the use of women both behind and in front of the cameras occurred in three overlapping phases, which I have called: the absence, the pale presence, and the powerful presence of women.

During the first phase, immediately after the revolution (early 1980s), the images of unveiled women were cut from existing Iranian and imported films. When cutting caused unacceptable narrative confusion–and it did, as some films were cut by over half an hour–the offending parts were blacked out directly in the frames with magic markers. As part of the purification process, the existing films were reviewed, a majority of which were banned. For example, of 2208 locally made films that were reviewed in this phase, only 252 received exhibition permit (Naficy, 1992, 187). Many entertainers, singer, and actors were banned selectively, by what distinguished them: their voices, faces, and bodies were banned from film and TV screens, radio, periodicals, and all forms of advertising. Women were excised from local films through self-censorship by a frightened industry unsure of official attitudes and regulations regarding cinema. Instead, many filmmakers resorted to making war films and children’s films, or adult films that involved children–two popular genres of post-revolutionary cinema.

In the second phase (mid-1980s), women appeared on the screen either as ghostly presences in the background or as domesticated subjects in the home. They were rarely the bearers of the story or the plot. An aesthetics and grammar of vision and veiling based on gender segregation developed, which governed the characters’ dress, posture, behavior, voice, and gaze. Female characters wore headscarfs, chador or veil, and a long, loose-fitting tunic. They behaved in a dignified manner and avoided body contact of any sort with men, even if they were related to each other by marriage or by birth. The evolving filming grammar discouraged close-up photography of women’s faces or of exchanges of desirous looks between men and women. In addition, women were often filmed in long shot and in inactive roles so as to prevent the contours of their bodies from showing. Both women and men were desexualized and cinematic texts became androgynous. As a prominent director Dariush Mehrju’i told me: “In post-revolutionary cinema the religiously unlawful (haram) look does not exist. All women must be treated like one’s own sister.” (Personal interview, Los Angeles, April 1990.) Love and physical expression of love (even between intimates) were absent.

One of the most significant consequences of veiling in films was that filmmakers were forced to represent all spaces in the films, even bedroom scenes, as if they were public spaces. This resulted in unrealistic and distorted representation of women, since they were shown veiling themselves from their next of kin in the privacy of their homes–something they would not do in real life. This was true even if the diegetic husband and wife were married to each other in real life. This curious situation arose because female characters had to veil themselves NOT from their diegetic next of kin but from the male audience members, who by definition were considered to be unrelated to them. In this manner, the spectators were always already sutured into the text. This undermined the voyeuristic structure of looking that Western film theorists posited for cinema, which is based on the unawareness of the subject of the fact that she is being watched. Another result was that non-verbal intimacy was absent from the screen for quite some time, as women veiled not only their bodies but also their sentiments. This tended to present a formidable challenge to the actors who had to express their feelings to their intimate relatives in psychologically unrealistic ways, without touching them (Naficy, 1991). Poetry became the only option for expressing intimacy, at first primarily for the men. Another result of veiling was that certain historical periods (such as the pre-revolution era) and certain civilizations (such as the West) were closed to Iranian cinema. They were simply unrepresentable because of the unrepresentability of the unveiled women in those periods and civilizations. Finally, the aesthetics of modesty also affected the on-screen relationship of the men, resulting in fascinating gender and sexual reconfiguration that were sometimes inimical to the ruling ideology, such as those that suggested male homoeroticism, as in Mohammad Reza A’lami’s The Weak Point (Noqteh Za’f, 1983)–a form of sexuality that is severely punished in Islamic Iran.

The third phase appeared gradually (since the late 1980s) and it was marked by a more dramatic presence of women both on the screen in strong leading roles and behind the cameras as directors. A 1991 film entitled For the Sake of Everything (Beh Khater-e Hameh Cheez, directed by Rajab Mohammadin), is an example of the changed screen presence of women. It examines with moving realism the difficult lives of garment workers, all of whom are women–a long way from an all-male cast just a few years earlier. The director’s comments express the perception of the changes: “Previously, Iranian women were portrayed as miserable, ignorant and superficial creatures who were used by men for sexual or decorative purposes. I wanted to tell a story in which women were virtuous, active, and socially constructive.” (“For the Sake of Women’s Image,” Mahnameh-ye Sinema’i-ye Film no. 117 (Dey 1370/February 1991), p. 3 [I have edited the English for clarity, HN]).

While laudable, this replacement of the negative images of women by wholly positive ones could not guarantee a more realistic and complex representation. The restrictions on women served to represent women as “modest” and “chaste,” preventing them from becoming sexual fetishes. This changed representation signaled the successful implementation of the injection theory of ideology and the realist illusionist theory of representation. However, this accomplishment was not counter hegemonic in so far as it replicated the dominant/subordinate relations of power between men and women in the society at large. The strong presence of women behind the camera was officially recognized in 1990, when the 9th Fajr Film Festival–the country’s foremost national film event–devoted a whole program to the “women’s cinema.” This cinema is very diverse, as women are involved in all aspects of feature, documentary, short subject, and animated films as well as in all aspects of television films and serials production. Some of the filmmakers are quite versatile and they make documentaries, television soap operas, and feature films.

Of particular significance is the emergence of a new cadre of feature film directors (and prominent actresses) trained after the revolution, who have begun to make their mark on the cinema and provide powerful role models for other women. Prior to the revolution, only one woman, Shahla Riahi, had directed a feature film (Marjan, 1956). Today, nearly ten women are directing feature films–all of whom emerged since the revolution. They are: Tahmineh Ardekani (who died in a plane crash in 1995), Faryal Behzad, Rakhshan Banietemad, Marziyeh Borumand, Puran Derakhshandeh, Zohreh Mahasti Badii, Samira Makhmalbaf, Yasmin Maleknasr, Tahmineh Milani, and Kobra Saidi.

Their output has been abundant. More importantly, most of them have directed several films, indicating that after the purification process film making has become not a one-time shot-in-the-dark, but a legitimate profession for women. Increase in quantity, however, has not been matched by corresponding improvement in quality, which remains uneven. It would be inaccurate and politically naive to expect that women directors in the Islamic Republic necessarily present a better rounded or a more radically feminist perspective in their films than do male directors. In fact, many of them did not, particularly in the years immediately after the revolution; the situation has gradually and steadily improved, as the case study below demonstrates.

Banietemad’s Veiling and Unveiling Strategies

Looking at the film career of the foremost woman director Rakhshan Banietemad, it becomes clear that her artistic development parallels the transformations from the first to the third phase of Iranian cinema itself. She was born in 1954 in Tehran, graduated from the College of Dramatic Arts in 1979, just before the purification process shut down universities, and began work as a set designer for National Iranian Television. For the next six years she directed television documentaries and worked as assistant director on several feature films. Her first feature film, Off the Limit (Kharej az Mahdudeh, 1987), set the pattern for what became a characteristic of her style, social realism. The film is about a young middle class couple who discover that their newly acquired house is located in a district that has accidentally been omitted from city zoning maps, and for all intents and purposes does not exist and is not subject to the jurisdiction and protection of any legal or police authority. As a result, thieves and robbers have a field day in this no-mans-land, which is ironically called “Chaos City” (hertabad). The residents are placed off limit, out of bounds, and therefore made invisible (veiled). However, in a move toward self-determination (visibility), they begin to enforce the laws themselves, capturing the thieves and reforming them. The name of the city is now changed to “New City” (nowabad). Although the film is a biting social satire that criticizes the chaotic social conditions, which the film conveniently labels as belonging to 1972, Banietemad reproduces the dominant view of women under the Islamic Republic. The wife is uncritically shown to be so confined to the home that her husband has to do the shopping for their daily necessities. Moreover, she is not only confined to the four walls of the home, but also deprived of the one avenue of intimate expression available to women, recitation of poetry. Her husband, however, has access to it, as in a scene in which he recites a famous love ballad to her while she serves him his meal. This is clearly a phase-two representation of women. American and Iranian audiences abroad consistently expressed surprise that the director of such a traditional representation of women was a woman. Despite its timidity in representing the wife, the film is somewhat bold in the political solution that it offers to the community’s dilemma. For it urges the community to take charge, restore order, and patrol its boundaries. Ultimately, however, the zealotry of this new order is no less problematic than the lawlessness of the previous order.

The aesthetics of veiling that govern the actors’ behavior, dress, and emotional expression, also affect Off the Limit’s mise-en-scene and filming style. Objects and boundary-marking features such as fences, walls, and columns constantly obstruct vision. Long tracking shots with these obstacles in the foreground highlight them as visual barriers and as metaphors for modesty and veiling. The reciprocity of veiling and unveiling, however, necessitates that the obstructions that seem to conceal certain things from view also reveal something else, namely, the director’s intention. Indeed, in one of the early shots, before the residents of Chaos City have realized their zoning problem, the camera looks down from above the walls of a house into the adjacent street. In the background, the husband is walking down the street, alongside a wall. In the foreground, a fence made of barbed wire and dry bushes on top of the wall partially obstructs the view of the street below. Toward the film’s end, after the community has taken up the enforcement of the laws, a similarly composed shot is shown, but with a major difference. The foreground is no longer a decrepit fence but a row of beautiful flowers in full bloom, signaling the transformation from Chaos City to New City. The director’s activist vision that beauty and prosperity require political will and independent action is made visible in the barrier that conceals vision. That which veils also unveils.

In her next film Canary Yellow (Zard-e Qanari, 1989), Banietemad depicts the women of a family, particularly the mother, to be strong, mature, and level headed, ruling the men who are naive, unscrupulous, or weak through the force of her personality and acumen. Despite such a strong representation of women, the film’s moral center is a man, who defiantly demonstrates that virtue overpowers vice. This ambivalent configuration of female–male power relations points to the internal tug of war in Banietemad’s works between liberalism and conservatism. In Nargess (1991), her groundbreaking film noir that brought her to international attention, she not only continues to focus on the lives of ordinary–even marginal–people, but also transgresses the limits on the depiction of love in cinema by examining a love triangle involving two women and a male petty thief. The film also pushes the boundaries of what is permissible in terms of direct eye contact, especially between the male protagonist and his young wife-to-be, Nargess. However, the love triangle configuration itself is not as radical an idea as it seems, for polygamy is a traditional practice in Iran that was revived under the Islamic Republic. Banietemad recuperates this practice in the interest of romance. But this recuperation demonstrates again the political balancing act that Banietemad has engaged in each of her films. Banietemad insists that she does not want to be identified as a female filmmaker or a feminist filmmaker, but as a filmmaker who happens to be a woman (“Ghamkhar-e bi Edde’a-ye Zanan-e Darmandeh: Goftogu ba Rakhshan Banietemad,” Zanan 25 (Mordad/Shahrivar 1374/1995), pp. 44-50). She won the first prize in the 1991 Fajr Film Festival for directing Nargess, the first woman in Iranian cinema to garner such an award for a feature film. Indeed, this recognition by the film industry and the official film culture corroborates her status not as a woman filmmaker but as a top Iranian filmmaker. In her subsequent The Blue Veiled (Rusari-ye Abi, 1994), she continued with her social realist examination of Iranian society, this time centering on the manner in which love between a proud young peasant woman (Nobar who wears a blue scarf) and an aging owner of a tomato plantation (Rasul), makes possible the crossing of age and class barriers. They express their secret love for each other in affectionate words and actions that defy social norms but make for an uncertain future. This is symbolized in the film’s last shot that shows the lovers walking toward each other, when suddenly a passing freight train splits the frame, separating the two. The modesty rules, which force directors to continually devise new, ingenuous, and sometimes distorted ways of implying heterosexual relations, are at work in this film as well. To suggest that the lovers, who never touch each other, have consummated their relationship, she employs a remarkably economic and beautiful single close-up shot: Nobar’s bare feet sticking out of her fancy embroidered white skirt (implying a wedding dress), walk gracefully and playfully on a richly designed Persian carpet to the tune of an extradiegetic dance music. With this single shot, Banietemad implies lovemaking without breaking modesty rules. On other occasions, however, she does break the rules. Disregarding the modesty conventions, Nobar is not a passive figure in her body language and behavior. She walks purposefully and assertively, fights for her rights, and in one scene she violates the rule of no physical contact between men and women by beating up her younger brother whom she catches stealing. In another scene, Banietemad resorts to a ploy for evading modesty censors that has become common in the Iranian post-revolutionary films; that is, she uses a child as an adult substitute. One night, Rasul is affectionately telling a story to Nobar’s young daughter from a previous marriage, who has placed her head on his lap. While Rasul and Nobar’s daughter seem to have genuine affection for one another, this is a ruse, for the exchange of glances and smiles between Nobar and Rasul strongly suggests that the daughter is a stand in for her mother who, because of modesty rules, cannot touch her lover. Banietemad’s latest film The May Lady (Banu-ye Ordibehesht, 1997) pushes the boundaries of modesty and tradition further by centering the story on a female documentary film director who is a divorced single mother who insists on pursuing her profession, her liaison with a man to whom she is not married, and her raising of her rebellious teenage boy who likes photography and partying.

However, the film breaks more than just the thematic taboos of divorce, single motherhood, and unmarried relations with the men. It also expands the vocabulary and extends the grammar of veiling and modesty in cinema by introducing fascinating textual and narrative innovations–forced by the imposition of the veil. One of these textual innovations is the way mise-en-scene and filming suggest unveiling. In one shot, the diegetic director (named Foruq Kian) arrives home from a day’s hard work filming a documentary. In a medium shot, she walks through a hallway toward her bedroom. The camera pans with her as she walks briskly in that direction. As she gets close to the door, she reaches for her headscarf and lifts it in a characteristic gesture that signals the imminent removal of the scarf. But just before the scarf is off, she disappears through the door, leaving the unmistakable impression of unveiling without actually having done it. Unlike some male filmmakers, such as Dariush Mehrjui in his Leila (1997), who have attempted by means of ingenuous mise-en-scene and filming to distract the audience from the artificiality of the veil in private spaces, Banietemad has ingenuously incorporated it in The May Lady as a natural part of the diegesis. As Norma Claire Moruzzi astutely observes, this direct incorporation of veiling as “a cinematic issue may be the most effective way of establishing the film’s realism” (1998, p. 7). The result is intensified spectator identification with diegetic characters.

One of the narrative innovations is the way the male lover is simultaneously both effaced and inscribed in the film by means of a complex game of veiling and unveiling as well as voicing and unvoicing. He is visually absent from the entire film, but he is simultaneously present throughout by the epistolary means of telephone, letters, and voice-over poetry. Using her cordless telephone, the diegetic director (Foruq) talks with him frequently and intimately (he is called Mr. Rahbar). They also exchange letters and, using one of the favorite Iranian devices of intimacy, sexuality, and love, quote poetry to each other (Foruq’s name is an homage to Foruq Farrokhzad, one of the greatest and boldest modernist poets of Iran). While throughout these exchanges the woman is the primary speaking subject, from time to time, the man’s voice is heard speaking to her on the phone or reading his own poetic and flowery letters to her. In addition, from time to time, Foruq’s voice on the soundtrack tells of her feelings and thoughts about her son, her career, her films, and her lover. Sometimes these first person musings are inserted in the middle of her phone conversations with her man, deepening our access to her subjectivity. The lovers’ voices on the soundtrack reading letters and poems to each other and Foruq’s autobiographical voice-over musings create a dense tapestry of free indirect discourse braided together by various voices and subjectivities. This is the first example of this discourse that I know of in Iranian feature films. These interweaving male and female voices symbolically substitute for the desired but dreaded–because outlawed–physical contact between unmarried couples. By means of the verbal epistolary communications, they are able to express their mutual love for one another and by means of voice fusion, they are able to become one vocally. None of this type of expression would have been possible if the characters were shown together. This is because veiling rules do not govern vision and voice uniformly. By cleverly taking advantage of this discrepancy, voice contact more than replaces the missing eye contact between the lovers which would have been constrained anyway, or would have been deflected and averted by unfulfilled desire and by modesty rules. The filmmaker’s expressive use of the voice, turns the characters’ voices into acoustic mirrors in whose grains the spectators recognize not only the lovers’ love and longing for each other but also our own desire as spectators for such intimacy in the taboo-ridden Islamic Republic’s cinema. The absence of the male object of desire and the female point of view filming have another felicitous outcome, which is that the film forces us to focus on female desire as such, regardless of its specific object–and this is a very feminist move in the restrictive Iranian social context.

A comparison of The Blue Veiled and The May Lady demonstrates the plasticity of the hermeneutics of female–male physical contact. It appears that physical contact in situations of violence is permissible but not in moments of tenderness. In the former film, Nobar’s beating up of her brother is shown prominently, while in the latter film, Foruq, who wants to express her concern and love for her son, is forced to do so by touching him through a mediating cloth. In one scene, she shows tenderness by drying his wet hair with a towel. In another scene, when after a heated verbal fight her son retreats to his bed, she follows him, sits by his side, and caresses him through his covers. These gestures of physical expression may seem innocent and small, but they are potent and transgressive in the context of modesty rules and prevailing practices that prohibit public heterosexual physical contact. To be sure, the insistence in The May Lady on female representation (Foruq is the sole star), female subjectivity (Foruq’s visual and vocal viewpoints dominate), female autobiography (Foruq provides the film’s first person voice-over narration), female enunciation and authorship (represented by both diegetic and extra diegetic directors) overdetermines female subjectivity and agency. At the same time, however, this insistence points to Banietemad’s anxiety about the uncertain and complicated social position of women in Iran, which stems from a burning desire to stake a claim on cinema but also from the profound fear that the ground underneath may shift and crumble. Perhaps it is this fear in Banietemad that drives Foruq to intervene in a dispute between her Westernized son and a young Islamist security agent, whereby she urges them to reconcile. Some people have criticized her that by urging reconciliation she is appeasing society’s reactionary forces. I do not think that that is the case, for this episode points once again to a characteristic of Banietemad’s style (and perhaps personality), which is the internal tug of war between rebellion and resignation, progressivism and conservatism.

The May Lady intermingles the two forms of film making that Banietemad has practiced throughout her career, documentary and fiction film making. As Foruq films and edits her documentary on “ideal mothers,” snippets of it are shown. Some of the women are actors playing a variety of ordinary women, and some of them are prominent women (a lawyer, a publisher, a newspaper editor) who play themselves in their direct address interviews about social conditions of women. This documentary film within a fictional film functions in two ways: it embeds Banietemad’s usual concern for the society’s lower depths in the fictional story of Foruq that is highly personal and private, and it gives The May Lady a decidedly self-reflexive style–one that has become popular with prominent art cinema filmmakers (especially with Abbas Kiarostami and Mohsen Makhmalbaf). But what Banietemad does which goes beyond the self-reflexivity formula is the intertextual manner in which she deploys in this film the actors and characters of her previous films. For example, Nargess appears as one of the women in the documentary, this time carrying a baby in her arms, thus, updating her story from where the previous film Nargess had left off (in which she had no baby yet). Finally, the intertextuality of documentary and fictional modes bespeak Banietemad’s own continued dual involvement with these forms. For while she was making these fictional films, she continued to make documentaries, including Last Visit with Iran Daftari (Akharin Didar ba Iran-e Daftari, 1995), an affectionate portrait of a famous actress, and Who Will You Show These Films To? (In Filmharo beh ki Neshun Midin? 1992-4), a searing documentary about the homeless people and the shanty town dwellers of Tehran that has not been shown publicly (Nargess was also banned for a while).

During the third phase, despite the continued oppression of women and draconian censorship, the constraints on women’s representation lessened and filmmakers with each film pushed the boundaries of what was allowed. In addition, not all women directors fully or equally abided by the regulations. Some fought them by indirection and implication, others head-on. And women were not alone in this struggle, as several prominent male directors engaged in sustained efforts of both sorts. Bahram Baizai, Dariush Mehrjui, and Mohsen Makhmalbaf cast women as strong protagonists and seriously explored gender roles, female–male relations, and women’s position in society. While all women directors cast women in key roles, not all the male directors did so, even some prominent ones, such as Kiarostami, whose film world is usually without women. While women’s presence as directors is impressive, women are under represented in many technical areas of the film industry such as in production, distribution, and exhibition. Finally, a large number of Iranian women directors are working in exile and diaspora in Europe and North America in all formats and genres of film and television. Among them are Shirin Bazleh, Shirin Etessam, Marva Nabili, Shirin Neshat, Mehrnaz Saeedvafa, Mitra Tabrizian, and Persheng Vaziri. Interestingly, a few of them returned home to make films there and a few of those who normally work at home made films abroad for home consumption and for export. This crossing of geographical and national boundaries–which is also occurring with the male filmmakers–is part of the globalization of culture and cinema in general and of Iranian cinema in particular as well as of the emergence of a transnational Iranian cinema.

(*) Reprinted by permission of the State University of New York Press, from Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls: Gender in Film at the End of the Twentieth Century by Murray Pomerance. Forthcoming in 2001.

References

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Naficy, Hamid. “Veiled Visions/Powerful Presences: Women in Post-revolutionary Iranian Cinema.” In the Eye of the Storm: Women in Post-revolutionary Iran. Eds. Mahnaz Afkhami and Erika Friedl. London and New York: I. B. Tauris and Syracuse University Press, 1994, pp. 131-150.

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Hamid Naficy, Associate Professor of Film and Media Studies in the Department of Art and Art History at Rice University, is the editor of Home, Exile, Homeland: Film, Media, and the Politics of Place (1999) and author of The Making of Exile Cultures: Iranian Television in Los Angeles (1993). He has published extensively on Iranian and postcolonial cinemas as well as on exile culture and media. His volume An Accented Cinema: Diasporic and Exile Filmmaking is forthcoming (2001).

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