Last September, when Jafar Panahi earned the Special Jury Prize at the Venice Film Festival for the remarkable work Los osos no empty, he did not receive the prize in person. He faced a compelling reason: 52 days of imprisonment. He was accused of collaborating with groups opposing Ayatollah Ali Khamenei’s authority to destabilize the Iranian state.
He was detained on July 11 at Tehran’s Evin Prison, the usual detention site for political prisoners, after taking part in protests against the imprisonment of filmmakers Mohammad Rasoulof and Mostafa Aleahmad. They had been sent there a few days earlier to raise their voices. Nearly seven months later, on February 1, Panahi began a hunger strike and issued a public statement. His wife and son posted on Instagram to corroborate his actions. He protested what he called the “illegal and inhumane” treatment by Iran’s judiciary and security forces. “Maybe I will continue like this until my lifeless body is released from prison,” he said. He was released two days later, but freedom still felt distant to him.
Iranian authorities maintain that keeping Panahi imprisoned fulfilled the sentence issued at the end of 2010, a time when he was already an internationally renowned filmmaker and considered a serious threat by the regime. Over the past decade, Panahi established himself as a staunch critic of theocracy, producing works that challenged oppression and highlighted social justice. His films, such as The Circle (2000) and Fuera de juego (2006), critiqued gender equality and the country’s restrictive laws, drawing global attention and condemnation of policies seen as repressive.
That year, perhaps due to his visible support for presidential candidate Mir Hossein Mousavi and the Green Movement, Panahi was found guilty of national security offenses and propaganda against the Islamic regime. He received a sentence that included a 20-year ban on filmmaking, screenwriting, and travel, plus six years of in-prison detention. “You condemn not only me, but all cinema in Iran, a cinema that refuses to bow to power and money, that strives to honestly reflect the society that inspires it and speaks to humanity,” he stated before the sentence was handed down.
The country’s Supreme Court later ruled that the prison term had been served, but the security services refused to acknowledge the decision.
Not an isolated case
Of course, Panahi is not alone. In Iran, freedom of expression for artists has faced restrictions since the 1979 Islamic Revolution established a fundamentalist regime that suspects intellectuals of spreading Western values. The government often seeks blind obedience, labeling art that prompts critical thought as dangerous. Filmmakers have grown accustomed to choosing between persecution, censorship, or exile for those who become renowned voices of dissent, as seen with figures like Mohsen Makhmalbaf and Bahman Ghobadi.
At the end of last year, authorities intensified campaigns against artists in the wake of violent protests sparked by Mahsa Amini’s death. More than a hundred members of the film industry, including Taraneh Alidoosti, known for her role in Asghar Farhadi’s The Salesman, were arrested or disbarred. These actions underscored the broader crackdown on cultural expression under the regime.
Over the past 12 years, Panahi has quietly produced at least five films despite the ban, creating works that defy easy classification. These pieces explore the nature of cinema itself and are deeply rooted in personal and societal circumstances that shaped their creation. One film, This Is Not a Movie (2011), left Iran for Cannes via a USB drive hidden in a raspberry pie, a symbolic dossier from a prisoner. Another, Taxi Tehran (2015), which earned the Golden Bear at the Berlinale, remains shrouded in mystery. The phrase There are no bears stands as perhaps the filmist’s most daring and defiant statement.
Panahi, portrayed by a semi-fictionalized version of himself in some works, set in a border town that embodies the broader conditions of the country—rigid traditions, superstitions, and gender-based injustices—continues to declare that he will keep making films regardless of personal cost. Even as he awaits a possible revocation of his sentence, the commitment to filmmaking remains undiminished. This anti-establishment stance resonates with audiences who see cinema as a form of resistance and truth-telling, unafraid to challenge power.