Film critic
Iran’s Fajr Film Festival went ahead this year as planned. But it did so in a country still reeling from bloodshed, and the red carpets beneath its guests carried a symbolic weight that many in the film community found difficult to ignore.
Some chose not to attend. Others did, and the result was a festival that felt unusually detached from the public mood—less a national cultural event than a carefully managed display of continuity.
Now in its 44th year, the festival took place less than forty days after tens of thousands of protesters were killed during the government’s crackdown. Under those circumstances, the decision to proceed on schedule was bound to draw scrutiny.
The nature of the festival itself has evolved over time, with an increasing share of films produced by state institutions or affiliated organizations. This year, too, such bodies as municipal authorities and even the judiciary appeared among the producers.
This has contributed to a growing perception, particularly among independent filmmakers, that the festival increasingly reflects official priorities rather than the diversity of Iranian cinema.
That perception was reinforced by a number of high-profile absences. Some directors and actors announced they would not attend.
The actor Elnaz Shakerdoost, one of Iran’s most recognizable performers, publicly questioned the timing of the festival and announced she would step away from acting. “Which festival? Which celebration?” she wrote. “I will not attend any celebration, nor will I ever again play a role in this land that smells of blood.”
Other films were screened without their directors or cast present. In several cases, producers appeared alone at press conferences. The director Soroush Sehat and the cast of his widely discussed film declined to attend altogether, leading organizers to cancel its press session.
These absences altered the character of the festival’s public discussions. Press conferences often featured only those filmmakers who had chosen to participate, some of whom criticized colleagues who had stayed away.
Mohammad Hossein Mahdavian, a director known for films focusing on Iran’s security institutions, described actors who declined to attend as “cowards.”
Many film critics and journalists opted not to cover the event. Even Film Emrooz, a long-established cinema magazine known for its cautious editorial line, did not publish its customary festival issue.
Public turnout appeared subdued as well. Organizers sought to maintain the appearance of normal activity, but attendance remained visibly lower than in previous years.
The closing ceremony reflected similar tensions. Several winners did not appear to accept their Simorgh awards. President Massoud Pezeshkian attended and praised those who had participated, signaling the government’s continued investment in the festival’s symbolic importance.
One award recipient attempted to acknowledge the broader context, alluding to the recent violence while accepting his prize. His remarks, however cautiously phrased, underscored the gap between the official narrative of continuity and the unresolved trauma still shaping public life.
Iran’s film industry has long occupied a complex position—both an instrument of national identity and a space for independent artistic expression. This year’s festival highlighted how difficult it has become to sustain that balance.
