‘Divine Comedy’

Iranian Filmmaker Ali Asgari on Satire, Censorship and Absurdities Behind ‘Divine Comedy’: ‘You Show How Silly and Stupid the Rules Are’

Courtesy of Ali Asgari and Variety.

by Essie Assibu, Variety

Iranian filmmaker Ali Asgari has long explored the quiet tensions and bureaucratic pressures of everyday life in Iran, from his acclaimed shorts to festival recognized features like “Disappearance,” “Until Tomorrow,” and “Terrestrial Verses.” In competition at the Doha Film Festival, he arrives with his latest work, “Divine Comedy,” which premiered earlier this year in Venice’s Horizons sidebar, and pushes his familiar themes into more overtly comedic territory.

Starring director Bahman Ark as Bahram, the story centers on a mid-career filmmaker whose entire body of Turkish-Azeri-language work has never been screened in Iran. When his newest film is once again rejected by cultural authorities, he joins forces with his sharp-witted producer, Sadaf (Sadaf Asgari), to stage an underground guerrilla screening in Tehran. What begins as a simple act of defiance becomes a darkly funny journey through red tape, cultural gatekeeping, and the range of anxieties facing any artist determined to create freely.

The film is a multinational co-production between Iran, Italy, France, Germany and Turkey, with international sales handled by Goodfellas.

Asgari, who has at times had his passport confiscated and continues to work without official permits, turns to satire as both a creative strategy and an act of resistance. His film “Terrestrial Voices,” which screened at Cannes’ Un Certain Regard in 2023, saw him banned from leaving the country or directing further films for months. In Doha, he spoke with Variety about the absurdities that shaped his latest act of defiance, “Divine Comedy,” the risks of shooting independently in Iran, and the surprising universality of his work.

EA: You use humor in “Divine Comedy” to talk about a system that’s really anything but funny. What was challenging about balancing comedy with the realities of censorship?

AA: The situations you see in the film are based on reality, on things I’ve lived, and things Bahram, the lead actor, has lived as a filmmaker working in Azerbaijani Turkish. He’s always dealing with the authorities because of the language of his films. So the base of everything is real, but not 100% reality. I made the incidents more fictionalized and even more satirized in the film to show the absurdity of what we live with.

EA: Given the constraints filmmakers face in Iran, what role do you think satire can play in pushing back against those limits?

AA: For many years, even 10 or 15 years ago, Iranian films relied on metaphor. Directors wanted to talk about serious issues but couldn’t do it directly. Part of that comes from the culture, but a big part comes from fear — fear of being accused of going against the government, so they chose metaphor as a weapon.

Then a new generation started speaking more directly, people like Rasoulof and Panahi. They became more political, more audacious. I didn’t want to repeat that language. I felt satire was better for expressing what we’re living, because when you use satire, you show how silly and stupid the rules are. You diminish the system’s power.

And at the same time, satire helps audiences outside Iran connect, because many people aren’t aware of what’s happening. If you present it too seriously, they may not understand it. Humor brings them in.

EA: You shot the entire film in Iran. Did you worry about the risks of doing that without permits?

AA: Risk is part of making this kind of film. You have two options: make a film with permission and take no risks, or make it without permission and accept the consequences. I chose the second. I’m not making political films to provoke anyone, but I don’t like the idea of being censored. I believe a filmmaker must be free. If you go to the Ministry of Culture to apply for permission, you’re already giving up that freedom. It’s something I never do.

EA: Have you ever applied for permission in the past?

AA: Only once. It was a terrible experience. They wanted me to cut many scenes and add things that had nothing to do with my story. And most of the people there are not filmmakers — some don’t even know screenwriting or cinema. They’re just there to check religious elements.

So I decided not to go back. If I want to be free, sometimes there must be consequences.

EA: You’ve had your passport confiscated more than once. How did that affect you?

AA: Yes, several times, but the last one was the longest – for eight months. For me, it’s not a big deal. If you choose to be free, that’s one of the consequences. As long as I’m alive, it’s okay. I told another journalist yesterday: “If they kill me, I won’t make films.” I don’t want to be sacrificed for cinema. But things like confiscating a passport… It’s part of the job. It’s something I’m not afraid of.

EA: Do you feel pressure to self-censor, consciously or unconsciously?

AA: There are two kinds of self-censorship. One you’re aware of — that one I try not to do. I write the dialogue and situations I want. But there is another kind, the unconscious one, that comes from how you grew up and the society around you. Sometimes I realize later that I avoided something even though I didn’t mean to. That’s the subconscious part. As long as I’m aware of it, I fight it.

EA: In the film, Bahram keeps fighting for an audience that may never be allowed to see his work. Do you think about who your films are for?

AA: Honestly, no. After some years, you understand you may not be someone who makes films for a big audience. And I don’t think about nationality. Some Iranians have accused me of making films for Western audiences. I see that on social media, but it’s not true. To be honest, I never think of if I’m making a film for this audience or that audience. This film has references only Iranians will understand, but I truly just try to write what I think is interesting.

But cinema has no borders. I get messages from countries I’d never even heard of, telling me they connected with the film. That’s the beauty of art: you don’t make it for one group. You just make it.

EA: How autobiographical is Bahram as a character? Were any scenes drawn directly from your life?

AA: Some parts are mine, some are his. We wrote the film together — Bahman Ark, his brother, Bahram, another writer who lives in Canada, Alireza Khatami (“The Things You Kill”), and me. We’ve all had similar limitations. It arose from discussing our experiences.

The basic idea came from when my film “Terrestrial Verses” was banned in Iran. I wanted to see how Iranians reacted, because I’m always accused of not making films for Iranian people. So I screened it secretly in cafés and friends’ homes, screenings of maybe 20 or 25 people. I carried a projector around, and had all kinds of strange experiences and varied reactions showing the film. That became the basis for this film.

EA: You’ve screened the film in Venice and other festivals. How did the reaction in Doha compare? Does it feel like there’s some resonance specific to the region?

AA: Honestly, I was surprised. I didn’t expect a full theater. But the audience here connected a lot. Even during the screening, people were clapping at moments. Afterward, many stayed to ask questions, even outside the theater. The Doha audience is becoming more engaged with cinema because of what the Doha Film Institute has done over the last 10 to 15 years. The questions were very professional. I really enjoyed the screening here.

Via Variety