ISSN 2631- 6501

Autumn 2018
The Abadan Issue

Underline | Issue No. 4 | Autumn 2018

This magazine is also available in a Persian edition and can be

downloaded from the Underline website:
https://iran.britishcouncil.org/Underline
 Autumn 2018

Underline | A Quarterly Arts Magazine | Issue No. 4, October 2018

Editor-in-chief: Ehsan Khoshbakht

English editor: Yusef Sayed
Cover: On the Shores of Karun (2012) by Amin Aghaei. Read
our interview with the artist in this issue.

Contributors:
Nasim Ahmadpour, Geoff Andrew, Abbas Baharloo, Valerie
Behiery, Rostam Donyabakhsh, Rasmus Christian Elling, Rojia
Forouhar, Ranjita Ganesan, Philip Grant, Ramin S Khanjani,
Iante Roach, Yusef Sayed, James Tyson, Katayoun Youssefi.

https://iran.britishcouncil.org/en/Underline
theatre

The articles solely reflect the opinions of the contributors and

not those of the British Council. Please send your feedback to
underline@britishcouncil.org.

2
Editorial Contents Autumn 2018

W ithout the discovery of oil in Masjed Soleyman in 1908, the city of Abadan would not
have experienced the tempest of economic and cultural changes that swept through Abadan A to Z: Excerpts from Encyclopaedia Abadanica by Rasmus Christian Elling 5
it in just two decades; a transformation unmatched by any other city in Iran.
Company Cinema in Abadan by Abbas Baharloo 17
That which made Abadan thrive, and drew crowds of western engineers, investors and Painting Out of the Past: Underline meets Amin Aghaei by Katayoun Youssefi 25
exploiters, was also a source of misery. The history of this picturesque port city is also the
history of colonial interests and foreign intervention. Oil City on Canvas by Valerie Behiery 33
Nasser Taghvai’s Abadan by Abbas Baharloo 41
Abadan proudly fought inequality, and the nationalisation of the oil industry in 1951 was its
moment of glory. Less than three decades later, an aggressive and massively destructive Reminders Among the Ruins by Iante Roach 47
Iraqi army invasion under Saddam Hussein once again pushed the city to the edge, only for it Withholding Patterns by Yusef Sayed 53
to see another Phoenix-like resurgence.
New Concepts in Club Music by Rostam Donyabakhsh 59
Why Abadan? Answering that question means delving deeper into the history of one of the Soaring Beyond Boundaries by Nasim Ahmadpour 65
most dynamic urban areas in Iran; one which has produced a significant number of great
artists, some of whom are featured in this issue. It also brings us, inevitably, to the painful yet The Currents Beneath the Street by Rojia Forouhar 71
important matter of the presence of the British in the region. Even though our focus is chiefly A Theatre Accessible to All by James Tyson 75
on art, you will read passages that detail how the British influence contributed to a distinct
Fire and Fantasy by Geoff Andrew 81
cultural scene, while also introducing segregation and capitalist exploitation.
Indian Camera, Iranian Heart by Ranjita Ganesan 87
The preparation of this issue would not have been possible without the generous support
of Iranian historian Abbas Baharloo, himself an Abadani. He provided us with most of the Shade of a Monster by Ramin S Khanjani 93
rarely seen photographs published here for the first time and contributed two fine essays. He
told me once: “Abadan is my ruined hometown and I still love that ruin.” I have often heard
such moving words from Abadani people, expressing a sense of love, attachment, and deep
sympathy with the sufferings of a city. Abadan is a magnetic field of nostalgia, devastation,
and a very unique kind of beauty.
Ehsan Khoshbakht
Abadan A to Z:
Excerpts from Encyclopaedia
Abadanica (a fictitious work)
By Rasmus Christian Elling
The story of modern
Abadan cannot be
understood without looking
at the ways in which the oil
industry and international
interests have defined
its social, cultural and
economic life. This expert
guide introduces some of
the key features of the city
past and present.
A
Abadan Island: Prior to the twentieth
century, Abadan Island was home to
a number of small villages centred on
fishing, date palm cultivation and small-
scale trade with nearby Basra (then in
the Ottoman Empire, now in Iraq) and the
Persian Gulf ports. The inhabitants were
largely Arabic-speaking Iranians of the
Banu Ka'b tribe who shared the island
with smaller communities of Persian-
speakers.
Alfi Square: Originally named after
the Iraqi-Jewish Alfi family that ran a
very popular convenience store on the
square. In the oil city heyday, Alfi Store
provided Abadan with a wide range of
imported goods, books and international
6
A boy in Shatit village near Abadan, 1975

Abadan Refinery
A swimming pool in Abadan, belonging to the Oil Company
Soldiers guarding the Oil Refinery during the Second
World War
7 8
newspapers. The square also contained
a famous café or ‘milk bar’ that served
milkshakes and iced coffees while
patrons listened to international pop
hits on the jukebox. Today, the Alfi
family runs a successful business in the
US and the square in Abadan is now
officially called Meydân-e Farhang.
Anglo-Persian Oil Company (APOC):
Founded in 1909 after oil was struck at
Masjed Soleyman, some 260km north
of Abadan. Operating under a 1901
concession originally sold by the Iranian
state to the Australian millionaire William
Knox D’Arcy, the company established
itself in the Khuzestan Province after
1908 where it undertook extensive
logistical, infrastructural and urban
development. In 1935, as part of a
renegotiated agreement with the Iranian
state, the company changed its name
to Anglo-Iranian Oil Company (AIOC).
Following the 1951 nationalisation of
Iranian oil, the company left Iran and the
National Iranian Oil Company (NIOC)
took over expropriated assets. In
1954, the AIOC became part of British
Petroleum (BP).
Arvand Rud: Also known as Shatt-al-
Arab this river (approximately 200km
long) is formed by the confluence of the
Tigris and the Euphrates and makes up
some of the border between Iraq and
Iran near Abadan.
B
Braim: Originally the name of a pre-
modern village that was incorporated
into modern-day Abadan in the 1910s
and turned into a suburb for the mostly
white and European so-called ‘Senior
Staff’ of the oil company. [1] While the
so-called ‘Native Town’ mainly consisted
of overcrowded, unsanitary shanties,
Braim boasted new bungalows and row
houses with all modern amenities. See
also: Colonialism; Gardening; Swimming
Pools; Tea Parties.
Brazil: Abadanis tend to associate their
city and its culture with Brazil. There is
a popular saying, Âbâdân berâzilete!
(‘Abadan is your Brazil’). The team colours
of the Abadan FC team are the same as
those of the Brazilian national flag but
it is not certain whether the Brazilian
connection in the popular imagination Somewhere by Arvand Rud (Arvand River)
arises from this fact or vice versa.
in British policy. See also: Imperialism;
Petro-Capitalism.
C
Churchill, Winston: A key lobbyist for the Cinema Rex: One of Iran’s biggest cinemas
Anglo-Persian Oil Company, Winston in the 1970s. During a sold-out screening
Churchill was instrumental in making the on 19th August 1978, unknown perpetrators
British government a major shareholder started a fire that left at least 400 civilians
on the eve of the First World War. dead, making it one of the worst cases of
When the British navy under Churchill’s terrorism prior to the 9/11 attacks against
command switched from coal to oil during the United States of America in 2001. Public
the war, its commodity value within the authorities blamed Islamist insurgents
global economy grew exponentially. This, but popular opinion in Iran at the time
in turn, made Abadan a strategic asset presumed that government agents were
 D the Greek’) from circa 1940s to the late
Date palms: Abadan Island used to be
one of Iran’s largest date palm regions.
Common varieties include the khârak
(unripe), rotob (ripe) and diri (dried) dates.
Abadan date cultivation suffered during
the twentieth-century, owing to numerous
challenges including land clearings in
connection with the establishment of the
oil industry, bombardment during the
1980-88 Iran-Iraq War and subsequent
neglect, high salinity levels and industrial
pollution. Dates and palm trees, however,
continue to figure prominently in Abadani
culture and colloquialisms.
F tour of the Middle East – partly aimed at
Feydus: In the Abadani dialect, slang for
the giant horn or whistle at the Abadan
Refinery that signalled the beginning and
end of work shifts. The word may be related
Abadan Museum
to the English term ‘fagottist’ denoting the
involved. As such, the Cinema Rex fire in player of a woodwind instrument, more
Abadan became a historical turning point, commonly known as a bassoon – possibly
further galvanising the movement that half due to the shape of the horns. [3]
a year later would overthrow the Shah and
pave the way for the return of Ayatollah
Khomeini. See also: Islamic Revolution. G
‘Colonel Bogey’: A British military march George the Greek: Giorgios (last
composed in 1914. This tune was name unknown) was Abadan’s first
reportedly played on the last ship carrying photographer. Fluent in Persian and
evacuated British staff out of Abadan with a reputation for professionalism,
during the 1951 international crisis over George ran a popular shop simply
Iran’s decision to nationalise Iranian oil. [2] known as Zhorzh-e yunâni (‘George
9 10
1970s. The oil company and middle-
class Abadanis alike hired George
to document ceremonies, weddings
and other occasions. George was also
known to play the role of Santa Claus
during Christmas parties in Abadan.
The iconic atelier building in Sunshine
Circle (now Falake-ye Toutiya) was
saved from demolition in 2017 when
local activists prompted authorities to
protect it as a heritage site. See also:
Greek Community. Abadan Technical School, established in 1939
Gillespie, Dizzy: American jazz
trumpeter, composer and singer (1917-
1993). During a 1956 US state-sponsored
repairing America’s reputation after the
US-sponsored coup against the popular
Iranian prime minister Mohammad
Mosaddeq in 1953 – Gillespie played
several concerts in Abadan, including
one in the famous Cinema Taj attended
by Princess Shams Pahlavi, elder sister of Reza Shah Pahlavi visiting the Oil Refinery
Mohammad-Reza Shah of Iran. See also:
Jazz Scene; US-Abadan Relations.
Ghaliyeh mâhi: A sour, spicy, herb-based
fish stew found in different variations
across the Persian Gulf. It is served with
rice and there is also a version based
on shrimp. Close to the Persian Gulf and
surrounded by the rivers Arvand Rud and
Bahmanshir, seafood plays a crucial role
in Abadani cuisine.
A modern supermarket in 1960s Abadan
Boys playing near Arvand River A nomadic woman from Arvand River A traditional wedding in Abadan A nomadic Arab-Iranian woman

H were dismissed by the company and is in fact an older local name (as testified had previously worked in the oil industry
Hotel Parsian: Or Persian Hotel, home expelled from Abadan. However, in the by several other villages in Khuzestan of Burma (now Myanmar). While the base
to one of Iran’s most famous nightclubs, late 1920s the Indian Lines (later Sikh Line) bearing the same name). Today, the official structure is made up of scrap metal
known for its cabaret performances, in the neighbourhood developed into a township name of this neighbourhood is Golestan. and disused oil pipelines, the mosque’s
1960s and 70s. During the Iran-Iraq War, as modern row houses replaced primitive exterior appears as a fine example
the hotel was transformed into an ad hoc barracks. In the 1940s, higher-ranking of Indian Islamic architecture. Both
command centre for the Revolutionary Indians were housed in the Bowardeh (aka M the façade and interior are decorated
Guard of the Islamic Revolution. Around Bawarda) neighbourhood. Although many Mackenzie, Mohammad-Ali: Worked as with beautifully ornate floral-patterned
1993 it was rebuilt and expanded as a hotel. Indians repatriated to India and Pakistan a general cleaner in the so-called Cat plasterworks. In 1999, the mosque was
after the nationalisation of the oil industry in recognised as a National Historic Site by
1951, hundreds stayed on until the 1978- Cracker (catalytic cracker) at the Abadan the Iranian state.
79 Islamic Revolution. See also: Coolie Oil Refinery. According to a notice in
I Abadan Today, 8th October 1958, Mr
Indian Line(s): A neighbourhood in Lines, Indenture.
Mackenzie ‘was engaged by the Company
Abadan, also known as Sikh Line and N
locally as Sikleyn. Originally, this was one in 1911’ and recalled that ‘he was paid four Nostalgia: Researchers have pointed out
of several encampments for the Indian K annas a day (equivalent to one rial) and for that there is a strong sense of nostalgia
migrant labour force contracted by the Kofaysheh: One of Abadan’s working- that he worked nine hours daily’. for Abadan’s past that links Abadanis of
oil company. [4] The Indian population of class neighbourhoods. Although locals Masjed-e Ranguni-hâ: The ‘Rangooni’ or different ages, both among the diaspora
Abadan grew from 158 in 1910 to 4,890 in insist that the name of this area derives ‘Burmese Mosque’ was built around 1921 and in Abadan today. [5] This nostalgia
1925. Following strikes and riots in 1922 from the English term ‘coffee shop’ and for and by Indian migrant labourers who is expressed in everyday conversations,
and 1924, thousands of Sikh workers refers to the cafes in the area, Kofaysheh in the publication of memoirs and works

11 12
A palm grove in Abadan
by amateur historians, and particularly
in online communities and on social
media where Abadanis congregate
and exchange pictures, memories and
information pertaining to, above all, the
pre-revolution days. Nostalgic Abadanis
cite the city’s history of peaceful co-
existence between numerous ethnic
groups, nationalities and faiths; the sense
of cosmopolitanism and material progress
in a modern urban society; the order and
discipline underpinning infrastructure,
public services and transport; and
the connectedness of Abadan to the
world through airline connections, the
13
screening of foreign films, the sale of
international newspapers and so on.
Such nostalgia, of course, tends to
downplay the less savoury sides of the
past – however, it is evidently a strong
communal and emotional factor binding
together Abadanis across borders.
P making the city’s food culture distinct
Palang: Iranian Navy man-of-war sunk at
a pier in Abadan during the August 1941
surprise attack on Iran by the British Royal
Navy. Iran was invaded and occupied by
Alfi Square in Abadan
British, Commonwealth and Soviet forces
during the Second World War as the Reza
Shah Pahlavi was considered pro-German.
Iran served as an important supply line
for the Allied forces on the Eastern Front,
making Abadan and nearby Khorramshahr
key strategic entry points.
Pakora: One of several Indian snacks that
play a prominent role in Abadani cuisine,
within Iran. See also: Indian Community.
Petroleum University of Technology:
Founded in 1939 as Abadan Technical
School or Institute, providing training for
students in preparation for work at the
oil refinery. From 1956, it expanded its
educational profile and became Abadan
Technical College; in 1962, it became
Abadan Institute of Technology (AIT),
offering BS degrees in engineering,
economy, administration and accounting.
Following the Iran-Iraq War, a Petroleum
University of Technology was established
and in 1992 its Abadan branch opened
in the original buildings of the Technical
School. This landmark complex, as
well as the surrounding Bawardah (aka
Bovardeh) township, were designed by
architect and planner JM Wilson. Wilson
14
drew inspiration from colonial urban 1970s, their omnipresence had made tax-free into Iran. The bustling Tah-Lenji-
planning in New Delhi as well as from Ray-Ban an Abadani trademark in popular hâ Bazaar is known for its hundreds of
the ‘Garden Suburb’ of Hampstead. The Iranian discourse. Today, there are still stalls selling clothes, cosmetics, perfume
institute’s iconic clock tower is sometimesinnumerable jokes about Abadanis’ and household goods, as well as for the
referred to locally as ‘Big Ben’. excessive love of the sunglasses – singing and colourful sloganeering of its
indeed, Ray-Bans are known as an many pedlars. Recently, authorities have
‘Abadani Passport’, synonymous with tried to boost business in the bazaar
R Abadani-ness. See also: Boilersuit further through incentives connected to
Râm-seyd: In Abadani dialect, slang for (Clothing); Clarks (Shoe Brand). the so-called Arvand Free Trade Zone
unlawful driving. Derived from the English just outside of Abadan. See also: The
‘wrong side’. Kuwaitis’ Bazaar; Smuggling; Trade.
S Tank Farm: In technical vernacular, the
Razi High School: Founded in 1937, Strike, 1929: One of the earliest examples
located in the Sikh Line (formerly area in which oil is stored. As iconic
of large-scale industrial action in Iran. The features of Abadan’s industrial landscape,
Indian Lines) neighbourhood. This 1929 demonstrations and strike at the
prestigious school was, from the 1940s these circular structures were subject to Notes:
Abadan Refinery saw labourers united numerous bombardments during the Iran-
onwards, a centre of political activism in demands for higher wages, shorter 1 See: Mark Crinson, ‘Abadan: Planning and Architec-
among Abadani youth. Alumni include Iraq War. Recently, the Tank Farm areas ture under the Anglo-Iranian Oil Company,’ Planning
working hours and better living conditions. have been incorporated into Abadan Perspectives 12 (1997), pp. 341–59; Kaveh Ehsani,
celebrated filmmakers Amir Naderi and Although the company partially answered ‘Social Engineering and the Contradictions of Mod-

Nasser Taghvai, literati such as Najaf
Daryabandari and Safdar Taqizadeh as
some of the demands, it also used
the occasion for a full-scale violent
Municipality for redevelopment, including ernization in Khuzestan’s Company Towns: A Look at
a planned housing district called Upatan.
Abadan and Masjed-Soleyman,’ International Review
of Social History 48 (2003), pp. 361–99.

well as numerous other important figures On the outskirts of the Tank Farm is a 2 Daniel Yergin, The Prize: The Epic Quest for Oil, Mon-
crackdown on labour organisers. During historic cemetery for Abadan’s Armenian ey, and Power (NY: Simon & Shuster, 1997).
in the political, cultural and scientific life
this strike, the demand for nationalisation
of Iran. community. 3 Ahmad Kaꞌbi-Fallahiyeh Vazhegân-e engelisi dar
was heard for the first time in Iran. See guyesh-e mardom-e Abbadan [British Words in the
Dialect of People from Abadan], (Tehran: Andishe-ye
Ray-Ban: Eyewear developed in the also: Labour Movements; Socialism. Farda, 2014).

1930s in response to a need in the US
Air Force for anti-glare sunglasses that
could ‘ban rays’ from the pilots’ vision. T
By 1937, the Ray-Ban Aviator model Tah-Lenji-hâ: The name of Abadan’s
went on sale to the public and quickly most famous bazaar. Derived from lenj,
became a popular fashion item. Ray- the traditional hand-built boats of the
Ban sunglasses may have arrived as Persian Gulf and the Indian Ocean, the
early as the 1940s in Abadan where its name literally translates as ‘bottom-of-
functionality and distinctly American look the-boat’ and refers to the amount of
fitted local needs and fashions. By the goods that sailors are allowed to import
Z 4 See: Rasmus Christian Elling, ‘On Lines and Fences:
Zolfaqari: Plain east of Abadan. Scene of
one of the early battles in the Iran-Iraq War
in 1980. During this battle, today known
officially as ‘The Zolfaqâriyeh Epic’, local
self-organised volunteer militias fought
off the Iraqi enemy who had planned to
surround and attack Abadan. At least 400
Iranians were martyred during this defence,
with hundreds of other fighters wounded.
Labour, Community and Violence in an Oil City’ in U
Freitag, N Fuccaro, C Ghrawi and N Lafi (eds): Urban
Violence in the Middle East: Changing Cityscapes in
the Transition from Empire to Nation-State, (NY:
Berghahn, 2015); Touraj Atabaki, ‘Far from Home,
But at Home: Indian Migrant Workers in the Iranian
Oil Industry’, Studies in History, Vol. 31, No. 1 (2015),
pp. 85-114.
5 See: Rasmus Christian Elling, ‘Abadan: Oil City
Dreams and the Nostalgia for Past Futures in Iran’,
Parts 1-3, Abadan:Retold (www.abadan.wiki) (2016);
Shireen Walton, ‘Abadan’s Digital Afterlife: Past
Images and Present Pasts in Abadani Virtual Commu-
nities’, Abadan:Retold (2016).

15 16
Company Cinema in Abadan
By Abbas Baharloo
)Translated by Philip Grant(
The Anglo-Persian Oil
Company ushered in a
‘golden age’ of cinema-
going in Abadan before
nationalisation in 1951.
Overseen by the Company,
however, popular
entertainment and
propaganda were mixed,
and screenings did little to
bridge social divisions.
17
M
any years ago now, Abadan was
a city that welcomed immigrants
and a place where many settled.
Its population was made up of people from
many different Iranian and international
cities; Isfahanis, Shirazis, Baluch, Kurds,
Lors, Arabs, and Azeris lived alongside
Britons, Americans, Indians, and people
from Rangoon in Burma. At the time
Abadan was a busting city, and a vibrant
centre of all sorts of cultural and artistic
activities. There were leisure clubs;
modern cinemas; libraries housing books
and other publications in Persian, English,
and Arabic; theatre, photography, and
gardening associations; concerts of
Iranian and foreign music; lectures
on literature, music and painting, and
sporting competitions. Despite all this,
in Abadan doors were not always open
to everybody. The prominent Iranian
filmmaker Nasser Taghvai, born in
Abadan in 1941, remembers it thus:
18
One of the first Company cinemas in Abadan, 1920

Ebrahim Golestan (standing) wrote reviews of the films shown in Abadan. Here, sailing in Karun with artist
Houshang Pezeshknia and his wife, 1952
“For all of its modern history Iran has been under the influence of the policies of foreign
powers. Perhaps in many of Iran’s cities and towns people haven’t experienced the bitter
taste of colonialism, but the country’s policies have followed those of colonial powers.
Because of its oil, the Khuzestan region attracted the colonisers’ attention earlier than
elsewhere. This colonial connection created social relations and an atmosphere of a
type that was not so visible in other parts of Iran. In my birthplace, Abadan, there were
neighbourhoods where the British and high ranking officials of the oil company lived, and
those of us who were not company employees were banned from entering them; there
were cinemas we didn’t have the right to go to, as they were only for the Americans and
British and Europeans who worked in the oil facilities of the south. Of course, there were
also cinemas reserved for Iranian blue and white-collar workers. Everything had been
organised on a class basis, and of course we who had no-one in the oil company found
these places closed to us.” [1]
In a country where there has always been a passion for cinema, it is no small thing for
the doors of a theatre to be closed to a film lover.
There were temporary halls for film screenings in the industrial city of Abadan from
the moment the great Abadan oil refinery was built and opened by the Anglo-Persian
Oil Company (APOC) in 1912. In fact the British agents of APOC were the first people
to establish places for film screenings, showing shorts in their original language to
their employees and foremen using projection equipment brought from Britain. For
19
the most part these films were both educational and entertaining, and it was not only
the locals, but even the company’s Iranian and Indian workers who were barred from
these private screenings. Gradually, however, with the approval of APOC’s British
board, newsreels, health information, and propaganda were broadcast in their original
language for the public in densely populated city neighbourhoods, using automobiles
and mobile projectors. Although people did not follow much of the content of these
films, they gathered in great crowds every time they found out where a screening
would take place locally. The mobile cinema first showed films in the village district
of Qarantineh (Shatit) and afterwards in the great courtyard of the Razi High School.
As the building works and preparations for the refinery came to an end and the time to
make profits from it approached, the agents of APOC established the Gymkhana Club,
a private leisure and sports club large enough to accommodate about 1,000 British
company employees. This was alongside all the other arrangements they had made for
the employees’ well-being, such as magnificent houses planted with trees, a hospital,
and large shops in the leafy district of Berim, close to the residences of the heads and
high ranking employees of the company. It was at the Gymkhana Club that screenings of
instructional and propaganda films took place. The club, whose very name locals found
strange, was equipped with lecture halls, billiard tables, a bar and a refectory, and most
of the British employees spent their leisure hours there, well into the night. The Gymkhana
Cinema was an open-air summer cinema. In the early 1950s its name was changed to the
Berim Summer Cinema, and again in the 1960s to the Abadan Oil Cinema.
In setting up the Gymkhana sports and leisure club, the aim of Sir John Cadman, chairman
of APOC, was to create a sort of ‘British nucleus’ in the oil-extracting regions. Moreover,
through membership in the club and participation in social and above all sporting activities
the British company employees would preserve their ‘modern ultra-democratic spirit’ and
be able to put up with the ‘instability’ and difficulties of life far from home. Everything at
the club was thus designed to preserve and reproduce the feeling of being British in the
south of Iran. And of all the different activities available, filmgoing was the most popular:
‘[It brings] familiar scenes of home, bringing back vividly and clearly happy memories
of leave and youth… Give an Abadan audience a picture of Piccadilly, with the roar
of the traffic and the occasional hoot of a motor horn rising and they ask for nothing
more… Some people in Abadan prefer the cinema to mail day.’
(APOC Magazine vol. 5 no. 1, January 1929, p. 46)
20
Ruins of Bahmanshir Cinema after the Iran-Iraq War
In 1926 APOC’s board, which had established the Neilson Cinema as well as well-
equipped clubs for the company’s British employees throughout the oil-extracting
areas of Khuzestan, issued a proposal to use the cinema not only as a source of
entertainment but also as a powerful propaganda tool. In the late 1920s the first large
hall for film screenings was built in a leafy Abadan district, with handsome wooden
benches that seated large numbers of people.
There were also a large number of Indian workers in Abadan, who like the British
often felt homesick, and for that reason the Indian Club was built for them. This club
was equipped with a lecture theatre, sports facilities, a screening room, and a large
restaurant serving Indian food. Mainly Indian films were shown at the club. There was
a Korg piano underneath the cinema screen where an Indian officer who had learnt
the piano in the Royal Navy sat and improvised melodies based on the scenes being
shown on the screen above.
The finest of Abadan’s cinemas was the Taj (‘Crown’) Cinema, where building work
commenced before the Second World War. This cinema had a very particular
appearance on account of the employment of red fire-resistant bricks (known in Iran
as ‘London bricks’). It was opened to the public even before its interior decoration
was completed in 1944. With room for 1,178 people, it was considered the best-
21
Taj Cinema
equipped cinema in the Middle East, and only executives, managers, and high-ranking
employees of the oil company used it. The cloth-covered seats were comfortable,
and the lighting, sound and acoustics were all to the highest international standards.
Architects who have studied the plans have described its façade as being like a sitting
lion, reminiscent of the oil company’s logo.
As the refinery grew, and the volume of oil either refined or exported as crude likewise
increased, the number of employees also expanded, and the company’s British board
– ostensibly to demonstrate its opposition to any form of class discrimination, but in
reality in order to preserve that discrimination – established a number of separate
clubs and cinemas for its Iranian and Indian employees, both white and blue-collar.
In the Arya Park there was the summer cinema of the Iran Club; the cinemas of the
Abadan Club in the Bahmanshir area, with a 700-seater winter cinema and an area
for 1,500 people to attend summer screenings; the Bahmanshir summer cinema
originally established for Indian company employees living in the poor neighbourhood
of Kofisheh, with a capacity of 900 people; and the cinema at the Pirouz (‘Victory’) Club
with a capacity of about 700, located in the Pirouzabad district.
There is no need to be reminded that the oil company signed film production
contracts with a number of Hollywood studios: Metro Goldwyn Mayer, Columbia, 20th
22
Century Fox, United Artists, and Walt Disney. As a result, some films were premiered
simultaneously in London and at the Taj Cinema and other oil company employee
cinemas. The films were screened free from oversight or censorship on the part of the
Iranian authorities. However, in 1971 the Abadan Office for Culture and Art succeeded
in obtaining some authority over film screenings. Moreover, until the revolution most
films shown in company cinemas, except at the Bahmanshir Cinema, were shown in
their original language.
Screening times were announced every Wednesday afternoon in the company’s
publication Mash'al (‘Torch’), and listings specified on which days a film would be
shown in its original language, and on which days a dubbed version would be shown.
Likewise there were always one or two pages directed at cinemagoers, with summaries
of plots and information about the directors, actors and cinematographers for each
film. Exactly the same information was broadcast the same day on the company radio
station, Abadan National Oil Radio. Screening times and locations for oil company and
private cinemas were also listed in the Daily News paper, and [noted literary figures]
Najaf Daryabandari, Dr Hamid Notghi, Ebrahim Golestan, and Mahmoud Fakhr-Daei
wrote commentaries and reviews of these films.
As employee wages were low, cinema tickets were very cheap. For instance, from the
1930s up until as late as the Iran-Iraq War, admission at the Bahmanshir Cinema was
only 3 or 6 rials – 3 rials for a seat at the front, or 6 to sit farther back or near to the
projector. The two sections were separated by an iron railing.
The Taj, Bahmanshir, Abadan, and Pirouz cinemas remained open and active after the
revolution, until a few days before the start of the war with Iraq. In recent years the Taj
Cinema has been up and running for the public just as it used to be, and now shows
contemporary Iranian films. The weekly programme of Company cinemas in the 1950s

With the nationalisation of the oil industry in Iran, the golden age of cinema in Abadan
came to an end, and yet this end was merely the beginning of the road for people like
Abadani director Nasser Taghvai, whose films helped bring modern cinema into being
in Iran. It would be hard to argue that the active cinema culture in Abadan did not play
a role in fostering talents such as his.

Notes:

1 Quoted in Abbas Baharloo, Introducing Nasser Taghvai (Tehran: Qatreh Publishers, 2004), p. 20.

23 24
Painting Out of the Past:
Underline meets Amin Aghaei
By Katayoun Youssefi
)Translated by Shahab Vaezzadeh(
The work of Iranian artist
Amin Aghaei reflects the
unique characteristics
and experiences of the
Khuzestan region. The pull
of local history, however,
has not prevented a reach
towards more universal
notions, as his more recent
paintings reveal.
25
A
min Aghaei was born in Isfahan
but spent most of his childhood
moving from city to city with his
family, in order to escape the ravages of
the Iran-Iraq War. When Aghaei began
his career as an artist, these first-hand
experiences of life and war in his home
province of Khuzestan proved to be
an essential part of his work. He used
paintings and cartoons in particular
as a means of expressing his critical
ideas and opinions. Early works include
frequent references to the local culture of
Khuzestan and the enduring impact that
the war has had on the region. However,
Aghaei’s more recent work has gradually
departed from these region-specific
issues and instead adopted a more
universal language. He is a graduate of
Tehran University College of Fine Arts
and has participated in numerous solo
and group exhibitions in Iran and other
countries including Poland, Brazil, and
26
Amin Aghaei in his studio. Image courtesy of the artist
Khorvash, acrylic on paperboard, 20 x 30cm, 2016 Italy. He has received various international
awards for his cartoons and illustrations.
Amin Aghaei currently resides in Tehran
where he continues to work as an artist.
UNDERLINE: Let’s begin with your
exhibition On The Karun River Bank. While
the unmistakable character of southern
Iran is present throughout the collection,
there are no recognisable allusions to the
region’s landscapes or geography in any of
the canvases. Perhaps the best example is
the painting also titled On The Karun River
Bank, which does not contain any trace of
the river itself. All of the backgrounds in
the paintings appear to have been erased,
leaving the people in a state of suspension.
How is Khuzestan really portrayed in your
paintings and what are you trying to tell us
about the region?
AMIN AGHAEI: I must say that I usually
avoid any direct references to my subjects
and I think that is the reason behind the
suspended characters and objects in
this series. However, I do not make any
specific plans for my artworks before
I start them and it is only in the course
of the creative process that I begin to
understand what direction they are taking.
In regard to On The Karun River Bank, I
can say that people are the narrators of
their environment. As we focus our gaze
solely on the human figures, we begin to
imagine their surrounding environments.
This uncertain situation is a reflection
of the current conditions in Iran and
Khuzestan in particular.

27 28
UNDERLINE: The recent history of the
region, which you have witnessed first
hand, is nothing but endless turmoil. All
of the paintings featured in the On The
Karun River Bank collection, however,
exude a sense of peace and serenity
that has become increasingly rare in your
work. Are you trying to find some form of
solace or healing through your work?
AGHAEI: To be honest, I have never
looked for comfort or solace. More often
than not, I am merely reporting what I see.
There is a sense of peace and serenity in
those paintings like you said, but I believe
that pain and grief lie there too. Feeling
joy and despair at the same time is an
experience unique to Khuzestan; the fact
that this has become less prominent in my
more recent work may be attributable to
my new approach to artistic practice.
UNDERLINE: Do you ever worry that your
references to local culture may make it
difficult for international audiences to
connect with your work?
AGHAEI: That has never concerned me
because I’ve always believed that art has
a soul that can speak to every culture and
that has been proved true to me time and
time again. But my approach to painting
has changed dramatically since then.
Nowadays, I try to find something else
in painting that is much more universal;
something that extends far beyond the
concerns of people from one small region
in Iran.
29
UNDERLINE: The Venice Biennale in 2015 AGHAEI: I cannot comment on The of things like the war, I do try to keep
featured several works by you and many Guardian article because I haven’t read looking ahead although I’m not sure how
other Iranian artists and was perhaps one it. On the subject of returning to the past, successful I can be in that regard. In any
of the most significant events for Iranian memories obviously provide a great deal case, when you look at the Middle East as
art in recent years. What are your thoughts of comfort to people when there is no a whole it’s quite easy to see how the past
about that particular exhibition? bright future in sight and I don’t think that can seem more appealing than the future.
AGHAEI: The fact that it happened is any of us are an exception to that rule. In relation to art, I admire the authenticity
good. But we also have a fundamental If you are referring to my experiences of the art of the past, which is something
problem in Iran with poor management so rarely seen in art nowadays.
and quick decision-making that leaves us
with very little to say during such events. Man with a Cigarette, acrylic on paperboard, 100 x 80cm, 2016
For the most part, we attend these events
in order to be able to say that we were
there but what we actually achieve has
never been important to us. Of course, I
should point out that this is not unique to
Iran – many works are produced all over
the world that are forgotten as quickly as
they are seen and ultimately it is only the
media that try to forcibly keep them alive.
All in all, I cannot trust either government-
funded or capitalist art because there is
always an agenda behind the art in both
cases that has nothing to do with art itself.
UNDERLINE: At the time, The Guardian
newspaper published an article to
introduce the exhibition with the rather
thought-provoking title: ‘Iran goes back to
the future at Venice Biennale’. Of course,
that title was also alluding to the main
subject of the Biennale, which focused
on humanity’s future. In regard to your
career and the works that you have
produced, do you think it is possible for
you to separate yourself from the past?
Is that something you would like to do?
30
UNDERLINE: In addition to your
extensive background in caricature and
illustration, you have worked in other
media including video art, installation art,
and painting. Did you progress through
each of those styles one by one or do
you find it restrictive to impose such
boundaries between different media?
AGHAEI: I began working with a variety
of art media around the same time. I was
simply trying to find the most effective
medium to express my ideas without
placing any restrictions on myself. But
now the story is very different; I have
distanced myself from almost all of those
artistic genres and painting is currently
my primary focus. Now that I have
experience with so many different art
forms, I’ve realised that greater resources
or features do not necessarily produce
more profound meaning, and that every
artist must identify the boundaries of their
art so that they may dive deeper into that
defined space. But that is obviously a
difficult thing to do and, in my opinion, not
an appealing prospect to most people
in the world these days. It also raises
many questions and whenever I look
for answers I find that a lot of modern
approaches to art feel more like a game.
Many modern works of art are designed
to attract attention but then artists try to
make connections to history, etc., in order
to justify their work rather than allowing it
to stand on its own merits.
31
Gavmish Abad, acrylic on canvas, 120 x 150cm, 2012
UNDERLINE: You mentioned how you
have distanced yourself from the style of
your earlier works. Could you elaborate
on that? Would it be accurate to say
that you have dissociated yourself from
subjects such as war, loss, and history,
and are now concentrating purely on
painting and exploring its possibilities?
AGHAEI: I leave it to critics and
audiences to debate over the content
of my work. After working with a variety
of different art forms, I find painting to
be particularly effective and engaging
as an art form, and also better suited to
my personality. I think that in the future,
people will look back at the turmoil of
today and judge whatever the outcome
may be, and I am not optimistic about
that. But humanity will also one day
return. As I said, when there is no bright
future in sight, the past will inevitably
be revisited. My focus these days is on
painting, not as a return to the past but
as an undeniable and timeless truth. I
believe that everything I have done has
led me to this point. And by painting, I
actually mean painting; I am not talking
about merely producing images that are
formulaic and easy to achieve. I don’t
concern myself with content anymore.
I think the more we try to say, the less
we communicate. And the more we set
ourselves free from it, the more profound
our work will be.
32
Oil City on Canvas
By Valerie Behiery
Abadan-born artist
Mohammad Hossein Maher
describes the lasting effect
that memories of his
hometown have had on
his work, and the enduring
power of cultural traditions
in a rapidly changing
present.
33
M
ohammad Hossein Maher’s
paintings are grounded in
autobiographical particulars
and the regional and cultural identity of
Abadan, while also addressing universal,
existential issues. The colourful son of
Abadan explains: “The human’s inner
world or soul has always interested me. In
my paintings, you can always find a part of
me – my thoughts and perceptions. When
I create, I follow my intuitions, and try to
listen to the universe inside the painting
itself.” He recently spoke to Underline
about the guiding themes of his work,
keeping Persian influences alive and
responding to momentous social changes
through art.
34
Stairs (detail), 2016. All images courtesy of the artist

Migration, mix on cardbord, 52 x 68cm, 2012
UNDERLINE: Your long and fruitful
career has been characterised by a
succession of different periods and
themes. I’m interested to hear what your
current preoccupations are in your work.
35
MOHAMMAD HOSSEIN MAHER: Each
series has emerged from the questions
that I struggled with at the time. Today,
on the eve of my seventh decade, these
questions now transcend myself and
my immediate surroundings, and deal
with things like the influx of information
or the flood of migrants, a phenomenon
that we witness daily. All of this makes
me more determined to pay particular
attention to my cultural and historical
heritage and roots and explore the
ways in which the remnants of the past
are reflected in the present. Extensive
human migration leading to a no-man’s
land, a place with no coordinates, is a
theme that I address in my new works.
I’m drawn to painting canvases that
represent placeless spaces, vague
and mysterious, like stairs purposefully
leading to nowhere. Here, my sole
interest is the act of ‘displacement’ itself. 
UNDERLINE: You grew up in Abadan
when the city was at the height of fame
and glory. Tell us something about the
Abadan of your childhood.
MAHER: I moved to Tehran with my family
in the 1960s, but a part of me remained
behind, later becoming the driving force
urging me to return. The Abadan of my
childhood was full of joy and unforgettable
memories. I remember the neighbourhoods
where I lived: well-planned areas with
green walkways that called us to play
outdoors and the networks of long pipes
leading to the refinery resembling veins
connected to the city’s heart. The music
halls, theatres and open-air cinemas
topped by the night sky and the glowing
flames of the distant refinery were also
truly magical. My memories also include
diving in the ponds – the sole cure for the
sun’s burning heat – gazing at the beautiful
palm trees adorning the urban landscape
or the cowherds with their cattle on the
riverbank, as well as enjoying the wafts
of the thin Tiri bread Arab women baked
36

Untitled (detail), metal and bronze, 160 x 297 x 60cm, 2015
on the teak, and the fragrant spices in
the Arab bazaar. I returned to Abadan
many years later, to obtain a new birth
certificate. Leaving the train station, I took
the bridge towards Abadan and opened
my arms wide halfway across, as I felt like
Khorramshahr on one side and Abadan
on the other side were each pulling me
towards them. Many years had passed,
but the way I felt for my hometown had
somehow stayed the same.  environment and architecture, which I
UNDERLINE: After studying at Tehran’s
College of Decorative Arts and later in
France, you felt compelled to return to
Abadan to find a style of painting that
could translate the intensity of life there.
MAHER: I grew up in the south. My UNDERLINE: Although the war ravaged
imagination is inspired by my childhood the city in the 1980s, you still feel drawn
memories and experiences. The figures to Abadan?
37
that you see in my paintings mostly portray
the people from the south. Even the objects
and settings have a southern touch. I
travelled a lot during my studies, which
helped me learn about form, composition
and colour. However, I always wanted
to return to Abadan to draw what I had in
my mind. When I did go back, I came to a
new understanding about the relationship
between a people and their climate, natural
explored in my paintings. I focused on
the miniatures, monuments, handicrafts,
and hand weaving that were originally
practised in the area. These formed the
foundation of my research which continued
for seven years.  example. It is basically a Persian garden UNDERLINE: You are known mostly as
MAHER: I served in the military in
different cities during the war: Abadan,
Khorramshahr, Ahvaz, and Susangerd.
I saw many people injured and cities
destroyed. On my days off, I used to
wander in Abadan’s alleys, disturbed by
the scars of bullets and mortars that had
pierced through the walls and the palm
trees with no fronds. My beautiful Abadan
was injured; the wounds haven’t healed
yet. I still go back sometimes and stroll in
the streets. My face and body, like those Mohammad Hossein Maher
of Abadan, have changed over all these
years, but we still understand each other
in our silence. constitute a fantastic landscape in which
our poems, myths, and tales – like the
UNDERLINE: Persian art, history and Shahnameh for example – take place and
myth are central to your work. Do you so it is certainly present at the core of all
believe they still shape Iranian identity in Iranians, including me. My paintings are
the twenty-first century? essentially a throwback to Persian myths
and history. My choice of colours, forms,
MAHER: Besides the Western analytical and compositions are inherently inspired
courses that we had at university, Iranian by what I grew up with. My subjects,
art also held a significant place in our as well as my visual methods such
curriculum. But beyond the university as equilibrium, exaggeration, and the
context, it was, for me, inevitable to balance between positive and negative
incorporate ancient and medieval Persian space, all express what resonated with
art into my practice. Iranians take pride me as a child. Of course, they have been
in their country’s rich cultural and artistic transformed over time and have become
heritage, and this quality is evident even more blended with the contemporary
in Iranian contemporary pop culture. language of art. 
Take the Persian rug in my room as an
that I live in, symbolically speaking; a painter, although you also produce
a garden that provokes the fantasy interesting sculptures. What does it afford
of other times and spaces. Gardens that the other visual mediums do not?
38
South, oil on canvas, 130 x 90cm, 2013

MAHER: I don’t see sculpture as a medium MAHER: After forty years of painting, I
far from painting and drawing. Whenever can’t separate myself from my art. Now,
the colours and brush alone don’t seem it is painting that pulls me along! It’s not
enough, I turn to sculpture. My metal and an exaggeration to say that my main
glass sculptures emerged from my inner motivation for living is to paint. As for
lucidity and passion. Sculpture became the death of painting, I believe nothing
the medium of my migration series. I ends in this world. That is to say that
always return to it because it possesses there are infinite possibilities, especially
a spiritual power.  I believe that a mediumin art, which is an ever-changing cycle
in which things accumulate and are
itself is not art. Art is to be found in how
that medium is used, the way in which the transformed over time. Iran is an ancient,
content is expressed. In the process of multicultural land with numerous ethnic
creation, many conditions and skills must and linguistic groups. I see this as a
coincide to give birth to an artwork. For ‘potential’. Each ethnicity has its own set
me, this very process is as valuable as of beliefs and traditions, but they all share
the artwork itself. the same history, the same geography,
and the same cultural heritage. Certainly
UNDERLINE: Many Western art such a rich, old culture has the ability to
historians keep proclaiming, wrongly, that constantly innovate, as the history of its
painting is dead. How do you view your art has proved.
relationship to painting now? South, acrylic on canvas, 100 x 61.5cm, 2015

39 40
Nasser Taghvai’s Abadan
By Abbas Baharloo
)Translated by Philip Grant(
The history and atmosphere
of the bustling border city
of Abadan are integral to
the work of Nasser Taghvai,
taking cinematic depictions
of southern Iran beyond the
tourist trail.
41
T
he south of Iran has long been
a source of fascination for
filmmakers, drawn to its ports
and islands, its areas of magnificent and
seemingly untouched nature. The city of
Abadan in particular has been a focus of
attention, especially in the last hundred
years, thanks to its beautiful surroundings
and its cultural and ethnic mix. It is
associated with sun and heat, and is
considered to be the appealing face
of the mysterious, being a border city.
People like to call it a meeting place for
the familiar and the strange, the domestic
and the foreign. It is a source of vitality
and artistic inspiration in Iranian cinema.
And yet, that which is depicted as ‘the
south’ on screen often represents a
picture postcard look at the most striking
elements of the region: plantations and
busy ports; oases and burning sands;
turbulent rivers and tranquil bays; always
42
Captain Khorshid (1987)
Nasser Taghvai (in white shirt) behind the scenes on The Curse (1974)
accompanied by a pot-pourri of local melodies, the twang of regional accents and
glimpses of ritual public performances. It is the south as seen by the outsider visiting
the region, a souvenir to be shared with excitement. There is little difference between
such an excursion in the south and a jaunt around another region; what is important is
the fact of the trip itself. For this reason, the ‘cinematic south’ should be considered the
product of a conscious choice or strategy, which filmmakers by and large have used
in their own way in their work.
All of those diverse and remarkable features scattered across the broad region of the
south come together in one place in Abadan. It was here that Iran experienced the
first sparks produced by the meeting of the indigenous experience with an emerging
industrial life. The city has witnessed more social struggles than anywhere else in Iran.
Looked at in this way, it is easy to imagine that anything might happen in this city
and that anyone might end up there. In the film Tangsir (1973), the protagonist Zayer
Mohammad heads for Abadan after a clash with powerful local figures over money.
The eponymous character of Qeysar (1969), Nasser in Goodbye, Friend (1970), and
Amir in The Morning of the Fourth Day (1970) all begin their bloody adventures in the
capital after leaving Abadan.
Among modern filmmakers Nasser Taghvai stands out. Abadan was his place of birth
and the backdrop to his first literary and artistic experiences. In his only collection of
short stories, Summer That Same Year, he describes the neighbourhoods he knew and
the city’s industrial atmosphere. This slim volume, considered one of the first collections
of ‘industrial worker’ stories in Iranian literature, describes the lives of people who are
43
The Greek Ship (1998)
lost and hopeless during hot working days, and the miseries of being unemployed. The
people Taghvai describes have an unsettled relationship with their surroundings. They
see or feel that the natural space around them, to which they have a close connection,
has suddenly fallen prey to rapid transformations. At every moment these changes thrust
them into new situations, to which not everyone is able to adapt. Seeing themselves as
alienated, some rebel, each one of them reacting to the demands of his own situation.
The subject matter of many of Taghvai’s concise and tightly plotted stories could not be
expressed in another form. The content results from the relationship between place and
the delineation of character in the stories.
The setting for the stories in Summer That Same Year differs from the one Taghvai
created almost two decades later in the films Sadeq the Kurd (1972) and The Curse
(1974). Although both films were made in Khuzestan, and mainly in the city of Abadan,
their stories unfold away from the city.
In Sadeq the Kurd, the owner of a highway café sets out to take revenge after his
wife is raped and then murdered. The action unfolds at the checkpoints, in the desert
expanses and at cafés along the road as Sadeq seeks the driver responsible for
the crime. In The Curse, by contrast, the setting is the relative peace and quiet of a
house on a half-abandoned island. Its inhabitants are a middle-aged couple, whose
relationship has reached a cul-de-sac and who spend their lives in separate rooms.
The plot was inspired by the short story ‘The Marsh’ by the Finnish writer Mika Waltari
and despite its strong local ‘flavour’, The Curse would seem to have little reference to
anything beyond the domestic life of the unhappy couple.
44
In the documentaries Taghvai made about palm trees – Palm (1969) and Before (1997)
– and about the rituals and customs of the south, including The Genie’s Wind (1968),
The Music of the South (1971) and The Greek Ship (1998), he enables the audience to
see more or less clearly all corners of the region, its environments and culture.
In Palm Taghvai mixes his own reporting with moving moments in the lives of the
residents of a village near Abadan. He shows us the fortitude of the men, the patience
and determination of the women, and the cycle of life entwined with the growth,
pollination and harvesting of date palms. The imagery is sometimes simplistic, for
example when we see a half-naked child on a grave outside the shrine of the prophet
Khidr after a palm tree is chopped down. Sometimes it has a more natural, improvised
feel, as when the film cuts away from the top of a palm tree to the wrinkled face of an
old Arab woman as we hear the narrator saying, ‘A hundred years old this year, it will
bear no more fruit.’ At other moments it is more troubling and didactic, such as when
the camera turns from the sight of the chimney of the Abadan oil refinery, to a shot of
natural and material environment itself helps shape their identities, and it is probably
for that reason that Taghvai paid careful attention to both the exterior and interior
details of the characters’ lives.
Dialogue and background elements of the film (objects, landmarks, and the southern
play of shadow and light) are not mere decorative filler, as in other ‘southern films’,
but are integral to the narrative and structure of the film – as is the case with both
ambient sounds and silences on the soundtrack. They gain significance not as
individual elements but from the way in which they are combined with other elements.
In Taghvai’s film, the sensitive attention to what constitutes a particular locale in the
south of Iran helps to shape a material and moral atmosphere – more than a postcard,
something which can be felt and which is alive.
Behind the scenes on Tangsir (1973), directed by Amir Naderi (standing on the right)

an Arab woman carrying a water barrel which bears the Iranoil logo; a visual metaphor
which carried far within intellectual circles at the time, suggesting that barrels of oil
were the share of ‘others’, while empty ‘cans’ or brackish water were the lot of those
inhabitants of the south.
Taghvai is at the height of his powers with his portrayal of the south in Captain Khorshid
(1987), where a harmony is achieved between the place and the atmosphere of the
film. Although the film is a loose adaptation of Ernest Hemingway’s novel To Have and
Have Not, the combined effect of the film’s elements is striking. Taghvai transformed
the setting of Hemingway’s work – a large and modern port in Florida – into a small,
impoverished port on the Persian Gulf; a ‘little, broken-down’ port, a place of exile
for rogues and ruffians. Taghvai not only goes beyond the scope of Hemingway’s
text; in searching for an appropriate atmosphere he makes choices that sometimes
lead him to go far beyond reality within the film. Nevertheless, some cinephiles found
themselves compelled to make comparisons with Howard Hawks’s 1944 film version
of the same Hemingway story.
Allowing himself the freedom to make an ‘authentic’ film – a film with its own particular
character – Taghvai removed many features of the original story and added others.
Taghvai’s familiarity with the south of Iran, especially his grasp of the environment of
the ports where the film was shot – the sense of place and the sights to be seen there
– leads to a new understanding of the novel. Of course, placing characters in their

45
Reminders Among the Ruins
By Iante Roach

P
hotographer Jassem Ghazbanpour
documented the Iran-Iraq War
Jassem Ghazbanpour’s from its outset. The conflict, and
photographic study of the eighteen-month occupation of his
messages and personal home city of Khorramshahr by Iraqi forces,
effects left over from the compelled him to spend long stretches of
Iran-Iraq War conveys the time in Abadan, where he set up his studio.
impact of the conflict on Ghazbanpour’s work is varied, taking in the
two cities. field of social documentary, aerial views of
Iran, the marvels of Iranian architecture,
and the set of Kiarostami’s film Life and
Nothing More. It also includes a unique
series of photographs collected under the
title Neighbours’ Mementos. These show us
the graffiti left by occupying Iraqi soldiers in
the houses of Abadan and Khorramshahr,
as well as letters and the photographs they
took of one another. The book begins with
a photograph, published on the front page
of the Ba’ath Party’s newspaper, of Iraqi
soldiers tearing down a ‘Welcome to Iran’
poster in Shalamcheh, and ends with the

47 48
Graffiti by occupying Iraqi soldiers in the houses of Abadan and
Khorramshahr. All images courtesy of Jassem Ghazbanpour
coffins of Iraqi soldiers whose corpses
were found in that area, finally on their
way back to Iraq. Ghazbanpour talks to
Underline about Abadan before and after
the war, his favourite photograph from the
series, and wartime propaganda.
UNDERLINE: How and when did this
series come about?
JASSEM GHAZBANPOUR: I took
these photographs after Operation
Beit ol-Moqaddas, when Iranian forces
recaptured Khorramshahr, in 1982-
83. I knew Arabic and therefore could
understand the meaning of the writings,
which I found fascinating, starting with
the simple slogan ‘We came to remain’,
which prompted me to read all the other
graffiti. Ninety-nine per cent of the Iraqi
soldiers involved in the offensive were
Shiite and considered the people of
Khorramshahr Jews and Zoroastrians,
as the graffiti clearly demonstrates. This
had to do with Iraqi wartime propaganda,
which promoted the notion of impure,
fire-worshipping Persians, whom it was
fine to kill, whose women could be raped
and whose belongings could be looted.
I found this very interesting as we were
all Shiite, just like them! The graffiti I
found got stranger and stranger, and
included paintings, also abstract, and
graphic sketches. The most compelling
and unusual graffiti is a love letter, which
I captured in my favourite photograph. It
49
was written on a wall by a soldier on the been earning my living from photography couples to this day! I found a number of
frontline and dedicated to his girlfriend. since the age of 14. My driving passion was them thanks to the photographs. Many
He did not know whether he would be always social documentary photography. got married, had children and are still
alive even just a few seconds later, but My grandfather’s family lived in Abadan living together.
he certainly knew that his letter would not and my family was in Khorramshahr so
reach her. He must also have been aware I took photographs in both cities and in I won photography prizes before the
of the fact that the wall could have been the surrounding villages. I used to take revolution, which allowed me to travel
destroyed by a bomb at any instant. He photographs of young lovers who met across Iran and photograph the country. I
was not very cultivated, but the poem is up secretly in the palm thickets near the documented the revolution and exhibited
remarkably refined and different from villages, which provided a good hiding my photographs during the first few years
of the revolution. In Khorramshahr the war
all others. He compares his girlfriend’s place. I took quick, secret Polaroids of
bellybutton to a gazelle’s, and likewise them and got paid for this. This provided broke out much earlier than the official
date, about four or five months earlier. At
her heels, her eyes, her eyebrows… me with funds to invest in black and white
social documentary photography. I am the time I was in my last year at high school
A soldier on a frontline is a human being and had to repeat one year. I was also a
still taking photographs of some of those
with feelings, just like anyone else,
whoever his leader may be, wherever he
may have been sent to fight, however much Jassem Ghazbanpour photographed by Behrouz Moradi, who was killed during the war
propaganda may have been injected into
him. I went searching for graffiti and other
documents home by home, trench by
trench, and also collected the soldiers’
diaries and photographs. I tried to take
artistic photographs. I wanted to show the
conditions of our neighbours, who came
and occupied our city, our houses, raped
our women, and left mementos for us on
our walls.
UNDERLINE: Can you recount some of
your experiences as a photographer in
Khorramshahr leading up to the war?
GHAZBANPOUR: I was working as a
photographer way before the revolution
and the war came. I started taking
photographs when I was 10 and have
50
member of the International Red Cross, been looking for an old schoolteacher of GHAZBANPOUR: Around 1986 I took a war propaganda. For instance, during
and having just received the news that I’d mine for years, to no avail. It is very hard series of photographs which included the first bombing of Tehran the director
passed my diploma I intended to travel to find people as the displacement was images of the Iran-Iraq War. I was of Resalat told me he wanted a photo
to the frontline and take photographs. I so huge. The damage is irreparable. After accused of being anti-war and a person of a corpse being carried away while
had gone to the Young People’s Home the war, we lost all visual mementos of whom people should be afraid of. I a crowd of people in the background
to borrow a camera when the first our previous lives, which creates a crisis tried working in two state-sanctioned raised their fists and shouted slogans.
bomb hit Khorramshahr right in front of in our identity. They were all destroyed by newspapers but did not last longer I quit as I had no interest in creating
that building, twenty metres from me. the war. than a month, despite my dire financial propaganda and could not have taken
Instead of taking photographs I started needs. They wanted me to produce such photographs.
providing first aid straight away and for UNDERLINE: Whom do you consider to
a few months into the war, assisting all be the intended audience of the book?
the displaced people from Abadan and GHAZBANPOUR: Humanity in its entirety.
Khorramshahr. Then I began working as Those who wrote the graffiti, those whose
a war photographer together with a group houses were occupied and written
of young people in Abadan, which I have over... my audience is timeless. These
been a member of ever since. photographs tell the story of all human
UNDERLINE: How do you perceive wars and of occupying soldiers. They do
the changes to these places as a not have to do only with Abadan, Iraq, No Entry
consequence of the war? or Vietnam. Wherever soldiers go, they
leave traces of themselves.
GHAZBANPOUR: Abadan was a migrants’
city. Ninety per cent of its population had UNDERLINE: Has your perspective on
come there from elsewhere due to the the war changed compared to when you
petrol companies. The destruction was were taking photographs at the time?
limited, as no area was totally destroyed,
so it was much easier to rebuild the city. GHAZBANPOUR: It has not changed
Khorramshahr instead was inhabited at all, because I am still following the
mainly by its indigenous people and was same line of work. I have never carried
razed to the ground during the war. It has weapons and have always opposed war
not yet been restored properly and no- and violence.
one, including myself, has been able to UNDERLINE: Whilst you were taking
find their old house, their local area, their these photographs, how close was your
old school, their old friends for years... A work to official war propaganda and to
rich culture and an ancient identity were what extent was it personal?
destroyed in only two or three years. I have

51 52
Withholding Patterns
By Yusef Sayed
An investigation into
personal and public
memory centred on the
Anglo-Iranian Oil Company,
The Host reveals how
strategies of organising and
framing historical records
can both limit knowledge
and generate unexpected,
illuminating connections.
53
M
iranda Pennell’s hour-long
documentary The Host (2015)
is a work of striking contrasts:
between the apparent simplicity of
its narration and use of photographic
images, and the abundance of historical
information it conveys; between the
avowed lack of a clearly delineated arc
and the intricately stitched patterning in
the film; and between the economy of
artistic means Pennell uses as against
the story of capitalistic exploitation that
the history of Abadan reveals. Without
being didactic, Pennell underscores the
distinction between official histories and
the public image on the one hand, and
private experience and the perspective of
the individual on the other. Finally, unable
to gain any all-enveloping vantage point,
the filmmaker reminds us of what is always
off screen, in the margins of written texts
and behind the camera, waiting to reveal
itself to us.
54
The Host (2015). Image courtesy of Miranda Pennell
Ostensibly, The Host follows Pennell’s investigation into her family connections to the oil Pennell introduces many images by first withholding them, while describing them in
trade in Iran, her father having been employed by the Anglo-Iranian Oil Company (AIOC) the voiceover narration, which is played over another image. Rather than allowing
in the 1960s during her childhood, some of which she spent living in Abadan. But rather our eyes to roam over the images, as viewers are able to do at the beginning of
than simply revealing secrets and coming to firm moral conclusions about the activities of the film, Pennell increasingly comes to limit our perspective. She refers us to the
British interests in the region in general and her father in particular, her exploration of public background elements of a seemingly uninteresting domestic scene – two ashtrays in
archives, private memory, testimony and speculative fiction affirms and undermines clear the form of figures – before scanning quickly through a succession of private holiday
judgements. Pennell begins the film by mentioning a curious connection between the photos without commentary. In this way, one gets a sense in The Host of the way that
rare form of leukaemia that affected both her mother and her father – as if to embark on a investigations into the past, especially one’s genealogical history, and autobiography
scientific enquiry into the working conditions of those in Abadan in its heyday as Iran’s ‘Oil is both complicated by emotion and driven by a compulsive need to answer questions.
City’. But this track is left and Pennell becomes lost in the volumes of records held in the Add to this the public interest of reviewing Britain’s national and imperial interests in the
BP archives at the University of Warwick; in an obscure text by a former Abadan worker twentieth century and the complexities of perspective multiply.
that leads her to the author’s later fantastical alternative to the Genesis myth of humanity’s
origins; meeting’s with the author’s wife and family friend, and finally the touristic images In looking over personal and public history, details are uncovered, perspectives shift,
drawn from the Pennell family photo albums. but other elements are pushed out of the frame, other troubling matters are masked
– whether consciously or not. In showing the history of Abadan, and the workings of
Lines of questioning open further out, while Pennell expertly weaves together all these the AIOC, the British government and BP in a new light; by showing us the faces of
disparate materials as well as found sounds to emphasise visual resemblances across the workers, as if they wish to tell us all that has been forgotten or left out of the public
eras, cultures and subjects. The snaking lines on a geological diagram match the
appearance of the thin cable trailing from the earbuds of headphones. The towering
columns of ancient Persian ruins are shown alongside the billowing smoke stacks of the
Abadan refinery. Christian O’Brien’s account of the ‘Shining Ones’, mysterious visitors The Host. Image courtesy of Miranda Pennell
whom he believed initiated human culture and society from above, is set against the
condemning evidence of British power interests and the manipulation of the public
image of their affairs in Iran. The eyes are repeatedly drawn to these resemblances,
to provoke attention, to spur interrogation and to suggest credible links between what
might previously have been kept apart.
And yet, while these unexpected connections are forming throughout the course of
the film, the way in which Pennell withholds information and shapes our perspective
becomes ever more conspicuous. There is the initial reference to the sickness that
affected her parents, which is never returned to. And there is a subliminal image,
one presumes of Pennell, that appears only once again – almost as briefly – towards
the end as we see more of the family pictures from 1960s Iran. Her slog through the
unending BP archives and her reports on the poor metadata in the holdings – which,
for instance make it impossible to search by her father’s name – contrasts with the
manner in which Pennell primes us to look at the photographs she chooses to include.

55 56
 J

records; drawing on autobiographical details to make crucial history more personal to

us, Pennell makes judicious, poetic use of audiovisual materials to connect historical
memory with criticism. In doing so, however, Pennell reminds us of the ways in which
she is limited, in the ways she wishes to shape our experience of her materials, to see
the connections she sees. As enthralling and curious as this process is in The Host,
what remains is the question: what else are we not seeing?
Our compulsion to look, our lives as voracious viewers makes the act of reading an
IN REVIEW
image second nature. But it is the second look that The Host encourages us to take, SET x CTM Berlin
time and again. And there will certainly be elements of Pennell’s film itself that will be
missed on first viewing. Subtle evasions, unremarked details, connections between Flight Instruction for Pilot and Crew
images that appear at different ends of the film. The ability to suggest the seeming The Story of Boulevard
inexhaustibility of information, the impossibility of gaining a firm footing on which to
view the past while making such economical use of old-fashioned media – as well as Disability Arts in Iran
imaginative use of online resources (YouTube and audio files from freesound.org) – Home
make The Host at once a work of remarkable concision and depth. It is full of untold
stories, unfinished histories, people just outside our purview. But it gives us a profound
sense of relationships that are compelled to make themselves evident; of details that
demand magnification.
There is no way of viewing the past but from a specific point of view, and there is
always more buried history to dig up. Pennell is aware of all this, and in showing us
what she remembers and what she sees one feels that she is a welcoming host, inviting
us in – not an unwanted guest, imposing on us.

The Host. Image courtesy of Miranda Pennell

57 58
New Concepts in Club Music
By Rostam Donyabakhsh

F
ans of alternative music from
across the capital knew that they
SET X CTM, a festival would be in for a rare treat with the
of adventurous music expansive and eclectic lineup on offer at
performances in Tehran, SET – and, judging by the consistently
sees the European and rapturous response from the sold-out
Iranian electronic scenes crowd, they were not disappointed. The
joining together to electronic music festival, now in its third
euphoric effect. year, took over Azadi Concert Hall, buried
deep under the iconic Azadi Tower. It
showcased some of the best local talent
alongside premier performers from the
European scene, in what is proving to
be a flourishing partnership between the
organisers and CTM Berlin.
With six acts performing over the course
of the weekend (not to mention a series
of sets, panels, workshops and talks
hosted by venues across the city over
five days), there was a wide range
of styles to be heard, from ghostly,
ethereal soundscapes to intense levels

59 60
mHz. Photo © Aram Tahmasebi
of distortion, glitch, and live-processed classical Iranian instruments. Several of the
performances also incorporated visual elements, adding an extra dimension to what,
at times, became an almost otherworldly experience.
As the festival-goers filed into the cavernous underground auditorium – which provided
a welcome respite from the baking summer heat outside – there was much speculation
but little consensus about what to expect. The first evening’s lineup promised three
totally different acts, and it was unclear whether the event would feel more like a club
night or a concert.
mHz, an Iranian sound artist based in New Zealand, opened the proceedings with
a rigorous, concept-based set that took the audience on an odyssey through
various permutations of an x-y grid function. The music was delivered with clinical,
Rainer Kohlberger and 9T Antiope. Photo © Aram Tahmasebi
61
computational precision and sonic intensity – skittering tabletop sounds were interlaced
with thunderous machine-gun-like beats and crunchy bass, all seemingly in tense
competition with one another. The individual tracks would slam into life, overlap, split
and recombine, as if the digital data-crunching had taken on a consciousness of its
own, shouldering other sounds aside. (x=-y), one of the later pieces, was a particular
highlight, full of static hiss and submerged pulses hinting at a never-quite-present
central rhythm. All of this was backed by bold, punchy, black-and-white graphics –
orchestrated by mHz himself – which perfectly echoed the jittery numerical tension
in play throughout the set. Blocks of pure white and black fought for space, annulled
each other, and were periodically riven and disrupted by shards of RGB colour. This
was cerebral techno at its scratchy, uneasy best – throwing up logical and sonic
provocations never fully settled or resolved.
Next up was Umchunga, a Tehran-based composer who works a wide repertoire of
noise and drones to sculpt multi-layered, dreamlike atmospheres which envelop the
listener. Compared to the previous act’s digital bit-crunching pyrotechnics, the set
was slow to get going, involving protracted variations of low- to mid-range drones
interacting mournfully with barely present background noise. The drawn-out build-up
was worth the wait, however, with the intensity rising, tide-like, to an epic crescendo
of earth-shaking prolonged bass pulsation that flatly refused to loosen its continuous,
strangling grip, paired with soaring, euphoric samples and overcharged synth.
Closing the first night was Sote, one of the most intriguing prospects. Drawing on
his German-Iranian heritage and upbringing, Sote fuses classical Persian instruments
with samples, live processing and distortion to create an unpredictable, disorientating
mashup. Arash Bolouri and Behrooz Pashaee attacked the santoor and setar, bringing
a fascinating, uncanny dynamic to these familiar instruments. Much of the appeal of the
performance lay in the way that the audience could observe the acoustic sounds being
produced and distorted simultaneously, like the transformation of the dulcimer-like
tones of the santoor into reverberating, swampy bass. This cross-cultural experiment
veered off in an array of thrilling directions, ranging from technical complexity to driving
dance rhythms, from jagged scratching sounds to brash, cacophonous maelstroms of
noise. Tarik Barri’s swirling lattice-work visuals, borrowing heavily from Persian design
traditions, provided a hypnotic backdrop for this wholly original spectacle.
An overnight breather allowed sufficient time for jangling synapses to recover from
these overwhelming sonic assaults before day two. Temp-Illusion opened with classic
62
90s drum-machine samples smashed up against fragmented breakbeats and cut-up
bass. The Tehran-based duo’s set would not have been out of place in a Berlin techno
bunker, and went spiralling through genres and styles with hedonistic abandon,
culminating in an aggressive drum-and-bass finale which shook the foundations and
had everyone dancing in their seats.
The pick of the festival, however, came in the form of an audio-visual collaborative
project between 9T Antiope and Austrian videographer/filmmaker Rainer Kohlberger.
It was a seemingly perfect match between sound and visuals, with each artist’s work
sensitively and intelligently enhancing, complementing, and challenging the other’s.
An often-overlooked aspect of electronic music is how it can, when delicately handled,
structure its own narratives, weaving disparate elements together to form a story.
Nima Aghiani and Sara Bigdeli Shamloo of 9T Antiope seek to create landscapes and
environments through processed sound, samples, speech, instruments, and vocals. Sote's Sacred Horror in Design with Tarik Barri. Photo © Aram Tahmasebi

Their work extends into theatre, and those dramatic influences and instincts were
brilliantly displayed and brought to life by Kohlberger. An immersive sonic narrative
combined with overpowering visuals, making this an experience which managed to be
both intellectually and emotionally moving.
After such an intense experience, the beautiful, retro world conjured into life by
Robert Henke, performing as Monolake, was like balsam for the soul, and a fitting
way to wrap up the night. Performing with his back to the crowd, and his laptop and
faders visible, Henke introduced sample after sample, washing the sound from left
to right and back to front across the speaker system, calmly and expertly enfolding
the audience in the process. His live production skills, as one might expect from
one of the creators of the industry-standard Ableton Live software, have been
honed to perfection over the decades, and one gets the impression that he could
do it blindfolded, or in his sleep. The attentive listeners were soothed, coaxed, and
caressed into a blissful surrender, a state of wonder that lasted well beyond the
show itself.
When the dazed, satisfied fans emerged into the still-warm midnight air, they might
have been forgiven for thinking that the blood-red moon, hovering over Azadi Tower in
the process of a perfectly timed and beautifully framed eclipse, was somehow part of
the show. This cosmic coincidence, however, merely served to ease their minds gently
back into reality, after two evenings of challenging experimental escapism.

63 64
Soaring Beyond Boundaries
By Nasim Ahmadpour
A new play by Farhad
Fozouni draws on a variety
of artistic practices to tell
four overlapping stories
about the role of fear in
individual lives.
65
I
n his first work for the stage Farhad
Fozouni has made good use of the
graphic design talents for which he
is best known, as part of the so-called
‘fifth generation’. At a time when some
Iranian graphic designers considered
Persian letters unsuitable as the basis
for their designs, Fozouni began to use
them to create new visual composites.
He was able to carve out a space for
himself designing posters with multiple
layers, with elements drawn from urban
life and combining them with a sense of
nostalgia. Fozouni has also published a
collection of stories online under the title
Stories of the Tower of the Sea, which
apparently serve as an introduction to his
play Flight Instruction for Pilot and Crew.
That said, he considers himself first and
foremost a poet, and says that all of his
artistic activities until now have been
efforts at writing poetry in different forms
66
Flight Instruction for Pilot and Crew
and media. With this in mind, perhaps the falling aircraft are mixed up with the sounds of the hospital, the pagers of the doctors
play, which recently enjoyed a thirty-night and nurses.
run at the Paliz Theatre in Tehran, could
be understood as a three-dimensional Rather than simply recounting each of the stories for his audience, Fozouni frees
staged poem, combining all the media himself from linear narrative expectations conflating narrative and characters. At every
Fozouni has experimented with to date. moment he confronts the audience with powerful feelings; he invites those present to
pay attention to what lies underneath, rather than on the surface. Fozouni withholds
The set is cluttered, with the stage looking information; whenever the audience feels it has found the right key to unlock the play, a
as if it has been left in a mess. There are new lock appears in its place. Nonetheless, this degree of difficulty gives the writing and
a series of outlines, which in the course direction a more lasting effect. The ambiguities that arise from the play are generated
of the performance are rearranged not by the rupture of relations between the audience and the work, but by complicating
by the actors to create new patterns, the process of perception and understanding that actually leads to a deeper
corresponding to each scene change. consideration of how elements connect and contrast, in the minds of the audience.
At the beginning of the play the audience
is invited by a narrator whose voice Non-linear staging, the crowded soundscape, and the actors’ style of enunciating all
is broadcast in the theatre to imagine contribute to creating an atmosphere full of feeling and emotion for the audience, an
themselves about to fly in an aeroplane atmosphere that is apparently intended to lead us down through various layers of the
that will end up crashing; to imagine mind, layers in which are stored our fears and dreams.
themselves present and experiencing Put simply, Flight Instruction for Pilot and Crew is a play about fear. The fear of a café
those last short minutes before take-off. owner who is afraid to leave his business behind, and the horror he has of red-eyed
Long stretches of Flight Instruction for Pilot animals. A man who is afraid of plane crashes and therefore of flying. A young woman
and Crew are devoted to visual displays who is in a coma and who in her shapeless consciousness does not know whether the
created by the actors, accompanied by two men are the same. The cabin crew’s fear of flying, Mahsa’s fear of death, fear of
Farshad Fozouni’s moving music. The Poster for Farhad Fozouni's graphic design exhibition being alone, fear of dying, fear of growing old... In this way, the play is turned into both
gripping atmosphere helps us enter into a manifesto about fear and an instruction manual for how not to be afraid. In it there
the world of Mahsa Riyazi, a woman in a are two groups of people: those who die of something, and those who die of the fear
coma. Mahsa, battling at the threshold of life and death, creates the entire play in her of something.
head based on four stories read to her by her mother. The audience sees what Mahsa
sees while she is unconscious. Farhad Fozouni has produced a play that succeeds in breaking through to its
audience, taking it to a place where it is ultimately able to confront its fears. In a way it
At times the stories become interwoven; at other points they remain separate from one resembles Fozouni’s poster designs, which, according to the artist, do not always allow
another. Mahsa becomes a male café owner who is afraid of red-eyed rabbits and the viewer to form a relationship with all their layers. Fozouni has now found another,
flying. The Zee Airlines cabin crew members, who feature in another story, are likewise physical means by which he can arrange and explore these layers, using lines, sharp-
afraid of flying, and appear to be on the same flight as the café owner, who has shut angles, circles within circles and a mode of writing that favours mood over the mere
up shop that very evening so that he can leave his home behind. But the plane is going transmission of information. All these elements alongside one another help to create a
down. Mahsa can hear the voices of the cabin crew, but it is as if the sounds of the unique atmosphere; a composite drawing on his multi-layered poster works, his poems,

67 68
the slides that he has exhibited in Tehran The Suspended Mountain installation
galleries, and the music composed by his
brother Farshad.
Flight Instruction for Pilot and Crew
clearly indicates the end of an era of
boundaries between different branches
of the arts. The days when one could
talk proudly about theatre as a pure art
are over. Lines have converged and
disciplines are starting to overlap. The
theatre is just as much a graphic art as
it is an art related to cinema, music and
poetry. Fozouni’s play is perched on a
narrow ledge, somewhere in between
theatre, live music, book reading, graphic
design, and photography.
If poetry remains the highest art form for
Farhad Fozouni, Flight Instruction for Pilot
and Crew could be seen as his own story,
that of someone who in taking the path of
poetic inspiration overcomes his fears
one by one, scaling obstacles and finding
a new form. Fozouni has become the
embodiment of his own artistic ambitions:
fearless in breaking boundaries,
disregarding archaic definitions, and
always about to take off.

69 70
The Currents Beneath the Street
By Rojia Forouhar
A new film about a major
thoroughfare in Tehran
reveals the connections
between urban space and
public consciousness in
Iran’s shifting political and
cultural history.
71
F
rom the very beginning, when it
was no more than a redirected,
narrow stream Tehran’s Keshavarz
Boulevard – as it eventually came to be
known – was something more than a
landmark for the city and its inhabitants.
Many events of varying significance attest
to this, each giving rise to a different
image or aspect of ‘the Boulevard’. In
Davood Ashrafi’s latest film, The Story
of Boulevard, these come to the fore in
a succession of archival clips intricately
weaving together factual and fictional
representations.
The stream became a street. The first
mention of it as a ‘Boulevard’ appeared in
the newspaper Ettela’at. Over successive
decades, historic events and private
relationships continued to flow along
the Boulevard toward the future, while
modern Tehran was paved and built up.
In the footage that Ashrafi compiles, we
72
see the Allies march along during WWII, Reza Shah reviews the lines of a military
parade, and the Saman Towers and the Ministry of Agriculture are constructed.
Following an official state visit by the British monarch, the thoroughfare is given the
name ‘Elizabeth Boulevard’. Tehranis promenade along the street; the Boulevard a
backdrop to their many lives. The Kuchini Club opens as a basement dance floor
with live music. One end meets Valiahd Square. To the north is the Jalalieh racetrack.
Thousands in Jalalieh salute Mossadegh. A modern park, named after Queen Farah,
replaces Jalalieh. Students enter the boulevard…Unceasing narrative of a city.
As well as presenting a vibrant social history of the Boulevard, Ashrafi, who won the
Honar o Tajrobeh prize at the 2017 Cinéma Vérité Documentary Film Festival, keys into
the ways in which the area has been connected with the cinema and the wider culture.
It has been a location chosen by many directors, a place where lovers in novels have
made their rendezvous. The Cinema Boulevard opens, a film club is initiated. Two
leftists walk down the street. Then, the revolution. The area is fraught with conflict,
silence and fear. Cinema Boulevard closes down. Its name is changed to Keshavarz
Boulevard, or Farmer’s Boulevard.
The onscreen title of The Story of Boulevard indicates to viewers what is to come: the
word ‘Story’ is formatted in the classic Persian nastaliq font, while the word ‘Boulevard’
imitates the lettering of the Cinema Boulevard signage – a font that brings to mind the
wings of American Buicks and Cadillacs from the 1960s, which themselves belonged
to a design movement obsessed with the look of the future. Even before the film starts,
then, Ashrafi is signalling that we are about to be told a mythical Persian tale, one in
which cinema features prominently, and wherein the future also has its part to play. The
Boulevard is built from scratch in front of our eyes. As it extends, it becomes the setting
for political flashpoints, demonstrations, extraordinary moments and ordinary lives. The
impact of each is felt in Ashrafi’s narrative. Some events are depicted, some are only
hinted at, and this lack is often what is most tangible.
The Story of Boulevard is an ‘urban film’, but Ashrafi goes beyond any simplistic
definition. We are made aware of the effects that the city space has on the narrative
of the film itself. The character and qualities of contemporary Tehran are in essence
reflected on the screen. The last intertitle reads: ‘The Story of Boulevard 1940-2009’.
In a note on the film Babak Ahmadi writes, ‘The memorial of a city becomes entwined
with the history of the life of the city.’
73
Ashrafi told the newspaper Hamshahri: “The Story of Boulevard is the assembly of a
course of history, narration and event: its high and lows, its desires and impossibilities,
a course that transforms it into a collective asset.” Historical documents are referred to
but time is not presented by Ashrafi in a chronological fashion; rather the film conveys
more closely the nature of memory. Memory as ever-changing, at risk of remembering
and forgetting, unconscious of successive distortions, and vulnerable to manipulation
and appropriation. Memories may lie dormant for some time and then periodically
revive. Memory is forever present, a real thing, responsive to the moment, whereas
‘history’ is a steadfast representation of the past. The Story of Boulevard explores the
character of the street as a part of Tehran’s collective consciousness.
Amongst the sources Ashrafi draws upon, Iranian fiction films play a central role
in recreating the atmosphere of previous eras. Ashrafi has said that The Story of
Boulevard is part of a wave of art produced recently focusing on Tehran as a subject.
But unlike some of its contemporaries, Ashrafi’s film is not infatuated with the past, by
comparison with which the contemporary city might be depicted as boring, corrupt
and ruined. Other recent Tehrani films do express such a wish to return to the old city,
or to a valley or home village, mirroring familiar oppositions of good and evil. However, The
Story of Boulevard is the story of a living space, a thriving street that does not only exist in the
past. Besides, the past is not final but the source of potential futures.
In The Story of Boulevard, factual narratives supplement fictional narratives to create a
polyphony that is neither singular, nor static, nor based on any one reality, but rather on multiple
realities, at times contradictory. This polyphony is as complex as the city itself. Documents,
books, photographs and statistics are drawn upon, as are novels, movies, memoirs and
anecdotes. The Story of Boulevard is not an overly didactic film but inasmuch as it is, its moral
qualities are felt not as unyielding principles but the result of practical compromise.
In Ashrafi’s multi-layered film, creation, destruction, change and accumulation characterise a
multi-faceted image of the place that is well known, but in the process we learn there is much
more to the Boulevard, and Tehran. At the beginning and end of the film, we see everyday
life unfolding on the Boulevard, in all its unremarkable banality. Between these two points,
through the transformative power of cinema, Ashrafi reminds us that the same stressful and
tiring city can be a wellspring of inspiration. As the film tells us, ‘the Boulevard is experienced
and knows what dreams are made of’.
74
A Theatre Accessible to All
By James Tyson
After another successful
edition of the Unlimited
festival, which shines a light
on work by disabled artists,
we return to a conversation
from 2016 with Fatemeh
Fakhri and Davood
Mashayakhi of the theatre
group Mehr-Aeen, focusing
on key developments in
disability arts in Iran.
75
T
he UK’s achievements in
supporting disability arts has
been much publicised. A new
level of visibility was reached with the
2012 London Olympics and Paralympics,
and has been maintained through
the Unlimited Festival. The history of
disabled arts in Iran is also world-leading.
Following the Iranian Revolution in 1978-
79, as part of the social and political
reforms that had driven much of what
the Revolution stood for, a new system
for supporting disabled artists across
the country was established. Since 1991
this has included a programme of annual
regional festivals of disability-led theatre
around the country – and from 2003 a
biennial international festival.
In September 2016, at the invitation of the
British Council as part of the Unlimited
Festival at Tramway in Glasgow, I met
with Fatemeh Fakhri, who works from
76
Simorgh and Zaal, directed by Mehrdad Nezamabadi
the Iranian state’s welfare ministry as the disabled artists, the more I felt that mainstream cultural events and festivals. is now a committee that is overseeing
director of the festival’s programme and this was the area that I wanted to focus on Our responsibility is to help provide these and advising strategy and policy in
is the founder of Mehr-Aeen, a theatre and to learn more about. I wrote my thesis opportunities. Recent culture ministers accessibility of public spaces for disabled
association of disability-led theatre. on theatre therapy for disabled people, have provided more support, but there is people in cities and cultural centres. We
Joining us was Davood Mashayekhi, as well as children and young adults. This still a long way to go. have already passed laws in terms of
a deaf performer with Mehr-Aeen. We was later published and has now become accessibility and disabled rights and at
discussed their work together and this a reference book for disability arts in Iran. The Ministry of Culture has a centre in the moment, we are more in the position
lesser known history of theatre in Iran. I also began a theatre group working with every city across Iran, and currently they of considering how best to implement
deaf people called Mehr-Aeen. We did provide venues for a network of regional better disabled rights in Iran, especially
UNDERLINE: What is your theatre several touring performances across Iran disabled theatre festivals, as well as staff in terms of access issues.
background and how did you come to as well as internationally. For my PhD, I who come and see this work – and as
work in disability theatre specifically? was interested in the communication with all theatre, every work needs their
between non-disabled and disabled permission to be performed. But there
FATEMEH FAKHRI: I liked theatre as a is more that can be done. For example
child, and in school I took part in theatre children in kindergarten, which led to
several policies around access in public the Dramatic Arts Centre, which is the
groups. At university, I started to work with government body for Iranian theatre,
the government’s welfare organisation kindergartens. I have continued with this
work, including as part of my work with provides various services for theatre
(as part of the Ministry for Community artists, such as insurance. These services
and Social Services) which at that the welfare organisation overseeing the
regional and national festivals for disabled are not yet available for disabled artists,
time looked after disabled people and so this is one of the main things which
other vulnerable groups, such as street theatre – which started in 1991, around
the time I joined – and then directing the could be pushed. It is still not at the stage
children, the homeless, as well as people to recognise that these disabled artists
with drug problems. The encounters had first international festival in 2003.
are as important and their issues should Davood Mashayekhi
a profound impact on me. I was working UNDERLINE: Today there is a very active be considered in an equal way. They are
in the public relations department, and theatre scene in Iran. How do you see the helping a lot but it could be better. UNDERLINE: Who are the key figures
the director of the department had relationship between mainstream theatre and which influences are the strongest,
recently staged a theatre performance culture and the disabled theatre festival? The fact that we have a disabled theatre in your view, as regards the development
with disabled people which had caught festival is not because we think it should of disability arts in Iran?
a lot of public attention. So because I FAKHRI: Disabled theatre should be part be separate, because actually the
was interested in art therapy and as I of the whole body of Iranian theatre, but ultimate goal is the other way around. FAKHRI: Ezzatolah Entezami – who is one
was studying theatre, he asked if I would what we are trying to show is how much Rather it is to create the conditions so it of Iran’s most important actors – has been
continue with this work. work we have ahead of us to fulfil this can be possible for them to perform at a great supporter from the beginning.
aim. At the moment, there is a big gap. other major platforms. There is also the Others such as Dr Ghotbeddin Sadeghi
I invited several of my classmates and We want to show that these are talented issue that most venues are not catering and Dr Kamaleddin Shafiee are very
friends, many of whom are now quite artists who should be part of the national for disabled people’s needs, both in influential figures and teachers in Iranian
famous actors and theatre people, to be cultural programmes and have access to terms of audiences and artists. There contemporary theatre and have a valuable
part of this work. The more I got to know

77 78
 relationship [with] the theatre community
and academic sectors. There is also the
very well-known cinema actress Afsaneh
Bayegan, as well as others such as Afsar
Asadi, Golab Adineh and the actors
Ashgar Hemmat, Siavash Tahmoures and
Sohrab Salimi who have been incredibly
supportive. This not only helps promote
the work of disabled artists, but also
becomes a very interesting encounter
for the public who go to a performance
because of a famous actor and then are
exposed to a very different and enriching
experience. When this happens, we have
a stronger case in terms of the budget we
request and the effectiveness of our work
and having more people engaged.
In terms of theatre history in Iran, there
hasn’t been a huge influence or tradition
that has shaped our work but Augusto
Boal has been very inspiring and has
informed many of our activities, especially
with regards to policy for disabled rights,
and also defining a dynamic relationship
between disabled artists and audiences.
UNDERLINE: Davood, what do you feel
are the main challenges being an actor
today in Iran?
DAVOOD MASHAYEKHI: I loved acting
and theatre as a child. As I grew up I
really started to study and to learn, and
improve my techniques. But it has been
very challenging. I would keep trying but
other disabled people were telling me I
79
can’t do it and it wouldn’t work, but time
passed and I continued. I started to work
with non-disabled artists and it was difficult
to understand and communicate with each
other. For me street theatre was really
difficult, including managing the reaction
of audiences who were not used to seeing
a deaf performer. At the same time I was
trying to see as much theatre as possible, to
develop my knowledge. It was at this time,
when everything seemed a challenge, that
Fatemeh came to me and proposed that
we should work together. This collaboration
was the beginning of a new phase, as part
of her theatre association Mehr-Aeen. I
learned a lot about different techniques
and also gained confidence, especially
as we took several international tours,
which have been very inspiring to me.
UNDERLINE: Do you feel that there are
questions that you are trying to express
through your acting?
MASHAYEKHI: The main thing I want to do
is act. There are so few deaf or disabled Poster for Ardabil's 5th Regional Theatre Festival of
Persons with Disabilities, November 2017
artists on the scene, and people don’t have
the confidence to join in. Unless we are a
bigger collective, then we will remain very we can really get connected and interact
narrow and weak and we cannot learn as more. So if there are more people involved
much from each other and develop. The and we have these international tools to
other issue is sign language. I feel we need communicate something new will come out
to learn an international sign language. of it. It’s critical that people from different
The sign language of Iran, or any single countries can talk with each other and
country, is limiting – for example, coming communicate, as currently we are being
to the UK, if we all share a sign language left out.
80
Fire and Fantasy
By Geoff Andrew

K
ian Soltani is clearly going
places. He began attracting
On Home, their new serious international attention
album for Deutsche five years ago, when he took first prize in
Grammophon, Kian Soltani the International Paulo Cello Competition
and Aaron Pilsan combine in Helsinki – just one of his many awards
their youthful talents to date. Since then he has been taken up
to create a spirited and by the likes of Daniel Barenboim – both
sensuous mix of European as principal cello in the maestro’s West-
and Persian songs. Eastern Divan Orchestra, and as a partner
soloist in a tour of Beethoven’s Triple
Concerto (which saw the young Austrian
playing the BBC Proms at just 23) – and
Anne-Sophie Mutter. In 2017, aged 25,
he signed an exclusive contract with
the prestigious Deutsche Grammophon
label. His friend and frequent musical
partner, pianist Aaron Pilsan, appears to
be no less impressive, and even younger.
When Home was released in early 2018,
he was still only 22.

81 82
Kian Soltani. Photo © Juventino Mateo
The album’s title alludes to the fact that both musicians hail from the mountainous
Vorarlberg region of western Austria; hence Soltani’s decision to focus largely on
pieces by Schubert and Schumann, whose music he grew up with. At the same time,
however, there is a reflection of his other cultural roots – he was born to expatriate
Persian musicians – in the inclusion of a cycle entitled Persian Folk Songs by Reza
Vali, a composer who left Iran for the west in the 1970s, and of a short solo piece
written by the cellist himself, entitled ‘Persian Fire Dance’. It may sound an odd mix,
but it works remarkably well, held firmly together by the precise and highly expressive
musicianship of Soltani and Pilsan.
83
The duo’s strengths are immediately apparent in Schubert’s Arpeggione Sonata in A
minor, originally written for piano and arpeggione, a short-lived instrument somewhat
like a bowed guitar, which in its transcription for the cello makes considerable demands
upon the performer. Soltani meets the challenge with seemingly effortless expertise;
his playing is refined and elegant, but always powerful when the occasion requires; his
tone seductive, even velvety at times, yet never cloying. And he is beautifully matched
by Pilsan’s wholly sympathetic accompaniment, likewise supremely dexterous but
never flashy. The Adagio is especially persuasive in its gently melancholic lyricism –
as is the transcription of Schubert’s song ‘Nacht und Träume’ (‘Night and Dreams’),
which follows.
Composed a quarter of a century after Schubert’s sonata, Schumann’s Drei
Fantasiestücke (Fantasy Pieces) and his Adagio and Allegro in A flat major are similarly
well served. The former, originally written for clarinet and piano – a lovely performance
by Jörg Widmann and Dénes Várjon was recently released on Widmann’s Once Upon
a Time… – works very well indeed in its version for cello and piano, with Soltani and
Pilsan revelling in its quicksilver mix of moods, ranging from a delicate opening to a
fiery finale. The Adagio and Allegro, meanwhile – originally composed for horn, though
Schumann again provided versions for viola or cello – is starker in its contrasts, the
first movement wistful, the second robust in its vigour. Once more, the musicians are
enabled to display their considerable skills, but never at the expense of sensitivity
and taste. As with the Schubert, a transcribed song follows: Schumann’s brief ‘Du bist
wie eine Blume’ (‘You Are Like a Flower’); again, cello and piano combine to create a
tender beauty.
It is perhaps the cycle by Reza Vali – here given its world premiere recording (Soltani
invited the composer to provide something especially for the album) – which will excite
the most curiosity. In keeping with the collection’s focus on notions of ‘home’, Vali
drew upon the folk music traditions of his homeland, sometimes quoting directly from
existing materials, sometimes contributing wholly new ‘folk songs’ of his own invention.
Of the seven miniatures (the shortest lasts just under two minutes, the longest runs
to a little over four), the first four deal with the experience of being in love. ‘Longing’
is appropriately unsettled, with a sensuous, impulsive solo for cello in the middle; ‘In
Memory of a Lost Beloved’ has a poignant cello meandering, as if lost or stuck in
time, over a repeated, circular piano motif; ‘The Girl from Shiraz’ features the cello in
extended, entranced meditation over sparse piano accompaniment, only to end with
84
 J

an unexpected drift, as if emerging from a reverie; while the more upbeat ‘Love-Drunk’
is a joyous, stumbling dance, fast, faltering and heady.
The cycle’s three final ‘songs’ have likewise evocative titles. ‘In the Style of an Armenian
Folk Song’ is precisely that, with close, melancholy, singing harmonies. ‘Imaginary Folk

FLASHBACK
Song’, with its restless, changing tempi and occasional glissandi sounds almost as if
it’s being composed on the spot, uncertain of where to turn next until it skips carelessly
and confidently, off towards a coda for piano, suggestive of spring birdsong. And
‘Folk Song from Khorasan’ is a wild, spirited dance, packed with jagged, percussive Abdolhossein Sepanta in India
angularity before it arrives at its surprisingly playful pizzicato ending. In the album’s
notes, Soltani describes Vali as ‘something like the Bartók of Iran’, and it’s in this last Iranian Horror Films of the 1960s
piece, especially, that that comparison of the composer’s blending of indigenous folk
materials with the Western ‘classical’ tradition is most evocative. Yet Vali’s music, a
little more romantic than Bartók’s, might also be likened, perhaps, to that of Kodály, or
even Albéniz or Falla. Nonetheless, the duo’s performances are excellent throughout,
a model of meticulous musical collaboration.
The album closes, as if with an encore, with Soltani’s own composition for solo cello,
‘Persian Fire Dance’. He confesses in the notes that there is no such thing in Persian
music as a fire dance, but the title is fitting, given how the piece builds from long,
slow, droning chords through a stomping, percussive section – almost dervish-like in
its energy – towards a finale of ever-increasing intensity. Quietly brilliant and subtly
nuanced, Soltani’s playing here, as throughout this pleasingly programmed selection,
provides ample proof that he’s a musician to watch.

85 86
Indian Camera, Iranian Heart
By Ranjita Ganesan

E
veryday for some months in
1935, perhaps in the company
A short-lived of fellow hard-working fathers,
collaboration with one Abdolhossein Sepanta dutifully made the
of the pioneers of Indian dull commute from Bandra to Andheri in
cinema helped Iranian Bombay. [1] Only, his offspring was the
director Abdolhossein Iranian talkie.
Sepanta realise the first
Persian language films of The financial capital of India and home
the early sound era. of Hindi cinema was familiar by this time
to Sepanta, a young poet and journalist
from Tehran. He had studied and worked
there for a number of years, taking on
assignments as writer and translator. He
had also by this time scripted and made
three of the earliest Persian language
sound films in collaboration with a studio
in Bombay. The first of these had been
Lor Girl (Dokhtar-e Lor, 1932), a costume
drama featuring gypsies, bandits, and
government officials.

87 88
The poster for Lor Girl (1932)
For the director, those daily train journeys a number of these stories would become recurring bases for cinema too; among
in 1935 marked another departure of them Shirin and Farhad and Leili and Majnun. So the two set off making familiar yet
sorts, as he had just fallen out with exotic films for both the Iranian and Indian markets.
his initial collaborator Ardeshir Irani of
Imperial Films Company, the pioneer of Irani, described by Sepanta as an excellent film editor, offered him technical advice,
Indian talkies. He was travelling instead along with books on script writing and directing. While the Parsi filmmaker directed
to the leafy studios of a rival production Lor Girl, Sepanta wrote and played the lead. Together, they persuaded Roohangiz
house which had agreed to back his next Saminejad, wife of an Iranian staff driver at Imperial Films, to take on the lead role
passion project. Released in both Iran during a time when few women were willing to appear on screen. Her lilting Kermani
and India, Sepanta’s films are fascinating accent, while essaying a Lorestan character, had to be explained in a plot point;
early examples of co-productions made still, it would appeal to audiences and some even mimicked her lines.
in the East. His experiences are also As the first ever Persian talkie, it was intended to stir patriotism among viewers.
indicative of the remarkable difficulties of The writer conceived of a hero, Jafar, a government agent investigating bandits
making cinema in those years. who, it is implied, thrived during the Qajar era. His search leads him to a tea house
Even if cut short, Sepanta’s time with where he meets and falls in love with a dancer, Golnar. She is a heroine ahead of
Imperial Films was significant. He had her time; she thwarts unwanted advances from men, flirts proactively with Jafar,
originally arrived in India in 1927 with a and pulls off daring escapes and rescues. The two set off together to find the chief
desire to understand the Zoroastrian Ardeshir Irani bandit Gholi Khan’s hideout and succeed in killing him. Fearing for their lives, they
history of Iran. He wrote for publications sail to Bombay port. Later, having learnt of a secure and prosperous Iran under
of the Bombay-based Iran League – an Pahlavi rule, they return to their native country. The film’s alternative title Iran of
organisation that aimed to keep ties Yesterday and Iran of Today speaks directly to its underlying idea that the country
alive between Indian Zoroastrians and their old land, Iran. [2] Sepanta’s boss there had advanced under Reza Shah.
introduced him to the prolific producer Irani in 1932, who had just completed work on Lor Girl is the only Sepanta film of which a copy is known to have survived. Its
an Urdu film, Daku ki Ladki. luminous costumes, a two-minute dance sequence, a flashback, several songs, and
‘Seeing the film, plus the friendship between my employer (Dinshah Irani) and Ardeshir gun battles, all contributed to its success. The province of Khuzestan had been
Irani gave me the perfect opportunity to interest Ardeshir in producing a film in [the] recreated in Chembur, then a verdant, far-flung area outside Bombay. [4] When
Persian language. Within a short time he decided to do so,’ Sepanta is quoted as the couple flees to India, there are glimpses of the Gateway of India, Taj Mahal
having written in his memoirs (Issari, 1989, p. 104). Palace Hotel, and Rajabai Clock Tower. [5] Despite its talkie credentials, the use
of intertitles continued – to inform viewers of time lapses and plot details. Following
An ambitious Irani likely did not need much convincing. He had raced against the film’s enthusiastic reception – the applause in Cinema Mayak was so loud one
more established competitors to make the first Indian talkie Alam Ara in 1932, and movie critic felt ‘the floor of the theatre tremble’ – Irani handed over direction to
exporting films to Iran would be another feather in his pheta. [3] Episodes from the Sepanta for the next releases, Ferdowsi (1934) and Shirin and Farhad (1934).
Persian epic poem Shahnameh as well as fantasy tales from the One Thousand
and One Nights, were already part of the public imagination in Bombay, thanks to By now the young writer had hired fellow Iranian Fakhralzaman Jabbar Vaziri, who
adaptations for the popular Parsi theatre. Following the first motion picture versions, worked in an acting school. She was given her break on screen playing Shirin.

89 90
 Notes
To convince Vaziri’s parents to allow
1 Issari’s Cinema in Iran, 1900–1979 contains an
her to take on the role, Sepanta even excerpt from Sepanta’s memoirs, which describes
brought along his mother, wife, and the ‘tiring daily routine’ of taking a train from Bandra
to a place called ‘Andrea’. This reference, possibly
son to the meeting. The partnership misspelt during translation, is most likely to And-
with Irani withered after Sepanta was heri, which as an article in The Times of India (19th
February 1935) corroborates had been the location
disappointed with his share in the of Shree Krishna Films’ film town. The Andheri
returns; he joined other Indian studios neighbourhood remains a centre for film shoots in
Mumbai.
to direct his next costume dramas. [6] 2 The Iran League Quarterly (ILQ), a publication by
Vaziri accompanied the director on the the Iran League, mentions in its list of ‘aims and
humid train commutes to film Black objects’: to obtain and spread among Parsis and
others, by means of literature, authentic information
Eyes (Cheshman Siah, 1936) with Shree regarding the state of affairs in Iran. Sepanta was
Krishna Films. Based on the story of among a small number of Iranian intellectuals writing
for them.
Nader Shah’s invasion of India, this film 3 See H. Mahmood, ‘Ardeshir M. Irani – Father of the
was perhaps Sepanta’s most publicised, Indian Talkie’, in T. M. Ramachandran (ed), 70 years
aimed especially at India’s Parsi viewers of Indian Cinema 1913-1983 (Mumbai: Cinema India-In-
ternational, 1985), pp. 65-67.
and released to coincide with the kadmi 4 The reference in Sepanta’s writing is to a ‘Chamoor’
New Year holiday. [7] outside Bombay, the journey to which involved cross-
ing rivers and jungles. This is most likely about mod-
But the director’s most positive ern Chembur which had been part of the Trombay
island earlier, until being reclaimed and eventually
experience was in Bengal, telling the made a part of Bombay in the 1940s. Parts of that
love story Leili and Majnun (1937) with Abdolhossein Sepanta and Roohangiz Saminejad in neighbourhood, which later housed Raj Kapoor’s RK
Films, still have forest cover.
the East India Film Company, which Lor Girl (1932) 5 Sepanta even wrote a poem, ‘The Tower of Fame’,
had access to advanced cameras and about this structure located in Mumbai University’s
sound equipment. Through detailed meetings with the studio, he learnt about pre- unfortunate that despite being released Fort campus, for it had been the scene of a tragic
crime where two Parsi women jumped from the
production. Vaziri co-starred in this film too, which was reported by The Times of to much popularity in both Iran and India, tower to save themselves from an assailant. The
India as having an ‘Oriental atmosphere’ and being ‘probably the best Persian talkie only one of the five Sepanta films remains poem is included in an anthology circulated by the
Iran League in 1933.
made in India or Iran’. On returning to Iran soon thereafter, Sepanta’s filmmaking available for viewing. While Irani’s 6 The same excerpt from Issari’s book quotes Sepan-
hopes suffered as distributors tried to buy the films cheaply, and government support landmark Alam Ara appears to be lost ta: ‘Dokhtar-e Lor, which made a lot of money for the
for cinema was not forthcoming. Instead, he resumed journalism and later made forever, Lor Girl preserves the legacy of (Imperial Film) company, caused me only financial
losses.’
amateur films with an 8mm camera. two important artists and is a thing to be 7 Both The Times of India and Bombay Chronicle
cherished. advertised special shows of the film for Kadmi
Essentially a man of letters, Sepanta had dabbled in various arts including theatre in Khordadsal, which is celebrated by those Parsi-Iranis
his youth. In Bombay, he had quickly made a mark for himself, finding mention in at following the old calendar, one of three calendars
used in the community.
least one newspaper as an ‘indefatigable’ translator. A page from his script for Lor 8 See H. Shoai, Namavaran-e Sinema dar Iran, vol. 1,
Girl reveals a meticulous cursive hand and neat illustrations. [8] The story of his efforts Abdolhossein Sepanta (Tehran: Herminco, 1976).
between 1931 and 1937 is also the story of two cultures enriching one another. It is

91 92
Shade of a Monster
By Ramin S Khanjani
The horror genre has
been overlooked in the
history of Iranian film. But
as two productions from
the 1960s show, anything
approaching a ‘Persian
Hammer’ franchise was
as good as dead from the
beginning.
93
U
nlike the so-called ‘art cinema’ of
Iran, which has found much favour
internationally over the years,
Iranian horror is a little known entity. This
is not simply a result of selectivity on the
part of programmers. The sub-genre has
rarely been the subject of serious scrutiny,
even by local scholars, most likely owing
to the low number of titles that would
qualify, their typically dreadful aesthetic
quality and even their questionable
affinity with the broader genre.
Two early attempts, which feature two
iconic figures of the genre, offer an
intriguing entry point. ‌Both are films
made in the mid-1960s, shortly after
the decline of another local cycle of
genre films – crime thrillers – and almost
contemporaneous with a wave of horror
pictures made by the British company
Hammer Film Productions. [1]
94
A newspaper advertisement for
The Vampire Woman (1967)
Helmed by Hamid Mojtahedi (who trained as a filmmaker in the UK), The Mummy (1966)
transposes the classic Egyptian narrative to Iran. To justify this improbability, the film
contrives a love affair between an Egyptian mercenary and an Iranian noblewoman.
But this entire back story is imparted to the viewer through the film’s dialogue. No
attempt – even by the low standards of the quasi-historical pictures made by Pars
Film – is made to show this visually. [2] But as a counter to such naïve ‘Iranisation’,
the archaeologist who has unearthed the mummy is simply called “professor” and his
daughter (the love interest of his assistant) has a western name, Margaret.
The professor is soon found dead, apparently terror-stricken by a mysterious being,
and the mummy’s severed hand, usually kept in a separate box in the professor’s
home, has been placed back in its coffin. Meanwhile the professor’s assistant,
Khosrow, is revealed to have been colluding with an antique dealer (Haroon), which
adds a (potential) twist to his relationship with Margaret. What becomes clear is that
the love story forms the fulcrum of the narrative movement.
A horror story can of course accommodate such a parallel love story, but Mojtahedi’s
loose riff on this tradition involves little attempt to establish a link between the two
strands. Worse yet, no effort is made to connect the romance element of the
preposterous back story with Margaret’s relationship, adding to the irrelevance of the
former. The film, then, resembles a melodrama within the filmfarsi tradition, with a pinch
of imported horror.
Not much of the film is given over to horror and the uncanny. In comparison, a lengthy
dance performance – an essential ingredient of filmfarsi – takes up a good amount
of screen time. As if this tedious stretch is not enough, a song performance in Greek
follows; a moment echoing the horror element of the film, which remains inconsequential
and foreign to its essence.
The film, then, is indebted to the conventions of Iranian melodrama more than those
of horror. This fact is belied by the antagonist of the film, an antique dealer who, it
turns out, runs a cabaret too! Posing a threat to the young couple, he comes closer
to the evil cabaret owner/pimp of pre-revolutionary Iranian melodrama, a character
who will not let the repentant dancer/whore sever her ties to the past with ease. In a
reversal of roles, here it is the man (Khosrow) who is preoccupied by his dark past,
which sees him entangled with the cabaret owner in ways that have more to do with
avarice than lust.
95
The character of Khosrow, however, lacks conviction and comes off as somewhat
insipid. His internal conflict is inadequately depicted, as is his transformation. During
his verbal confrontation with Haroon, parts of the dialogue are muted; a gimmick by
which the filmmaker shirks the dramatisation of the character’s change of heart. The
prelude to this conversation is a failed attempt by a cabaret singer, provoked by
Haroon, to seduce Khosrow. Clearly meant to confirm Khosrow’s faithfulness, despite
having been involved in a web of deceit, the scene is so perfunctorily organised that it
does little service to character development.
All mysterious deaths shown only after the fact, or briefly, so it is only at the end that the
monster is seen in motion. Its gait gives away its true, human nature. Captured by the
police in the nick of time, the monster is revealed to be Haroon, who has been using the
elaborate disguise to get his hands on the treasured mummy. This fatuous dénouement
seems to be intended to redeem Khosrow – who has already broken faith with the evil
man – and place all the blame on the man in masquerade. At the same time, this ending
negates the supernatural aspect, bringing the narrative down to earth and anchoring
everything to what is supposed to be ‘reality’.
Judging by the names involved, The Vampire Woman (1967) sounds as if it was a
project with higher aspirations. Mostafa Oskooyi, the writer and director, was well
respected on the theatre scene. [3] A desire to produce a culturally-informed film can
be sensed, but it is thwarted by a grievous misunderstanding, which led to a failure no
less spectacular than Mojtahedi’s.
Oskooyi addresses the foreign origins of the demonic character and tries to align it
with local superstitions by way of literary citation: Jahan, a young dashing man with
a managerial position visits his friend Bahram in the old city of Neyshaboor. Besotted
with the gardener’s daughter, Goli, Jahan is cautioned by his friend, who refers to
her rumoured connection to djinns. Jahan suggests to his friend flippantly that she
might belong to another supernatural order, that of blood-sucking monsters. Curiously
enough, while enlightening his friend on the subject of vampires, Jahan refers to The
Count of Monte Cristo and not Bram Stoker’s Dracula, as one would expect. This not
only points to the dominance of French culture among the educated class at that time,
it also suggests the film’s tenuous relation to the horror genre. [4]
A nocturnal assignation is soon arranged between Jahan and Goli, where else but
at the mausoleum of Omar Khayyam (a major tourist attraction of Neyshaboor, the
96
reconstruction of which had been completed three years earlier). An apparition of the
poet materialises before Jahan’s eyes, reciting quatrains and joined by female dancers.
These visions transform the potentially fear-inspiring setting into one of romance.
As the atmosphere of horror is diminished during this nightly scene, the essence of the
film becomes apparent. Following a fling with Goli, Jahan sets off for Tehran, pledging to
return. But the change of location sets into relief his philandering disposition. Forgetting
all about the village girl, he takes a fancy to the enchanting bride of his newlywed
employer. The premise becomes strikingly familiar: a cad from the city stealing the
rural girl’s heart and so-called ‘honour’ – a stock narrative of Iranian films popularised
by one of its earliest examples, Ashamed (Sharmsar, Esmail Kooshan 1950).
The vampire character, however, is summoned back by way of vengeance. Before
Jahan gets a chance to lay his hands on the bride, Bahram writes an accusatory letter
to him, which contains news of Goli’s death, following her admission of the love affair.
The letter mentions bite marks on Goli’s neck and shortly after her ghost appears,
warning Jahan that she will kill whomever he becomes infatuated with. News of the
disappearance of the bride then emerges and the turn of events sees Jahan arrested The Vampire Woman (1967), directed by Mostafa Oskooyi
by the police as a suspect. In his cell, he finds himself face to face with Goli and the
bride, who advance towards him with bared fangs, causing him to pass out. Then the to deflate and relegate them to the point of frippery, so as not to distract from the core
curtain is lifted and once again the supernatural creature is revealed to be an illusion. melodrama. Building on the hype of foreign horror films, the fantasy elements of these
The whole affair has been contrived by Bahram, to beat his friend at his own game, in Iranian films are ultimately written off, rather than translated effectively and explored for
order to rein in his lust and ensure his return to Goli. their potential. For a national cinema which started off in a mode of introspection, even
at its most rudimentary level, the immersive experience essential to spine-tingling horror
In addition to its phony affiliation with horror, The Vampire Woman reveals a would appear to be a tall order. [6]
misunderstanding about art films, equated here with showcasing other art forms. [5] As
with Mojtahedi’s film, there are musical numbers which are redundant – no matter that Notes:
the featured music and dance belong to a different class. A protracted wedding scene 1 The vampire and the mummy were both title characters of Hammer films, which had also reached Iranian theatres.
records the performance of master of folk music, Ismail Sattarzadeh, that seems in
2 Probably the most prolific Iranian film company of the pre-revolutionary period.
keeping with the agenda of the Ministry of Arts and Culture. A similar attitude governs
the scene at Khayyam’s tomb where the film seems to have taken leave of its narrative 3 Trained in the Soviet Union, Oskooyi is often credited with introducing Stanislavski’s system of actor prepara-
tion into Iranian theatre.
for the sake of capturing the performance of the national ballet dancers (which was 4 The original title of the film Vampir, Zan-e Khoon-asham, complete with tautology, is another sign. The first
even visually highlighted in the film’s advertising campaign). word is simply the French equivalent of vampire. Throughout the film the vampire is referred to by its French
equivalent and not the Farsi word (‘Khoon-asham’; literally meaning blood-drinker).
Coming from two different areas of Iranian cinema, The Mummy and The Vampire Woman 5 Even a director like Ali Hatami, with a reputation for a personal style shaped by traditional art forms, made a
share an inability to break free from the long-standing traditions of popular Iranian cinema. similar error in his early attempts at filmmaking.

Instead of emphasising the central motifs of the genre, the filmmakers have a tendency 6 The second Iranian feature film ever made, Haji Agha, the Movie Actor (1933) directly addresses the practice
of filmmaking.

97 98
This issue’s contributors:
Nasim Ahmadpour is a stage director and stage and screen writer.
Geoff Andrew is a critic, programmer and lecturer who writes on film, music and the other arts
at geoffandrew.com.
Abbas Baharloo is film historian and author of more than 30 books, including the 4-volume
definitive filmography of Iranian cinema. He is from Abadan.
Valerie Behiery is a Canadian arts writer whose research focuses on the visual culture of
the Middle East. Having taught in Canada, Turkey and Saudi Arabia, she now serves as a
contemporary Middle Eastern art and Islamic art consultant at the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts.
Rostam Donyabakhsh lives in Tehran and writes about music and theatre.
Rasmus Christian Elling is an associate professor at the department for Cross-Cultural and
Regional Studies, University of Copenhagen, where he teaches Middle East Studies as well
as Global Urban Studies. His work focuses on the cultural, social and political life (and,
occasionally, death) of cities – and the historical and ethnographic focus of his work is on
modern Iran in particular.
Rojia Forouhar is an architect and educator based in Tehran. She is interested in
interdisciplinary projects and is currently working on a new book, Invisible Tehran[s].
Ranjita Ganesan is a feature writer and a postgraduate student of Iranian Studies at SOAS.
Philip Grant is an anthropologist, sociologist, Iranophile, translator, Honorary Fellow of the
University of Edinburgh, and co-author of Chains of Finance (OUP, 2017).
Ramin S Khanjani obtained his Master’s degree in Film Studies from Carleton University,
Ottawa. His writings have previously appeared in the Iranian publications, Film Monthly and
Film International. He is the author of Animating Eroded Landscapes: The Cinema of Ali
Hatami (2014).
Iante Roach is an actress and Persianist who lives in London.
Yusef Sayed is a writer based in the UK. He has contributed essays on film, music and
literature to The Wire, Sight & Sound, The Notebook and numerous other publications.
James Tyson is a theatre-maker and programmer. He is currently a Theatre & Dance Programme
Manager for the British Council facilitating projects for artistic exchange and co-creation.
Shahab Vaezzadeh is a freelance translator, interpreter, and copy editor.
Katayoun Youssefi is an architect and translator.
100
 ISSN 2631- 6501
Autumn 2018
The Abadan Issue

Underline | Issue No. 4 | Autumn 2018

This magazine is also available in a Persian edition and can be

downloaded from the Underline website:
https://iran.britishcouncil.org/Underline