French film critic turned filmmaker Jacques Rivette once said that “every film is a documentary of its own creation.” In the case of the Iranian film “Bidad,” or “Protest,” it is a work both about a young woman named Seti (Sarvin Zabetian) who is trying to sing and about her creator, Soheil Beiraghi, as he tries to hold on to his own voice when the world around him would rather silence him.
Written, directed, produced, and co-edited by Beiraghi, who shared that his karaoke song is Amy Winehouse’s “Back to Black,” the film premiered as part of the 59th Karlovy Vary International Film Festival this week. However, its inclusion was kept secret by organizers until shortly before the festival in order to “protect the safety of the film delegation” while they traveled out of the country due to fears of retaliation over its representation from the Iranian government.
Speaking about the film through an interpreter, Beiraghi discussed the importance of art, its connection to the character, and government repression.
I’ve talked to many filmmakers, and many of them told me that every film is a miracle—that the amount of work that goes into getting a film off the ground can seem impossible. What was the first day of this production like for you, as not only the creative mind but also the film’s producer?
It actually took a few months to get the project started because I waited for the people I wanted to join. I also wanted those working on the film to genuinely want to work on a project like this. That took some time. Projects like this, it’s not about finding a co-worker, but a co-fighter. It’s more than just work; it’s a struggle.
Why are you fighting?
What we’re fighting for is freedom. The freedom of a human being, a woman, to be able to sing, which seems very basic, very fundamental. But not all basic and fundamental things are easy to achieve. It was a struggle to gain this fundamental right. When someone sings, they’re saying something, but there’s a person underneath. When you take away the singing, the voice, then they can’t express themselves. That person isn’t coming out. It’s a struggle to take that person out.
Fazendo filmes sua versão do canto? Você se vê nesse personagem e como ela está se esforçando para se expressar?
Sim, exatamente. É interessante que tudo o que aconteceu no filme, passo a passo, aconteceu comigo na vida real e também em tempo real. Fiz três filmes sob a aprovação do governo, assim como Seti no filme, onde ela tenta cantar legalmente e passar pelo processo legal. Então eu decidi fazer um filme sem a aprovação, assim como Seti quando ela decide cantar livremente sem todos os processos que precisam ser passados. Ela cantou sozinha, apenas ela mesma, e eu terminei um filme sozinho também. Ela brigou e eu brigou com o sistema. Ela se machucou em uma guerra injusta e estou me machucando em uma guerra injusta. Com o amor que recebeu, ela se recuperou e se viu novamente. É o mesmo para mim. Estou recebendo muito amor e apreço.
Todo esse processo me fez uma pessoa mais forte e eu realmente me encontrei. Eu me encontrei porque, pela primeira vez, fiz um filme que era tão claro quanto as coisas poderiam ser. Tudo era tão direto e claro quanto a história poderia ser contada. Para mim, é gratificante.
No meio do filme, depois que Seti encontrou sua voz e continua essa luta, ela paga um custo pesado por sua arte. Como você, em nível pessoal, lida com o potencial de sua luta, custando muito?
São os sistemas totalitários que fazem isso. Esse é o truque deles. O que eles fazem é que eles o tornam fraco, eles fazem você perder tudo. Um por um, não resta mais nada e você está sozinho. É isso que eles fazem, eles tentam tirar. Eles afastam sua confiança, eles levam tudo e você não é capaz de se apresentar. Você precisa ter muito cuidado para não deixá -los ter sucesso. Você não deve deixar esse controle mental afetá -lo porque você perde sua sanidade. Se não resta mais nada da sua sanidade, não há muito que você possa fazer.
Durante todo esse processo de ser confiscado, ser questionado, meus materiais tirados, todas essas coisas que aconteceram, a única coisa que me manteve sã e me permitiu manter minha integridade é a crença de que este é um processo de perder minha pele e ganhar um novo e endurecer. É uma guerra muito injusta lutar. Você é apenas uma pessoa contra um sistema, por isso é realmente fácil para eles tirar tudo com um golpe de caneta. Você tem que usar essa tristeza para criar algo.
When Seti meets a charismatic stranger early on, his energy changes the film’s dynamic and helps channel his sadness. Is the film about finding community as a way to fight back?
When you’re going through hardships like this, no one really wants to be in your shoes. They turn their backs on you and walk away, or they do their best to show as much compassion as possible. The character you mentioned—hey, you—is one of those last people. He really tries because he’s lost everything and doesn’t feel he has anything left to offer. He’s gone, and everything’s burned. It’s done for him. But he shows as much compassion, as much love as possible to protect her, to be there for her. That’s the story of these people.
You mentioned the idea of shedding your skin, which made me think of the Caterpillar Seti. Was that something you always had as a central visual motif?
Sometimes your subconscious overrides you, in a way. Sometimes you write something and then it affects what will happen. You write about a cocoon that will become a butterfly someday, just as the same thing is happening to you.
I know you want to go back to Iran and make more films. What will go through your mind when you get home?
I’ve experienced a level of fear that I don’t think anything can overcome. Imagine it’s 9 a.m., you’re in your office, editing your film, just you and your assistant. You’re editing the product of two years of thought, shooting, and work. A gentleman in a very nice suit tells you he has an interview with me. He shows up and seems very nice. You don’t suspect a thing. You open the door—this small door—and nine people force their way into your office.
When you were upstairs editing your film, you never imagined nine people would break into your office just because you made a film about a girl singing. Imagine this: they’re going through every nook and cranny. Every closet, every file cabinet, even under the bathrooms. They’re looking for this film you’re editing. They took all your phones, your computers, all your hard drives, and the material with the film on them. They took it all with them, and there was a GoPro recording everything in this confined space. When you lose everything and have to go to jail, where you’re in a room full of people who are probably there for the same reason as you, when you experience a break-in as massive as this, there’s nothing worse that can happen.
How do you find the courage to still make films?
That’s why I’m alive. There’s nothing else I want to do.
