Song of Goldfish

Having grown up with parents that watch Iranian movies or series every night, I find myself returning to its cinema again and again. There is something about Iranian cinema, it carries a raw honesty that can at times feel uncomfortably intimate. In the same way Persian love stories unravel slowly, Iranian cinema lingers. It doesn't rush ahead of itself to entertain, but it forces you to sit, to witness and to feel.

Cinema itself, believed to have been born in France in the 1890s, has always been a language of light and shadow. From massive blockbusters to black and white slow flickers, cinema has always reflected society whilst shaping it. However, In Iran, it has morphed into something more delicate. It is a metaphor, a resistance and poetry in motion.

The origins of Iranian cinema date back to the early 20th century during the Qajar dynasty, where the royals were gifted with the first film camera. Over the years, fascination slowly expanded and Iran produced its first home produced movie, a silent comedy- Abi and Rabi (1930). The following decades were really when Iranian cinema found its voice. Directors started to challenge convention, used symbolism, realism and child protagonists to explore meaningful questions on morality, class and freedom. Post 1979 Revolution, filmmakers started to face heavy restrictions. But, instead of collapsing under censorship, cinema adapted. It became more subtle, with a new profound mastery of the art of suggestion - saying more by showing less. Many of my favourite Iranian movies have used children as central figures. Through them, filmmakers can explore difficult themes without directly confronting authority and slipping under the radar of censorship.

It is impossible for me to write about contemporary Iranian cinema, without crediting the movie that sparked this blog post - The Song of Sparrows - آواز گنجشک‌ها. Directed by Majid Majidi (what a name), the film can appear deceptively simple at glance. The plot follows Karim, a humble Ostrich farmer living on the outskirts of Tehran, in Shahriyar - the same town my agha joon called home. When one of the Ostriches breaks free, he loses his job and sets off on his humble motorbike to Tehran in search of work. At the same time his youngest son, embarks on a small business venture with his neighbourhood friends; breeding goldfish in a well near their home in hopes of making a fortune to pull their families out of poverty. After weeks of quiet labour carried out in secret marked only by the cuts and calluses on their little hands, the once murky-well is reborn into a blue shimmering pool. The boys are gifted the goldfish, by a local, and they are transported in a plastic container atop Karim's truck.

During the ride home, the plastic container bursts, and dozens of goldfish spill onto the asphalt. With tears tracing down their cheeks, and the dream of an easy life with money slipping away in front of them, the boys try to desperately scoop them back into their container, but the container has broken, and their efforts are helpless against what has already happened. The scene is filmed in long, unbroken takes, so you feel the frantic energy, the panic, and the sheer futility of the situation. The dust settles, and the boys watch the fish flop and suffocate on the pavement. There's a quiet pause, a moment of shared agreement, where they realise they can't save them all. In defeat, they gently sweep the surviving fish into a stream running nearby. The boys's faces show sadness, resignation but also a sort of relief. It is a beautiful lesson in acceptance, the difficulty in surrendering to forces beyond your control, and the small mercy we can offer even in unideal situations. The boys manage to save a single fish, carrying it back to their well, all their hopes resting delicately in its bright orange scales.

Iranian cinema has always thrived in this in-between space: between restriction and freedom, simplicity and symbolism, despair and hope. It does not spoon-feed emotion, nor does it chase thrilling spectacles. It reminds us that stories do not need excess to be profound. Sometimes a man, a family, and a handful of goldfish are enough.

sham x