This Is Not a Film, or: How to make a resounding political statement

This Is Not a Film (2011)

Directed by Mojtaba Mirtahmasb and Jafar Panahi

***SPOILERS***

Just like one's experience with Exit Through the Gift Shop, there’s an inkling suspicion that the entirety of Jafar Panahi’s This Is Not a Film is a hoax. Not in the sense that Panahi faked his house arrest and prison sentence—just read the news. But the random convenient extremities—the fireworks, the pet iguana, the barking dog, the boy in the elevator—all seem too pertinent to the story at hand to have had all occur in one day. This is because this film was shot over several days and edited to appear as one, much like (in my opinion) how Banksy created “Mr. Brainwash” in Exit Through the Gift Shop, constructed a fake back-story, and then sold a lie to the public—which they, of course, fell for. But once again the art lies in the statement and not the manipulation, and Panahi’s latest (and perhaps final) work is a gloriously political scolding that’s powerful in its containment. While Apichatpong Weerasethakul’s Uncle Boonmee Recalls His Past Lives attempted to deconstruct Thai cinema through a lavishly painted fairy tale, Panahi’s portrait of Iranian cinema is much more blunt and forceful, despite the fact it’s filmed (almost) entirely in a single room. From the censorship of Dariush Mehrjui’s beautifully humanisitic The Cow to Iran declaring its House of Cinema (a network of Iranian filmmakers) to be illegal, censorship of Iranian cinema has largely reflected the overall political struggles of the nation. By pretending to put his head between his knees and declare, “this is not a film”, Panahi actually points a finger directly at the Iranian government and exposes the oppression that’s existed in the country for years.

Because the film is edited to appear as a single day, the structure of the film is key in relating this. The film begins mundanely, with Panahi sitting at his table eating breakfast, casually calling his friend (a documentary filmmaker) and asking him to come over. Until his friend arrives, Panahi’s weapon of choice is a cell phone—a fuzzy, poorly lit picture that more resembles an amateur Youtube video than a film. It’s the first step in building towards the inevitably tragic final frame, which leaves Panahi out in the cold, stripped away from the outside world and filming its beauty. But for now normality takes adherence, as the binding confinement of Panahi’s home reflects the oppression he regularly endures. Adverse to the human encounters that will come to shape his message, these segments reflect seclusion, attempting to define the mindset of a filmmaker during the filmmaking process.

In an attempt to recreate his latest film to be halted by the Iranian government, Panahi lines his apartment with tape to portray the key room in his next film. Instead of making a film, Panahi intends to act out his film, much like a storyboard meeting any filmmaker would employ. Like several of Panahi’s films, his latest would have captured the suffocating force of the streets, despite taking place mostly indoors. A young girl stares at a boy on the street from her room, begging to know more about him without ever venturing outside. The phone rings, but no one answers. She lies in her bed all day. She’s completely alone. She contemplates suicide. All acted out by Panahi, the pain seared across his face is entirely too reminiscent of his present experience, unable to make contact with the outside world and understand its inhabitants. If Panahi’s films have attempted to obtain a single attribute, it’s their ability to capture the humanity within an insignificant individual—much like the whole of Iranian cinema. But Panahi’s films seem much larger than they appear, almost like bits of history in a nutshell, and Panahi’s failed film (along with This Is Not a Film) very much reflects the struggle of being confined indoors, and in turn being confined by the government. This reaches its culmination when Panahi stops acting out his film, walks out of the room in melancholy, declaring, “If we could tell a film, why make a film?”

This statement, despite being an seemingly self-reflective moment, is very much a jab at the 20-year filmmaking ban the government laid on Panahi, declaring that film is an entirely different medium in the art of storytelling and requires all its parts to become a whole. It’s a bit of a metafilm moment on Panahi’s part, since he inhabits the very character absent from his failed film. It doesn't become more obvious than when Panahi stands in front of his own film Crimson Gold while it plays on his television, as the main character Hussein (Hossain Emadeddin) experiences a bit of claustrophobia upon realizing the severe disconnect between the upper and lower class. The absolute agony and irreversible fear on his face is onte Panahi shares in these very moments, exposing This Is Not a Film is very much Panahi's film, reflective of his entire filmmaking career—which, it just so happens, is currently being put on trial. More than any defense attorney or fellow filmmaker could argue, This Is Not a Film is a larger response to the government's accusations than can be obtained. It’s in these moments that his declaration that “this is not a film” becomes a boldfaced lie that carries a hint of sarcasm and ferociousness. As he walks away from his lined-with-tape setting, the remainder of the film will evolve into a much more constructed character study than the one-man play Panahi just performed, utilizing imagery and symbolism within the environment that his failed story could not capture. So the statement, “If we could tell a film, why make a film?” becomes a direct message, with Panahi declaring he will, indeed, be making a film.

Throughout This Is Not a Film, fireworks burst outside in the streets, shrouded by buildings, impossible to witness from the seventh floor window. There’s a looming sense of despair constantly looming outside Panahi’s walls, with construction filling the apartment with noise as he opens the window, and people rushing outside to witness the fireworks. As Panahi stares out the window, the camera captures the detachment he’s currently experiencing. This is offset by the slow-crawling iguana creeping about Panahi’s apartment, climbing bookshelves at a snail’s pace and agonizingly scratching Panahi as he makes phone calls. With extraneous imagery capturing the desire to film the streets (fireworks), the iguana is a bit of imagery to reflect the tick-tock pace Panahi currently works at, unable to make human contact. With the overwhelming sense of chaos looming outside and the skulking nature of Panahi’s seclusion, it’s only a matter of time before the outside world breaks in, dragging Panahi outside with it.

This is portrayed through yet another all-too-convenient bit of symbolism, as a woman knocks on Panahi’s door and asks him to watch her dog because she wishes to see the fireworks. Panahi begrudgingly accepts, but only to reverse his offer as the dog incessantly barks at him. Perhaps it’s too obvious to declare this moment as a reflection of the Iranian government’s scolding of Panahi’s filmmaking, although it eerily reflects the situation surrounding Panahi’s failed film. Earlier in This Is Not a Film, Panahi told the story, where several government officials raided the setting of the film and stole all of his materials and footage. With this hyper puppy interrupting his latest “film”, he quickly and understandably evicts the dog in a bit of panic. More important to this moment, however, is the excitement revolving around the fireworks, which this woman (and Panahi) are desperate to experience. Panahi’s vile reaction to the pet is more an evocation of this internal struggle.

As night falls, Panahi’s collaborator Mojtaba Mirtahmasb bids his farewell, but not before leaving his camera propped upon the kitchen table. Continuing to iterate that a camera phone cannot capture a “film”, Panahi follows Mirtahmasb into the hallway, only to befriend the impromptu janitor for the night. In the film’s most obvious, yet most heartbreaking moment, Mirtahmasb goes down the elevator with the boy’s trashcan, forcing him to remain with Panahi and his camera phone. The boy questions Panahi and his latest legal struggles, all while Panahi attemps to turn the conversation towards the boy. The lone subject of the film so far, Panahi clings to this boy, desperate to explore the outside world with him and understand how its affects him. So in an out-of-body moment, Panahi retreats from the elevator, grabs the Mirtahmasb’s camera, and returns to film the boy. As they slowly descend the elevator in a bit of masterful, untinkered, drawn-out filmmaking, the thrill and prospect of the ground floor is enhanced by Panahi’s desperateness in his questions, wishing to understand this boy, his reasoning for going to school, and what he attempts to accomplish in life.

The wait is entirely too short, as they reach the bottom and he quickly trails the boy outside. With the fireworks resounding just over the walls, accompanied by flashing lights and hollers from crowd, the boy stops Panahi, scared he will be seen with his camera. Walking out of the frame into the streets, Panahi remains still, fixated on the wall that stands between him and freedom, just as the film cuts to title card: “This Is Not a Film”. In what could be the most socially and politically reflective moment of humanity in Iranian cinema since the orphanage scene from Ebrahim Golestan’s Brick and Mirror, Panahi very may well conclude his filmmaking career in these moments. And after spending so many years depicting stories of his fellow Iranian citizens, it seems This Is Not a Film is very much Panahi’s film, yet it still manages to capture Iranian cinema as a whole. In these final moments, it’s Panahi’s love for his country and the people will inhabit it that transcends any ban placed upon him—and that’s how you make a political statement.