“One is not born a woman, but becomes one.” Nearly eighty years after this statement by Simone de Beauvoir, it’s still true that womanhood is not a biological or natural given, but a product of upbringing, culture, and social structures. In Iran, hijab constitutes a central part of this patriarchal structure — an order in which women are not merely veiled, but defined through the hijab. The veil functions as a mythic halo that wraps around the female body, concealing it from view while simultaneously subjecting it to control — reducing the woman from a subject to an object, assigning her the status of a commodity imbued with cultural value.
Iranian cinema plays a dual role in representing and reinforcing the hijab. On one hand, due to official laws, women are invariably depicted wearing the veil — even in private settings. This leads to the hijab becoming normalized and conventionalized in the viewer’s imagination. For the Iranian spectator, it is as if the woman on screen is defined through her mythical halo. On the other hand, this enforced representation has evolved into a visual, cultural, and aesthetic code: a system that dictates how the female body is seen and perceived within the cinematic frame. Over time, these codes have shaped the visual language of Iranian films, determining to a significant extent what is permissible on screen, and what must be erased, hidden, or replaced.
However, throughout the history of Iranian cinema, perceptive filmmakers have sought to challenge the dominant masculine structure that governs visual language. “Fireworks Wednesday,” directed by Asghar Farhadi, is a clear example of how compulsory hijab influences the representation of women on screen. Farhadi, fully aware of the restrictions imposed by censorship and the male visual order, constructs a narrative that directly engages with these constraints.
From the very beginning, the female character shouts, protests, and accuses her husband. Yet the controlled gaze of the camera — and, by extension, the viewer’s mind — operates in such a way that the man appears to be in the right until the very end. The woman, lacking the visual means to become a full subject, is not easily believed. Only when the man’s infidelity is finally revealed does the viewer awaken, as if confronted with their own unconscious complicity.
In this sense, the film is not merely shaped by the limitations of hijab; it transforms those very limitations into dramatic elements. The camera, much like the social structure it reflects, does not see or trust the woman.
The uprising under the banner of Woman, Life, Freedom fundamentally questioned this “symbolic order” for the first time. Out of this movement — not only in the streets but also in art and cinema — a pressing question emerged: Can Iranian cinema represent women as subjects and agents in their own right?
In recent years, some filmmakers have wrestled with these questions. In his latest film, “It Was Just an Accident,” Jafar Panahi, for the first time, places women on screen without the mandatory hijab. Similarly, Mohammad Rasoulof does so in “The Seed of the Sacred Fig.” Yet in both films, the presence or absence of the veil makes little difference — because the woman is still not a subject. She remains under the control and subjugation of a male-dominated order.
The central issue is not the physical veil on the woman within the frame, but the internalized veil within the filmmaker’s gaze. In these male-authored narratives, women are either traditional homemakers or warriors clad in masculine heroism — two roles that are equally fetishized. In both cases, women behave in ways that reflect male fantasies.
Take, for example, the character of Wonder Woman in blockbuster cinema. Rather than affirming the essence of womanhood — as a human being, not as an object of the male gaze — she gravitates toward the aesthetic of BDSM, one of the many expressions of male fetishism.
In contrast to the Cannes-acclaimed films by Rasoulof and Panahi, “The Witness,” directed by Nader Saei-Var and co-written by Panahi, offers a rare example of a film that genuinely grants identity to women. The film portrays the transformation of women who, in the aftermath of a liberation movement, begin to reclaim their humanity and agency from a male-dominated world. The female protagonist is neither a self-sacrificing mother nor a fearless warrior. Instead, she is hesitant, vulnerable, yet ultimately decisive and agentive.
Speaking to IndieWire, Saei-Var said, “It’s only natural that the public culture of a society, like a river, will eventually find its way and keep flowing. There may be dams built to block it temporarily, but over time, cracks begin to form, and water starts enlarging those cracks until the dam collapses. This has been the historical experience of all peoples. The seepage began nearly twenty years ago, and now we’ve entered a phase where movement is increasingly possible. Any film that opposes the dictated order and aligns with lived reality contributes to this current. From this perspective, Iran’s dissenting cinema seems even slower than the cultural transformations already unfolding within society. Once we pass this stage, it’s unlikely that audiences will continue to accept the old forms and themes in cinema.”
Yet a significant portion of Iranian cinema continues to operate within the boundaries of official censorship and the visual language dictated by the Islamic Republic. Many films — even those in the realist genre — fail to present an authentic depiction of everyday life. Women appear with headscarves in bed, in the bathroom, and fully covered in the privacy of their own homes. These images, however skillfully crafted, ultimately promote a mythical and imaginary world: one in which the prevailing order functions seamlessly and without disruption.
On the other hand, some filmmakers working within the framework of officially sanctioned cinema have recently begun to show signs of a shifting perspective. The female characters in their films have become more complex, more active, and less stereotypical. However, these changes largely remain at the level of narrative, not visual structure. The image of an unveiled woman — as a reflection of social reality — still has no place in the official space of Iranian cinema.
One example is “Nightwalker” by Farzad Motamen, in which a woman (though still under compulsory covering) seeks to break free from traditional structures. At times, filmmakers explore alternative strategies to escape the false representations of women. In past decades, Abbas Kiarostami, for instance, often omitted women from his narratives altogether, or focused on rural women who wear the veil naturally and by choice. Similarly, Asghar Farhadi now prefers to shoot his recent films outside Iran. Nader Saei-Var is also preparing to make his next film abroad.
“All in all, the challenges of making a film outside the country have, at least for me, been far less than producing one inside Iran — because the way I used to work (underground), I had to give up many of my ideas or execute them in a compromised and incomplete way due to restrictions. It feels like now, for the first time, I am truly making a film in the full sense of the word,” Saei-Var said.
Some filmmakers have emphasized that any genuine depiction of hijab or the female body is immediately met with removal during the licensing or distribution stages, often accompanied by legal punishment. Behtash Sanaeeha and Maryam Moghaddam, for instance, were sentenced to a 26-month suspended prison term, a monetary fine, and the confiscation of filming equipment for making the film “My Favorite Cake.” A similar fate befell Ali Ahmadzadeh, whose film “Critical Zone” led to serious restrictions, prompting him to leave Iran — at least temporarily.
But does cinema truly matter so much that the law responds with such severity? The answer is not merely about hijab itself. Rather, films that portray women without the compulsory veil disrupt the symbolic, legal-religious order. This apparatus is not purely political — it is also a form of aesthetic control: the enforcement of hijab on screen serves as the imposition of a visual regime.
Iranian cinema is now crossing a historical threshold. The issue of hijab is no longer just an external or governmental concern; it is entangled with the image itself, with form, and with narrative structure. In this context, a filmmaker who wishes to speak about women must also speak of their bodies, their points of view, and their voices. Though this path is difficult and costly, it is the only inevitable route toward restoring Iranian cinema to reality — and to the truth of freedom.