The murder of Mahsa Amini by Iranian state forces sparked waves of street protests, especially from young people tired of living under the yoke of state oppression and fear. The ‘Woman, Life, Freedom’ movement spread across the country (and the world) thanks to social media, inspiring the younger generations to fight for much-needed change. It was also the trigger for The Seed of the Sacred Fig, the new film by Mohammad Rasoulof, which is being so highly praised that it is even up for an Oscar for International Feature Film.
The Iranian filmmaker, acclaimed for previous works such as There Is No Evil (2020), A Man of Integrity (2017), and Manuscripts Don’t Burn (2013), lives in exile in Europe, as he was judged and sentenced to prison in his homeland for a range of offences (he was sentenced to eight years in prison but eventually fled), including conspiring against national security and creating propaganda against the government. The Islamic Revolutionary Court is not known for its leniency when it comes to repression and oppression. With this in mind, Mohammad Rasoulof presents a new film that begins in a near-documentary style and gradually shifts towards a much more allegorical language.
The story begins with Iman (Missagh Zareh) rising to the position of investigator at the Islamic Revolutionary Court just days before the police kill Mahsa Amini, sparking civil unrest in the streets. His wife, Najmeh (Soheila Golestani), warns their two young daughters, who are still at school and university, that they must be very careful about who they associate with and how they act in public to maintain the family’s dignity and honour now that their father has become a more prominent figure within the system. Consequently, Rezvan (Mahsa Rostami) and Sana (Setareh Maleki), who live in a world far more open and tolerant than their parents’, partly due to social media (which allows them to stay hyperconnected to the outside world, even though they must use a VPN), begin to foster a sense of resentment (blended with the previous fear and respect) towards their father.
In the first part of the film, claustrophobic and tense, we witness the subtle shifts in attitude from both the daughters and the mother (who acts as a mediator between the two parties) and the father. Nightly protests and clashes with the police unfold, and all of the girls’ friends are out there, fighting to make their country a more liberated place — for themselves and for everyone in general. However, Rezvan and Sana must settle for secretly watching videos circulating on social media (which the film intersperses with recorded scenes of those days, directly taken from social media, blurring the lines between fiction and non-fiction, the script and tangible reality). All of this unfolds within the four walls of the family’s apartment, further contributing to a sense of suffocation, of being trapped with no way to escape or witness the outside world.
At the same time, the father grows increasingly paranoid, distrustful, and even cruel: as an investigator working for the government, he must approve death sentences for arrested protesters. He believes in the system and in morality, in the unshakeable and unquestionable law of God; yet, it is also presented early on that he has his doubts (like any man, although the submission he has carried for years ultimately prevails). It is a complex portrayal of a man fighting for what he believes is right, even as his family reminds him of how wrong it is.
Midway through the film, an incident turns what had started as a more familiar drama with political and social intentions (starting small to explain a much larger, global issue) into a tense thriller, plunging us into a spiral of doubts, mistrust, and suspicion. Iman no longer trusts either his daughters or his wife and will go to any lengths (even using military tactics) to uncover the truth behind what has happened.
It is this second part that becomes much more allegorical and subtle (though no less harsh and violent). Iman comes to represent the government, the state, the status quo, and oppression, while the women of the family symbolise freedom, understanding, cooperation, defiance, the fight for rights, and the desire for progress. Many critics have argued that this second part becomes somewhat repetitive and excessively drawn out; and yes, I agree. However, it is also the part that invites the most reflection: to what extent can we trust those around us in an oppressive environment that fosters prejudice and mistrust? What are we willing to do for others? Which ‘other’ do we believe we should help most? We’re left with some questions that are hard to answer. But overall, the message is clear: good should prevail over evil.
