Iranian filmmaker Jafar Panahi’s seminal nonfiction work “This is Not a Film” is, in fact, a film. It was made in 2011, while Panahi was under house arrest. His crime: political speech opposing Iran’s authoritarian regime. His punishment: he was barred from directing films for twenty years. When the movie was made, he had been working to appeal the decision for six years, and had grown tired of waiting. 

The movie (co-directed by his friend Mojtaba Mirtahmasb, who performatively refuses to stop filming when Panahi says “cut”) documents Panahi, among other things, painstakingly constructing a crude simulacra of a set for a script that was deemed too political for production. The target audience for this film does not seem to be you, the loyal The Mac Weekly reader, nor me, the college student watching it on his laptop browser, nor the critics who were treated to a screening of it at Cannes after it was smuggled in on a flash drive. The target audience is the repressive state that has made him a political prisoner.

It is a statement on the lengths Panahi will go to in order to make art — any art — no matter the circumstances. He will make art in spite of his enormous limitations. He will make art in spite of being ordered to stop. He will make art because he has been ordered to stop.

As inspiring and fascinating as all of this is, the most important thing about this story isn’t that “This is Not a Film” was made: it’s that it’s a great movie. The film is dryly funny, well-shot and edited with a surgeon’s touch to capture the feeling of agonizing boredom Panahi’s experiencing, without forcing said boredom on the audience. It shows the effects of authoritarian government-induced isolation in a miraculously engaging and entertaining way, all with a budget of $0.

While he was released from house arrest in 2023 after a brief hunger strike, Panahi has not straightened out his act. His acclaimed 2025 film “It Was Just an Accident” isn’t just an accident — it’s a crime, both on the front of being made without the government’s permission, and for openly calling to attention the cruelty inflicted upon the citizens of Iran by the state. However, you would not ever guess that it was made under these circumstances if you entered it blind. Every shot, and I do mean every shot, is an exhibition of good direction. Scenes play out in very few takes, with blocking and camera movements following characters in real time through a tense moral reckoning while keeping the frame full of life and visual variety.

It’s no wonder “It Was Just an Accident” won the Palme d’Or at Cannes (though it was monstrously snubbed for Best Director at the Oscars). On top of this, immersive sound design and amazing performances from the cast, especially Mariam Ashfari, sell the atmosphere of paranoia perfectly, and Panahi’s Oscar-nominated script is more than worthy of that award. Panahi is the protégé of the genius Iranian director Abbas Kiarostami, a master of minimalism. While his style is very similar, he takes his mentor’s style from its atmospheric and meditative roots to a realm of pure looming terror.

Still, while this film is deserving of every ounce of praise it has received irrespective of the obstacles its creators faced, the fact that it was made clandestinely on the streets of Iran is a testament to its creator’s dedication. Having the patience to create a polished narrative drama film under these circumstances isn’t just the mark of a committed activist, it’s the mark of a fearless artist. Panahi’s career has been marked by a steadfast dedication to crafting meaningful films that serve both as entertainment and as acts of protest in equal measure, blurring the line between the two until it ceases to exist. This could lead to tepid, preachy, and emotionally manipulative filmmaking, the kind that gets 10 minute standing ovations but vanishes from your mind the moment you sit back down, however, his vision is executed so precisely that no film lover could resist his craft. In fact, that his craft is superb is in and of itself part of the protest. By showing the world what he is capable of, he is showing the world what his people are capable of, a people who are laid siege by their government for following the deeply human urge to express themselves. 

Whenever I start to fear the future of filmmaking, or art in general, I think of Panahi, with his steadfast dedication to creating quality works of cinema regardless of his circumstances, and I feel reassured. I challenge you to watch a Jafar Panahi movie and afterwards tell me that cinema is dying with a straight face. He is a rare kind of artist that feels both perpetually endangered and indestructible, the kind who slips from the grasp of the state via sheer intellect and courage, whose work is simply too good to ignore and too provocative to dismiss. 

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