So your last movie went way over budget, then tanked at the box office? Think you've got it bad? Jafar Panahi is an Iranian director (of the wonderful "The White Balloon" and "Offside") who's currently serving six years in prison and a 20-year ban on filmmaking for making a movie the nation's ministry of film didn't approve of. No joking. But the law doesn't say he can't READ a screenplay on film. So before his imprisonment, Panahi invited his documentary filmmaker pal Mojtaba Mirtahmasb to his apartment in Tehran to film him reciting and acting out his latest creation. "This is not a Film" is a record of that event.
It's a noble venture, but as a filmmaker himself, Panahi quickly realizes the futility of his stunt, as he concludes, "If we can tell a film, why make a film?" then dissolves into tears. The rest of the movie, therefore, is taken up with Panahi screening parts of his older films while providing running commentary on his artistic choices, discussing everyday concerns with Mirtahmasb, and awaiting word of his fate.
The movie is certainly an indictment of the repressive society in which he lives, yet it also demonstrates that film comes in many forms, and while Panahi may be unable to make the dramatic feature he would like to, it is an equally valid and valuable form of artistic expression to simply document his own real life experience for others to observe - and just as powerful in its effect.
And, indeed, the most compelling scene in the movie is a completely extemporaneous one, as Panahi interviews a substitute custodian who stops by to pick up Panahi's trash when the camera just happens to be running and we get to know a little something about this utterly charming man's life in the few unguarded moments we get to spend with him. It's a subtle yet potent reminder that no regime, however cowardly and repressive, can completely dim the human spirit and our basic human need to connect with one another on a personal level.
The movie, which was spirited out of the country on a flash drive hidden inside a cake, functions as a frank political statement for what life is like for film artists living in Iran, but, equally important, it makes the rest of us appreciate the freedoms of expression we all too often take for granted in our own parts of the world - and the need to be ever vigilant in preserving them.
It's a noble venture, but as a filmmaker himself, Panahi quickly realizes the futility of his stunt, as he concludes, "If we can tell a film, why make a film?" then dissolves into tears. The rest of the movie, therefore, is taken up with Panahi screening parts of his older films while providing running commentary on his artistic choices, discussing everyday concerns with Mirtahmasb, and awaiting word of his fate.
The movie is certainly an indictment of the repressive society in which he lives, yet it also demonstrates that film comes in many forms, and while Panahi may be unable to make the dramatic feature he would like to, it is an equally valid and valuable form of artistic expression to simply document his own real life experience for others to observe - and just as powerful in its effect.
And, indeed, the most compelling scene in the movie is a completely extemporaneous one, as Panahi interviews a substitute custodian who stops by to pick up Panahi's trash when the camera just happens to be running and we get to know a little something about this utterly charming man's life in the few unguarded moments we get to spend with him. It's a subtle yet potent reminder that no regime, however cowardly and repressive, can completely dim the human spirit and our basic human need to connect with one another on a personal level.
The movie, which was spirited out of the country on a flash drive hidden inside a cake, functions as a frank political statement for what life is like for film artists living in Iran, but, equally important, it makes the rest of us appreciate the freedoms of expression we all too often take for granted in our own parts of the world - and the need to be ever vigilant in preserving them.