Iranian Cinema

Acquaintance with cinema and the first steps of filming and filmmaking in Iran

1277 to ca. 1285 AS / 1899 to ca. 1907 AD
(second version)

SChahryar Adlehahryar Adle (1944-2015)
to Farrokh Gaffari and Jamal Omid

The initial version of this article, written on the occasion of the commemoration of the hundredth anniversary of Iranian cinema, was distributed during the opening ceremony of the exhibition Antecedents and Beginnings of Iranian Cinema, held on the evening of September 17th 2000 in the Chadorkhaneh of the Golestan Palace. It was published as a batch of pamphlets that was soon expired, making a reprint necessary. Taking advantage of this opportunity, I began preparing a refreshed version in which typographic mistakes and some errors in the orientation of some illustrations were corrected, and I also added newly discovered facts. The partial identification of the first Iranian film, shot a hundred years ago by Ebrahim ‘Akkas-bashi at the Battle of Flowers in Ostend, is the most notable among these discoveries and it is introduced here together with a new documented description and history of the first filmed scene, shot in the same Belgian port. As all the films of the Qajar period identified to the present (late autumn 1379 / 2000) at the Golestan Palace are now being copied and studied, our knowledge of this cinema has greatly progressed and it is repeatedly undergoing change. I hope that the future versions of this text will keep the amateurs of history and cinema informed of any other changes brought about by new discoveries.
1277 AS / 1899 AD is the year in which Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah first issues an order concerning the acquisition of a cinema camera and projector, and 1285 AS / 1907 AD is that of his death. Thereafter, in the turbulent Constitutional Period and after it, several changes, including a growing number of theaters and cinema halls, occur in the evolution of Iranian cinema a thorough study of which requires a different entry.

Iranian cinema turned one hundred and Iranian photography reached the age of 158. No one remembered to celebrate the 150th anniversary of photography, but fortunately the centenary of Iranian cinema is being commemorated by the Iranian Cultural Heritage Organization and the Golestan Palace—custodian of the treasury of early Iranian films—, alongside the Museum of Cinema, the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance, and other organizations and cinema lovers A multitude of cinema lovers contributed to the realization of this commemoration, but the following institutions and organizations must at least be mentioned by name; the cinema affairs and the artistic affairs vice-directorates of the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance, Farabi Cinema Foundation, the Iranian National Film House, the Cinema House, Tehran Museum of Contemporary Art, the social vice-directorate of the Municipality of Tehran, the Surah Cinema Development Foundation, Visual Media Co., Film monthly…. Today’s Iranian cinema is famous across the planet, but in the past photography enjoyed a more elevated status and could appear among the best in the world during the reign of Nasser-ed-Din Shah. Today the Album House of the Golestan Palace, the major part of which dates back to that period, houses a collection whose sole rival in terms of uniformity and age is perhaps the material preserved in the Royal British Collection. The author long wondered why only three years separated the introduction of daguerreotype photography in Paris in 1839 / 1254 AH / 1218 AS from the first photography made in Iran in mid December 1842 / mid Ziqa‘deh 1258 / late Azar (Qows) 1221 by Nikolai Pavlov Upon Mohammad Shah Qajar’s request, the Russian and British governments sent daguerreotype apparatus to Iran. The Russian set, a present of the Czar, arrived earlier. Nikolai Pavlov, the young diplomat trained for the purpose, brought it to Tehran and took the first photograph recorded in Iranian history in presence of Mohammad Shah on the date mentioned. No mention of these yet unknown events is made either in the extensive article on the beginnings of photography in Iran which I wrote with the assistance of Yahya Zoka’, or in other articles on the subject, but I have amply delved into the matter in an article under preparation. For this article, see Adle Ch., “Notes et documents sur la photographie iranienne et son histoire; I. Les premiers daguerréotypistes, c. 1844-1845 / 1260-1270”, in the list of sources and references at the end of this article., whereas half a century later, according to recently discovered documents, it was five years after the introduction of the cinema in Paris in 1895 / 1274 AS that the first film was shot in an Iranian environment—in Europe at that. This delay can be attributed to the weakness of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s rule, to his natural nonchalance, and to the people’s indifference and lack of sense of responsibility. Undoubtedly, had Nasser-ed-Din Shah not been assassinated in 1313 / 1896 / 1274, cinema film and cameras would have reached Tehran in the same year, causing this art to grow faster from the very beginning, but this was not to be. As concerns the creation date of the first Iranian film, the commendable classification of the Album House of the Golestan Palace, begun some three or four years ago, on one hand, and the recently begun review of the documents preserved at the Golestan Palace on the other, have deeply changed our knowledge about the beginnings of this art in Iran. The date of the arrival of the first cinema cameras to Iran has been pushed back, the early Iranian cinema has acquired a new visage, and its evolution has adopted a new path. Of course, access to some of the films preserved at the Golestan Palace, which will be mentioned, and more importantly, the understanding, even if limited, of the importance of these films, were gained some eighteen years ago within a project that is now coming to fruition, but slow progress was made until recently. In this brief article, hastily prepared in view of the commemoration of the centenary of Iranian cinema, two points are emphasized: the arrival of the first cinema equipment to Iran, and; the creation of what can be considered the first collection of films, particularly “cinema films”, in Iran.

One
The first cinema spectator and the first cinema theater in Iran.Arrival of the first cinema cameras and projectors.
1. The first Iranian cinema spectator (1314 AS / 1897 AD / 1276 AS) and the first Cinématographe theater in Iran: Ramazan 1321 / 21 November to 20 December 1903 / 30 Aban to Azar 1282.

As such eminent scholars as Farrokh Ghaffari and Jamal Omid have shown in the past, an Iranian’s initial acquaintance with the cinema is first mentioned in Ebrahim Sahhafbashi’s memoirs.
Ebrahim Sahhafbashi (Mohajer) Tehrani was born around 1237 AS / AD 1858 and died in 1300 / 1921 or 1301 / 1922, at the age of 63, in Mashhad His full name has been copied from a note of his reproduced below his portrait in Name-ye Vatan, and his birth and death dates are approximations provided by his son, Abolqassem Reza’i. See text below and the list of sources at the end of the article.. He was fascinated with new technologies and inventions and his trade of eastern Asian goods took him several times across the world. He was a liberal-minded modernist and rather nonconformist in his clothing. Undoubtedly, following the first cinematographic representation in Paris in 1895, and soon after that in London, Iranians living in Europe at the close of the nineteenth century were able to see various films, but since no writings from them have remained—or come to light—, the first spectator (as he is called today) must be considered to have been Ebrahim Sahhafbashi, in London, seventeen months after the first public representation in Paris. On Friday 25 Zelhajjeh 1314 AH, he writes in his memoirs:
“Yesterday, at sunset [Thursday 24 Zelhajjeh 1314 / Wednesday As it appears, a one-day discrepancy occasionally occurs in converting dates from the lunar calendar to the solar calendar and vice versa, which does not necessarily indicate an error. Nonetheless, texts written about the history of the cinema in Iran and abroad contain numerous errors regarding their notation of dates in the lunar and solar Hegira calendars and the conversion of these into the Christian calendar, on which we shall not elaborate in this brief article. Here, on the contrary, all the dates are given with a precision that may appear tedious to the ordinary reader. Several mistakes I had made in the first version have also been corrected. 26 May 1897 / 5 Khordad 1276], I took a walk in the public park… [In the evening] I went to the Palace Theater. After song and dance performances by ladies [… and a show of acrobatics, etc., I saw] a recently invented electric device by which movements are reproduced exactly as they occur. For example, it shows the American waterfalls just as they are, it recreates the motion of marching soldiers and that of a train running at full speed. This is an American invention. Here all theaters close one hour before midnight.” Travel account of Sahhafbashi, pp. 39-40.

Sahhafbashi was mistaken as to the cinema’s country of origin, perhaps because the film he saw was American, as his reference to the Niagara Falls seems to indicate. There is no reason to believe that Sahhafbashi’s interest in cinema, during his first encounter with it, went beyond that of a mere spectator, but it is also probable that the thought of taking this invention to Iran crossed his mind, although this is never mentioned in his writings.
According to sources known to the present, he was the first person to create a public cinema theater in 1321 AH / AD 1903 / 1282 AS, eight years after the invention and public appearance of the cinema in France, six years after Sahhafbashi’s seeing the cinema in London, and three years after the arrival of cinema equipment to the Iranian court.
Sahhafbashi perhaps held glass plate shows (akin to present-day slide shows) before making his career in the cinema. These were performed with the lanterne magique, known as cheraq-e sehri in Iran. In good shows of this kind, a succession of black and white—or, even better, color,—glass plates depicting a story (as in today’s comic strips) was projected on a screen. The lanterne magique was used in Mozaffar-ed-din Shah’s court and a couple of such color plates have been identified in the Album House of the Golestan Palace. Viewing was effected with one or another type of jahan-nama, including the stereoscope, in which a pair of almost identical pictures were used to achieve a three dimensional view. It consisted of a small (or large) box equipped with two viewer lenses and a slot in which the glass plates bearing the image pairs were inserted. Examples of this type of jahan-nama, for example of Verascope brand, existed in Mozaffar-ed-din Shah’s court and in the hands of private individuals, because I have seen glass plates of this type, both processed and unprocessed, in the Album House of the Golestan Palace. Another type of jahan-nama, the Edison Kinetoscope, was completed in 1270 AS / AD 1891. It was a large, hefty machine in front of which the viewer stood to watch a very short cinema-like film through a pair of lenses on its top. Other types of jahan-nama, namely Mutoscope, Kinora and Théoscope, also existed, in which cinema-like moving pictures could also be seen. The Théoscope, for example, was small and could readily sit on a footed stand Ample books and documents concerning these apparatus are extant. For example, see issues 91A to 103 of Images et magie du cinéma français, or E. Toulet, Cinema is 100 Years Old, p. 38, where a theater equipped with a Kinetoscope is shown. The picture Jamal Omid has reproduced on page 49 of Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran – 1 is also that of a Kinetoscope.. A sort of local jahan-nama known as shahr-e farang, in which a roll of pictures was moved behind viewing windows on the front of the machine, was made in Iran and was more or less current until the late 1340s AS (1960s AD), being carried on an ambulant operator’s shoulders Ja‘far Shahri, in his Tarikh-e Ejtema‘i-e Tehran, v. 1, p. 387, note 1, briefly but adequately describes the shahr-e farang. Also see Ghaffari, Jam-e Jam – Fanoos-e Khial…, p. 42.. Today a shahr-e farang is exhibited in the Cinema Museum of Tehran.The best shahr-e farang specimen, belonging to the film center(filmkhane), existed in the ex-Ministry of Arts and Culture.
As concerns lanterne magique shows, Nazem-ol-Eslam Kermani writes in his Tarikh-e Bidari-e Iranian,: “The (lanter majik) cheragh-e sehri appeared in Tehran in the sixth year of the reign [of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah]”, which corresponds to 1320 / 10 April 1902 – 29 March 1903 / 21 Farvardin 1281 – 9 Farvardin 1282 Nazem-ol-Eslam Kermani, Tarikh-e Bidari-e Iranian, 1984 edition, v. 1, p. 656. In the previous version of this article, I had mistakenly set the sixth year of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s reign as 1313 AH, because he accessed to the throne near the end of that year and the year 1314 AH must be considered the first of his reign. Hence the sixth year of his reign was 1320 AH.. What Nazem-ol-Eslam Kermani means by “(lanter majik) cheragh-e sehri” is unclear. If he means the kind of shows current at the time, which consisted of projecting a succession of various scenes depicting a story (as in today’s comic strips), these had certainly “appeared”, even if they had not yet achieved wide popularity, before this date. But, if he means the onset of private and semi-private film viewing with the lanterne magique and then the jahan-nama, then the date does not conflict with that of Sahhafbashi’s film screenings in 1321 AH / AD 1903 / 1282 AS (see next paragraph). It is conceivable that, following the warm welcome given at the court to various types of lanterne magique, jahan-nama and Cinématographe (see next paragraph), and perhaps after a second travel to the West in 1281 AS / AD 1902, Sahhafbashi brought together a collection of such devices, together with X-ray equipment, electric fans and probably phonographs, etc., which he sold to the rich or used to hold shows. Therefore, Nazem-ol-Eslam Kermani’s allusion to him—whom he says he knew well and with whom he was involved in underground political activity Nazem-ol-Eslam Kermani, Tarikh-e Bidari-e Iranian, events of Monday 12 Safar 1323 / Tuesday 18 April 1905 (edition of 1346, v. 1, p. 51; edition of 1362, v.1, p. 291), or events of Wednesday 14 Zelqa‘deh 1323 / 10 January 1906 (edition of 1346, v.1, pp. 120-121; edition of 1362, , v. 1, pp. 360-361).—, points directly to Sahhafbashi and his first public lanterne magique, jahan-nama and later Cinématographe shows. It was not rare at the time to refer to the Cinématographe as lanterne magique, and Khanbaba Mo‘tazedi, at the age of fifteen (1286 AS / AD 1907), heard his father say that Russi-Khan had “brought a lanterne magique… which showed moving pictures” to Arbab Jamshid’s residence.
The first reference to a theater (public cinema) is found in the absorbing memoirs of Nasser-ed-Din Shah’s protégé, Malijak Malijak, v. 1, p. 533.. He wrote about the evening of Sunday 2 Ramazan 1321 / 22 November 1903 / 1 Azar 1282: “I went to Sahhafbashi’s shop. On Sundays he holds simifonograf shows for Europeans, and in the evening for the public. When I arrived there was no one; just me, a secretary of the Dutch embassy and a few of Taku’s personnel.” Taku was a European goods shop on Lalehzar Avenue. Apparently, on this occasion Malijak went to see a session for Europeans, because he adds: “It was two and a half hours past sunset when I called for a landau. Accompanied by the supervisor [his teacher], I went to Sahhafbashi’s shop to watch the Cinématographe.” Malijak, v. 1, p. 533. Taking the season into consideration, the cinema session began around eight o’clock PM. Malijak was interested by the cinema, because he again went to a session on the next evening. He wrote in his memoirs; “I called for a landau and we went to watch the simifonograf. Having watched for a while, we returned home.” Malijak, v. 1, p. 534. This was probably no more than one or two days after Sahhafbashi had begun holding public film shows, because, had other films been shown earlier, Malijak would have certainly paid a visit or made an allusion to it in his memoirs. The study of Malijak’s memoirs clearly shows that, fortunately for the history of Iranian cinema and photography, he truly was a full-fledged professional sloth. From morning to night he paid visits to the court and the houses of different people, poked his nose into shops or wandered in the streets. Malijak’s life and the style of his memoirs, particularly concerning everyday events, hunting, music, gambling, …, and social visits, are such that it is hardly conceivable for a public film show to have taken place without him noticing it. Moreover, in those early years of the twentieth century, Malijak was also keenly interested in photography and music. He took piano lessons and was well aware of the existence of the Cinématographe. He had seen films at Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s court at least as early as 1320 AH / AD 1902 / 1281 AS, a year before the first public cinema was created Malijak, v. 1, p. 330. (see text below). Although opposed with his political views, he was acquainted with Sahhafbashi and had paid him visits even before seeing films, mentioning the novelties he had seen in his memoirs. At first Malijak misjudged Sahhafbashi as an ignorant liar, but after seeing his X-ray equipment at work on the next day—Tuesday 13 Moharram 1320 / Thursday 22 May 1902 / 1 Khordad 1281—he wrote extensively about it Malijak, v. 1, pp. 203-205.. Fifteen days later he spoke of an electric fan (charkh-e barqi) given to him by Sahhafbashi Malijak, v. 1, p. 217. Elsewhere he writes at the end of the same year: “I went to Sahhafbashi’s shop. He had no new gadgets” (Malijak, v.1, p. 369).. Unfortunately, as Malijak’s memoirs begin on 10 Zelhajjeh 1319 / 20 March 1903 / 29 Esfand 1282, they hold no indication concerning the first four years of filmmaking in Iran (see following paragraphs).
The first Iranian cinema, or tamasha-khaneh See the notice concerning the sale of Sahhafbashi’s belongings in Hossein Abutorabian’s Rahnama-ye Ketab, p. 692 and Film monthly, no. 258, p. 17, line 2. in Sahhafbashi’s words, was located in the yard behind his shop on Lalehzar Avenue Malijak writes (v. 1, p. 204): “We moved along Cheragh-e Gaz Avenue and reached Toopkhaneh Square, wherefrom we went to Lalehzar Avenue, straight to Sahhafbashi’s shop.” He used to go there via Mokhber-od-Dowleh Avenue as well (v. 2, p. 1272). and spanned four vaults See the notice concerning the sale of Sahhafbashi’s belongings in Hossein Abutorabian’s Rahnama-ye Ketab, p. 692; Film monthly, no. 258, p. 17, and; several lines lower in the present article.. In more precise terms, in the words of Sahhafbashi’s elder son, Jahangir Qahremanshahi, it was situated at present-day Mohanna Crossroads (“between Crystal Cinema, on Lalehzar-e No, and Arbab Jamshid Avenue”) The exact address of Sahhafbashi’s son is given by his son (Safarname-ye Ebrahim Sahhafbashi, preface, p. 15, based upon Ghaffari’s text) and it agrees with Malijak’s writings.. Jamalzadeh writes about Sahhafbashi’s estate: “He had a building at the crossroads and avenue known as Comte, on the northern stretch of Lalehzar, on the left hand side, and he and his wife had transformed their home into a hospital… [and] they had [also] built a functional water cistern on the street side of their garden …” Jamalzadeh, “Dar Bare-ye Sahhafbashi”, p. 129.. The type of goods that Sahhafbashi had in his shop indicates that his customers came from among the aristocracy (such as Atabak and ‘Ala’-od-Dowleh) The names are given by Jahangir Qahremanshahi in Safarname-ye Ebrahim Sahhafbashi, preface, p. 15, based upon Ghaffari’s text., and on this basis it is conceivable that they too frequented his cinema. Among the films shown there, Qahremanshahi mentions one in which a man “forced more than one hundred [?] men into a small carriage and had a hen lay twenty eggs.” Such comical or extravagant films (see paragraph 2C) were very popular at the time and lasted about ten minutes, as most other films made in that period. The history of the activity of Sahhafbashi’s cinema must be limited to the month of Ramazan and the day of the ‘Eid-e Fetr of 1321 (21 November to 20 December 1903 / 30 Aban to 29 Azar 1282), because Malijak makes no other mention of its activity, Sahhafbashi having apparently traveled to America in the meanwhile (see text below). The month of Ramazan, which occurred in autumn in that year, was undoubtedly chosen on purpose, because spectators could easily use the long evenings to go to the theater after breaking their fast. Financially, Sahhafbashi’s venture seems to have been rather unsuccessful. For example, as we saw, only a few spectators were present at the first session attended by Malijak. And this was probably why Sahhafbashi moved his cinema to a new address on Cheragh-e Gaz (later Cheraq-e Barq, and now Amir Kabir) Avenue after returning from America around 1905 (1284 AS)—not later than 1908 (1287 AS) in any case.
If this change of address actually took place, it was not any more successful, and this time Sahhafbashi’s theater closed its doors for good.
The only document on Sahhafbashi’s travel to America is a bust photograph that shows him in European attire and which was reproduced by Jamal Omid together with the caption “[The picture] shows Mirza-Ebrahim-Khan Sahhafbashi (Mohajer) Tehrani [in] San Francisco – early 1283).” J. Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 124. Of course, the picture does not bear the date “early 1283”, and if any date does appear on it, it is given following either the Muslim or the Christian calendar, and if the conversion is correct, taking into consideration the distance involved, one must conclude that Sahhafbashi was away from Iran at least during 1283 AS / AD 1904, and that the reopening of his cinema can therefore not have taken place before 1284 AS / AD 1905.

The reopening of Sahhafbashi’s theater is obscure and no contemporaneous written source concerning this event and the subsequent activity of this theater has yet come to light. As the present article does not intend to enter a long discussion on this reopening, we limit ourselves to a description of it as it was narrated by the late ‘Abdollah Entezam, who attended Sahhafbashi’s theater in his childhood, and another by Jamalzadeh, which may be related to the same cinema. Neither Entezam nor Jamalzadeh gives any date, but Farrokh Ghaffari’s inference from Entezam’s description was that it was situated around 1905 (1284 AS) “Around 1905” is the date that Ghaffari gave in his first text on Entezam’s words (“Avvalin Azmayesh-ha-ye Sinema’i dar Iran” – 1, p. 8), but later on, in view of his studies, he became more inclined toward the year 1904, and the same inclination is reflected in Jamal Omid’s writings. In the author’s opinion, since Sahhafbashi was in America in that year, as attested to by Omid himself (Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 124), given that Malijak makes no mention of Sahhafbashi’s theater being reopened, and as Entezam was born in 1895 / 1274, a date around 1905, say 1906 or 1907, when he was older, is more likely than 1904. Concerning entezam, see Azimi, “Entezam”, in the list of sources., and Shahrokh Golestan—the familiar figure of Iranian cinema and its history—understood from Jamalzadeh’s words that he had gone to the cinema shortly before leaving Tehran near the end of the winter of 1908 (1286 AS). One of Jamalzadeh’s sentences in his colloquy with Golestan also attests indirectly to this fact See text below. Jamalzadeh has said repeatedly (including in “Dar Bare-ye Sahhafbashi”, Rahnama-ye Ketab, p. 131, and “Yad-ha’i az Koodaki va No-javani”) that he left Iran in spring 1908, but he is apparently in error, because, again in his own words, he had spent the Nowrooz [Iranian New Year, beginning on the first day of spring] holidays of 1908 in Istanbul (“Yad-ha’i az Koodaki va No-javani”, p. 48). Therefore, he was in Iran at least until the end of the winter of 1908 (1286 AS).. If this assumption is wrong, then Jamalzadeh went to the cinema between 1905 and the beginning of 1908 (1283-1286 AS), because he had come to Tehran at the age of thirteen Inference from a letter of Jamalzadeh to a friend. See “Yad-ha’i az Koodaki va No-javani”, p. 49. In his own words, Jamalzadeh was born on 22 or 23 Jomadi-os-Sani 1309 / 23 or 24 January 1892 / 3 or 4 Bahman 1270 (“Yad-ha’i az Koodaki va No-javani”, p. 45).. Since, as we shall see, Sahhafbashi’s business also floundered before 1908 (1287 AS), Entezam’s and Jamalzadeh’s observations refer to anterior dates. In 1905 Entezam was ten and in 1908 Jamalzadeh was fifteen.

Entezam recounted his memories of Sahhafbashi’s cinema to Farrokh Ghaffari in Bern, Switzerland, in October and November 1940 (autumn of 1319 AS). To his relation of this event to the author, Ghaffari added that Entezam had repeated these words in Tehran in 1949-50 (1328-29 AS), in presence of the late Mohammad-‘Ali Jamalzadeh and himself, and that Jamalzadeh had confirmed them. Jamalzadeh himself has been more cautious in his interview with Shahrokh Golestan, believing it “very, very likely” that the cinema to which he had gone in his childhood was Sahhafbashi’s, and adding that he could no more be sure about it See the full text of Jamalzadeh’s account, reproduced a few lines below.. He also spoke of Sahhafbashi’s house on Lalehzar Avenue in a brief article he wrote on him in 1357 AS / AD 1978 on the occasion of the reiterated notice of the sale of his chrome plating factory and theater equipment Jamalzadeh, “Dar Bare-ye Sahhafbashi”, in Rahnama-ye Ketab. See the list of sources at the end of this article., but made no mention of the theater’s reopening on Cheragh-e Gaz Avenue or its connection with Sahhafbashi. Neither have Sahhafbashi’s son, Jahangir Qahremanshahi, or Malijak, that professional sloth, ever mentioned any such reopening. Despite these obscure points, doubting the reopening of Sahhafbashi’s theater on Cheragh-e Gaz Avenue is not justifiable either, and for the present, in view of Entezam’s solid testimony, the reopening in question should be considered as having taken place, and Jamalzadeh’s memories of going to that cinema should be taken into consideration. Of course, it is much more probable that Jamalzadeh visited another, lesser, cinema on the same avenue. During the chaotic days of Mohammad-‘Ali Shah’s reign, others had begun setting up cinemas. They included Aqayoff, whose film shows were also held on Cheragh-e Gaz Avenue but in the coffee-house of Zargarabad, and Russi-Khan, who had contrived a small cinema next to his photo shop.
As Entezam has recorded, Sahhafbashi’s cinema was located on the southern side of Cheragh-e Gaz Avenue, near Toopkhaneh Square; [in Ghaffari’s opinion, perhaps opposite a street running off the northern side of the avenue that was called Sar-takht-e Barbari-ha Ghaffari’s belief originates from the fact that, having gone to a coffee-house near Sar-takht-e Barbari-ha Street to shoot a sequence of Jonoob-e Shahr in 1337 AS (AD 1958) (this coffee-house appears in Jonoob-e Shahr in a sequence where a street bully listens to a dervish’s story), his cameraman, Nasser Raf‘at, and his assistant, Zakaria Hashemi, told him that the owner of the coffee-house opposite the street said that “a cinema was said to have existed long ago around here on the street front”, and that films used to be shown on the lower floor of his own shop in ancient times.
According to ‘Abd-ol-Ghaffar’s map, Sar-takht-e Barbari-ha Street, or Barbari-ha Street under Nasser-ed-Din Shah, stemmed off Cheragh-e Gaz Avenue and ran between Tekie-ye Barbari-ha and the Cheragh-e Gaz (lighting gas) plant (later Cheraq-e Bargh), joining Bagh-e Vahsh (Ekbatan) Avenue at the curve on the south of Zell-os-Soltan’s Park (the present site of the Iranian Cultural Heritage Organization). (Also see Ja‘far Shahri, Gooshe’i az Tarikh-e Ejtema‘i-e Tehran-e Qadim, pp. 124-125.) Thus, the southern part of present-day Mellat Avenue is probably none but Sar-takht-e Barbari-ha Street.]. The cinema showed films in the evenings during the month of Ramazan [ca. 1905] and its tickets were worth one, two, three and five qerans. Its entrance was a corridor or hall in which several Edison jahan-namas were exhibited. [Later Entezam told Ghaffari: “They weren’t jahan-namas, they were shahr-e farangs.” In Ghaffari’s, and the author’s, opinion, Entezam meant an Edison Kinetoscope rather than a stereoscopic viewer, mentioned above. Jamal Omid has recorded three jahan-namas (Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 23), but Ghaffari, quoting Entezam, says “several”. The number of the jahan-namas is also unclear in the previous edition of Ghaffari’s book: Ghaffari, “Avvalin Azmayesh-ha-ye Sinema’i dar Iran” – 1, p. 8. Ghaffari used to believe that jahan-namas were a kind of stereoscopic viewers (Gaffary, F., Coup d’oeil sur les 35 premières années du cinéma en Iran, p. 227), and the same view is reflected in Omid’s text, already mentioned.] Various lemonades and foodstuff were sold inside the cinema. The spectators on the front sat on straw mats and the others used benches [this is true, because these benches are mentioned in the theater’s sale notice]. Sahhafbashi was present in person, wearing a long black cloak [this is also true; Sahhafbashi wore that cloak as a sign of mourning for the country Nazem-ol-Eslam Kermani, Tarikh-e Bidari-e Iranian, events of Monday 12 Safar 1323 / Tuesday 18 April 1905 (edition of 1346, v. 1, p. 51; edition of 1362, v.1, p. 291). Jamalzadeh gives a more complete description of this attire, but not in the cinema, in “Dar Bare-ye Sahhafbashi”, p. 128.]. At times when the spectators did not sit still, Sahhafsbashi would say in a loud voice: “Shame on you. Go back to your places. Hey, you one qeranis, go back to your places.” [Apparently, the cinema’s audience had widened and Sahhafbashi’s calls for his one qeran ticket customers to leave the benches and regain their straw mats shows that it was no more restricted to the aristocracy.] The late Entezam remembered two films. One showed a man sweeping a street. A steam roller would arrive and crush him thin. Then someone standing on a stool would hit him on the head with a mallet, turning him into a short fat man this time Ghaffari, “Avvalin Azmayesh-ha-ye Sinema’i dar Iran” – 1, p. 8. The words ‘fat’ and ‘mallet’ appear as chaq and tokhmaq, respectively, in Omid’s text, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 23, and Ghaffari agrees with them.. The second showed a terror-stricken hotel cook watching skeletons and spirits pouring out of his kitchen’s haunted cupboard Based on Ghaffari’s words to the author, as well as his text, “Avvalin Azmayesh-ha-ye Sinema’i dar Iran” – 1, p. 8, and Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 23. Ghaffari says that the late Entezam had probably seen Georges Méliès’ La cuisine infernale.! Newsreels on the Transvaal war were also shown. Of course, Entezam means the films of British military operations in southern Africa, which ended in the defeat of the Dutch inhabitants of southern Africa in 1902 (1281 AS). In Ghaffari’s opinion, part of these were reconstituted newsreels, and as he and Jamal Omid believe, most of them, whether narrative or informational, were imported into Iran via the Russian ports of Odessa and Rostov Ghaffari, “Avvalin Azmayesh-ha-ye Sinema’i dar Iran” – 1, p. 8; Gaffary, F., Coup d’oeil sur les 35 premières années du cinéma en Iran, p. 227, and; Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 23.. In the author’s opinion, this may have been true in the case of the films screened later by Russi-Khan and others, but as the court was in direct contact with European firms for its cinematographic matters, and as Sahhafbashi himself had British and Indian connections (see text below), the small number of newsreels then available concerning the war in Transvaal must have been primarily imported from Europe, or perhaps India, but not yet from Russia. It should be borne in mind that even the films of the Russo-British war of 1905 AD / 1284 AS were popularly attributed to the British ‘Ali Javaher-Kalam’s memoirs, quoted by Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 28.; an attribution that was probably justified, because the Russians were severely defeated by the Japanese, and, in the Iranians’ mind, belittling the Russians by showing these films benefited British power.
On 14 March 1992, at the age of one hundred, Jamalzadeh thus recounted to Shahrokh Golestan how he first went to the cinema when only fifteen, or a little younger, in Tehran (the words in straight brackets belong to the author and are added for the sake of continuity.)

“When we settled in Tehran, my father swiftly rose in rank, and his friends, who were in danger in Esfahan, under the oppression of Zell-os-Soltan and Sheikh Mohammad-Taqi Aqa-Najafi, also gradually moved to Tehran. One of them was Sayf-os-Zakerin. He was a good man, but a preacher.

One day, in Tehran, while strolling in a street—a street that was later called Cheragh-e Barq; I don’t know how they call it today; the famous street wagons of Tehran ran along it, going to [somewhere]—, I saw Sayf-os-Zakerin, turban and all, sitting on the ledge in front of a shop, before its still closed wooden shutters, behind a table. I approached and wished him a good day. [He said] “Ho Hey, Mamal”! I was not Jamalzadeh at the time; family names didn’t yet exist in Iran. “Hey, Mamal”! I was Mohammad-‘Ali, so my father called me Mamal. “What are you doing here?” I said, “I’m taking a walk.” He said, “Would you like to go to the cinema?” I said, “What’s a cinema?” He said, “Right here, the tickets are at two qerans; you… here, I’m giving you a free ticket.” He took me by the hand and ushered me into a dark, dark shop. It was as dark as in a warehouse, but he had a lamp. He told me, “Sit down here. Come to me when it’s finished.” My good sir, in I went, into the dark! Up on a wall, I saw a man sweeping a street! I was amazed at seeing somebody sweeping a street on a wall! Then I realized that it wasn’t a man, but rather the image of one. Yet, he was just as a living man, moving like a [he does not say what]! Then, while he was busy sweeping, a [pause] cart-like carriage appeared and ran him down. He lay on the ground like a smashed cardboard box, with his legs and arms like this [Jamalzadeh had mimicked the sprawling man]! All those sitting there in the dark made “Oh! Oh!”, and I made “Oh! Oh!” But in the meanwhile someone holding a ma[chine] appeared and began reviving the man with it. Little by little the man came back to life, and then rose up and began walking! The cinema was finished. In my estimate, the whole cinema did not last more than a quarter of an hour, and that was the first time [stressing the ‘first time’] that I saw a cinema anywhere in the world, and it is very, very [stressing the ‘very, very’] probable that this Sayf-oz-Zakerin was [employed] by Sahhafbashi; of those things I had no knowledge. I came back [home] running. Breaking the news, I said, “Aqa-Jun, I went somewhere; Sayf-oz-Zakerin was there; it’s called ‘cinema’!” My father, who hadn’t even heard the name, said, “Tell me!” I did. He said, “It’s strange! It’s strange! How did they resuscitate that man on the [ground?]?! Shahrokh Golestan’s interview with Jamalzadeh on 14 March 1992 in Geneva, broadcast in part in the Fanoos-e Khial series of the Persian service of the BBC on 1 October 1993. In his unfinished sentence, Jamalzadeh on the one hand stresses the ‘very, very’, but on another adds that he is not certain of what he is saying. He says, “it is very, very probable that this Sayf-oz-Zakerin was … by Sahhafbashi; of those things I had no knowledge.” The texts already published of this interview have been completed as follows, without any mention of its flaw: “it is very, very probable that this Sayf-oz-Zakerin was employed by Sahhafbashi; of those things I had no knowledge.”, Jamalzadeh, “Yad-ha’i az Koodaki va No-javani”, p. 45; in another text, published without Shahrokh Golestan’s authorization, the same sentence appears in this blatantly erroneous form: “it is very, very probable that this Sayf-oz-Zakerin was none but Sahhafbashi; but I had no knowledge of such things.”! Gharavi, Fanoos-e Khial, p. 13.

As already mentioned, although Jamalzadeh cautions about the accuracy of his memory—yet suggests that Sayf-oz-Zakerin may have been in Sahhafbashi’s employment—, comparing his account with Entezam’s clearly shows that they both saw the same film in their childhood, but not in the same theater (unless one of them, or both, incorrectly described the locale). The cinema to which Jamalzadeh had gone was a shop, and not a hall, as Sahhafbashi had seen. Jamalzadeh saw two more films, one in a school and the other in a cinema on Nasseriyeh (Nasser Khosrow) Avenue Jamalzadeh, “Yad-ha’i az Koodaki va No-javani”, pp. 51-52..

As already noted, the eventual closure of Sahhafbashi’s theater had financial causes, and later allusions to religious reasons or a mixture of courtly and religious issues have remained mere unfounded “narratives” In his writings, Jamal Omid has given two versions, and not documented proof, about the causes leading to the closure of Sahhafbashi’s theater. According to the first version, “… with the protest of some people who considered the creation of Sahhafbashi’s theater on Cheragh-e Gaz Avenue anti-religious, Sheikh Fazlollah Noori began preaching against cinema, and Sahhafbashi had no recourse but to close his cinema.” The second version is that, because Sahhafbashi was an activist in the Constitutionalist ranks, his problems at the court in this regard, compounded by the current protests against cinema, gave the courtiers pretext enough to have it closed down (Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran – 1, pp. 51-52 & note 14; ibid. p. 23 & note 24. N.B. The notes are unrelated to these two versions). Hamid Nafissi, quoting Sahhafbashis’ second wife through her son, only authenticates one—the first—of Jamal Omid’s versions, writing that Sahhafbashi’s cinema was closed because “the famous cleric Shaykh Fazlollah Nuri had proscribed cinema.”) In another article, this author absolutely, indeed historically, authenticates this point on the evidence of his previous text. He writes: “According to a report, in 1904 (1283 AS), Shaykh Fazlollah Nuri, the influential leader of the day, after going to a public cinema in Tehran, proscribed cinema and brought about its discontinuation” (Tanesh-ha-ye Farhang-e Sinema’i dar Jomhuri-e Eslami, p. 384). Sahhafbashi’s wife has been quoted as having said that Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah ordered Sahhafbashi to close his cinema because he feared the power of the clergy (Tahaminejad, Rishe-yabi-e Ya‘s, p. 14), but this recent assertion of hers appears equally unfounded. On the contrary, Abolqassem Reza’i’s statement that his father (Sahhafbashi) had “very close relationships with the court and Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah” is rather exaggerated (Interview with Golestan in Fanoos-e Khial; Shahrokh Golestan, Fanoos-e Khial, edition of Kavir Publishers, p. 14), quite the contrary having been most probably true, particularly as regards the court (cf. The famous event of the Shah being presented with a request written in his name at Amir-Bahador’s house: Nazem-ol-Eslam Kermani, Tarikh-e Bidari-e Iranian, edition of 1346, v. 2, p. 120).. In particular, Sheikh Fazlollah Noori’s alleged proscription of cinema See previous note. is not only unfounded, but refuted by evidence to the contrary: Russi-Khan—then a cinema owner himself—told Farrokh Ghaffari, in Javad Farifteh’s restaurant in Paris, that “the famous Sheikh Fazlollah Noori came to Darvazeh Qazvin to see his films, following which he declared them blameless.” Farrokh Ghaffari’s conversations with the author and Gaffary, F., Coup d’oeil sur les 35 premières années du cinéma en Iran, p. 229. Ghaffari writes in this concern: Russi-Khan “opened a new theater at Darvazeh Qazvin (Bazarche-ye Qavam-od-Dowleh). Sheikh Fayzollah (sic), the famous religious leader, sent Russi-Khan a message telling him that he wished to see his cinema, and a special session was therefore organized for the Sheikh and his entourage” (“Avvalin Azmayesh-ha-ye Sinema’i dar Iran” – 2, p. 5). As for Mr. Tahaminejad’s assertion, quoting Farrokh Ghaffari, that Russi-Khan claimed that the Sheikh intended to extort money from him, Ghaffari wrote to the author, on 6 February 2001, “I don’t remember, but it’s quite possible.” Jamal Omid has briefly recorded the latter event in the third person form (“It is said that…”), writing that it bears no mention of Sheikh Fayzollah response (Tarikh-e Sinema, p. 37, note 43). For Ghaffari, the Sheikh’s satisfaction was inherent in the sentence recorded and that no additional stress was needed.
Javad Farifteh—Ahmad Shah’s cook, as we were told in our youth—was the owner of the “Tehran” Iranian restaurant near the Place de l’Étoile, on rue Troyon, in Paris, to which, commixing with the grown-ups, we used to go for a chelo-kabab lunch on Sundays some thirty-seven, thirty-eight years ago, in the good old times. Ghaffari met three thrice with Russi-Khan, notably twice in that restaurant, on 30 May 1949 and 29 October 1963, obtaining ample information from him particularly during the meeting of 30 May 1949 (Ghaffari, “Avvalin Azmayesh-ha-ye Sinema’i dar Iran” – 2, p. 5, note 2). This information was published by himself in his early articles, and by Jamal Omid in his Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran. Ghaffari—whose notes were stolen—cannot remember the exact dates of his subsequent meetings with Russi-Khan, but he agrees with what he has told Jamal Omid and has been published by him, with the difference that the first meeting took place in 1940 and not 1943 (see note 30, p. 36, in Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, or note 1, p. 67, in Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran – 1), because Ghaffari lived in Grenoble in 1943. In fact, neither Sahhafbashi possessed the capital needed to constantly attract a few well-off spectators by regularly importing new, unseen films, nor did a large enough audience exist in the closed, pre-industrial Iranian society to make an increase of screening days profitable. The gradual widening of the Iranians’ frame of mind under Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, the dynamic, modernistic and liberal atmosphere prevailing during the Constitutional Revolution, and the technical progress achieved by the cinema, which made it possible to make longer films, brought about new social and economic conditions that led to the rebirth of cinema halls around 1325 AH / 1907 AD / 1286 AS, this time for good. This did not happen in the case of filmmaking—on which we shall elaborate—and its beginnings in Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s court, upon his personal orders, eventually succumbed to the Shah’s greater fondness for photography and the government’s declining authority. The reasons of this failure must be sought mainly in the composition of the Iranian society and the capitalistic situation at the time: filmmaking required that enlightened wealthy individuals unrelated to the court or the government invest in it, and that a wide spectrum of spectators be available, whereas none of these conditions were (are?) fulfilled in Iran. The wealth of land owners and aristocrats consisted of their lands, but cash money was mainly in the hands of tradesmen and usurers—particularly in the bazaar—who were not inclined toward factory building, let alone filmmaking. Of course, the legal insecurity and financial instability reigning in the country also prevented long-term investments to be made.

The first closure of Sahhafbashi’s theater was due to his travel to America. The second, and last, came about because around Rabi‘-ol-Avval 1324 / June 1906 / late spring-early summer 1285, perhaps following the installation of a chrome plating factory, Sahhafbashi became so short of funds that he was imprisoned when proven unable to repay a debt of twelve or fourteen thousand Tomans to Arbab Jamshid. With the intervention of the clergy, his sentence was commuted to a one-year confinement in the house of Sharif-od-Dowleh, the director of foreign judicial courts, during which he was to repay his debt. His efforts at procuring funds appear to have been unsuccessful, because he eventually “relinquished” his properties, perhaps minus his shop, to Arbab Jamshid at an undetermined date between the winter of 1286 AS / 1908 and the summer of 1288 AS / 1909 No source refers to this matter, but as, according to his son, Sahhafbashi’s “garden and building” (Jamalzadeh, “Dar Bare-ye Sahhafbashi”, p. 129) were located between present-day Crystal Cinema and Arbab Jamshid Avenue (Safarname-ye Ebrahim Sahhafbashi, preface, p. 15), one may conclude that Sahhafbashi “relinquished” his garden and building to Arbab Jamshid, after whom the avenue was renamed. The term “relinquish” is from Nazem-ol-Eslam, who knew Sahhafbashi very well, but here he does not mention Arbab Jamshid and leaves the issue unresolved (Tarikh-e Bidari-e Iranian, edition of 1346, v. 2, p. 193). The shop was perhaps exempted by court order. See text below.. On 23 Jamadi-ol-Avval 1326 AS / 23 June 1908 / 2 Tir 1287, the parliament house came under cannon fire and Mohammad-‘Ali Shah’s Minor Dictatorship began, lasting one year, until 27 Jamadi-os-Sani 1327 / 16 July 1909 / 25 Tir 1288. At an undetermined date, but probably after the bombardment of the parliament house and the beginning of this period, Sahhafbashi left Tehran with his “sinemotoqlaf”, eventually reaching Astarabad (present-day Gorgan) in mid July 1908 (late Tir 1287). He rented a place at the post office there and began showing “eight screens of moving images each evening”. He had “links” with the subordinate personnel of the British consulate, who were naturally on the side of the Constitutionalists following their government’s policy, and they formed part of his audience Maqsoodloo, Mokhaberat-e Astarabad, v. 1, p. 56. During WWI, Sahhafbashi also joined the British army in Iran. See text below.. Sahhafbashi later returned to Tehran and as his situation was still dire he decided to emigrate. He had a notice printed for the sale, possibly to the highest bidder, of his “chrome plating factory and theater ancillaries and belongings”. Besides the factory and its equipment, the items listed in that censored (or self-censored) notice—which smells of sorrow and in which he bemoans “the people” not being yet “aware”—, include a “machine for seeing the bones of the body [X-ray unit], electric fans, a sinemotograf with numerous screens [films]… lamps, curtains and benches”, and it concludes stating that the items on sale can be viewed “as from the first of Ramazan to its end”, and that “in case no buyer is found within a month, they will be put on auction wholesale in the afternoon of Friday 11 Shavval”. The year is not mentioned in the notice, but calendar calculations show that he meant the first to twentieth of Ramazan 1326 and Friday 11 Shavval of the same year, which corresponds to 27 September to 26 october 1908, that is 5 Mehr to 4 Aban 1287 and Friday 6 November 1908 / 15 Aban 1287. The sale did not take place on those dates, because Sahhafbashi had earlier rented (or sold?) the shop and left Iran to live for a while in Haydarabad, in the Deccan peninsula, in India. There he published a periodical entitled Name-ye Vatan, which “stood for the consultative assembly of Iranian expatriates”, and which, on this evidence among others, must have been published during the Minor Dictatorship, i.e., from the summer of 1287 AS / AD 1908 to the summer of 1288 AS / AD 1909. He printed a portrait of himself wearing his famous black cloak on its front page The portrait on the front page of Name-ye Vatan was reproduced by Jamal Omid on page 125 of Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran. No date appears on this page, but he gives its publication date as 1286 AS (1907), which does not agree with what we saw, being one year early.. On Wednesday 21 Rajab 1326 / 19 August 1908 / 28 Mordad 1287, two months before the downfall of the parliament and two or three months before the date set for the sale, Malijak wrote about it: “I came to Mokhber-ed-Dowleh Avenue, to Sahhafbashi’s shop, which Arsalan-Khan’s brother Siavash-Khan has now bought and [with which he] is busy earning money. He has also brought in a girl from Europe and is selling various items such as photographic cameras, large viewing lenses and haberdashery.” Malijak, v. 2, p. 1272. Of course, it is not certain that Siavash-Khan had rented the shop from Sahhafbashi himself. He could have rented it from a new owner (Arbab Jamshid?). As the lazy and inquisitive Malijak’s precise recording indicates, the shop must have been rented only a short time earlier. After the victory of the Constitutionalists, Sahhafbashi returned to Iran, settling and starting a trade in Mashhad. He joined the British army as an interpreter during WWI (1914-18), and he died in 1300 or 1301 AS (1921 or 1922) Memories of Abolqassem Reza’i, Sahhafbashi’s younger son, compiled by Jamal Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 24, and Shahrokh Golestan’s interview with Reza’i in Fanoos-e Khial (Golestan, Fanoos-e Khial, edition of Kavir Publishers, pp. 14-15).. His contacts with the British, whether in Astarabad or during the war, can depict him differently from his hereto published image as a liberal patriot in the mind of the suspicious reader, but in fact no judgment can be pronounced in this regard for want of documented evidence and, given of our scarce knowledge of the matter, these contacts may not have been necessarily negative.

As we saw, in his description of Sahhafbashi’s activities, Malijak speaks of photographic cameras and viewing lenses but does not mention the Cinématographe by name, raising the question of what happened to those apparatus and benches. At present there is no clear answer to this question, but one can assume that some of the first films shown in the early days of Ahmad Shah’s reign came from that source, perhaps with Siavash-Khan still operating the projector. And Jamal Omid’s assumption that Sahhafbashi’s Cinématographe came into the possession of Ardeshir-Khan (Artashes Patmagrian), who opened Tajaddod Cinema (soon followed by Modern Cinema) in 1291 AS / AD 1912, is not improbable either J. Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 37, note 48, & pp. 27-28.. Concurring with Jamal Omid, it should be borne in mind that, according to the evidence he presents, not only did Ardeshir-Khan’s projector appear old, but he also held lanterne magique shows of color pictures J. Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 28., while it was Sahhafbashi who had first promoted the lanterne magique and held jahan-nama shows alongside cinema screenings in his theater. Therefore, perhaps Ardeshir-Khan’s projector and color plates were also part of Sahhafbashi’s belongings that had come into his possession.

Four years before the opening of Ardeshir-Khan’s cinema in 1291 AS / AD 1912, new theaters had begun showing films in Tehran: initially, beginning from 1 Ramazan 1325 / 8 October 1907 / 16 Mehr 1286, in Russi-Khan’s photo shop, and later in a more appropriate locale See Russi-Khan’s advertisement in Habl-ol-Matin, no. 161, Thursday 7 Shavval 1325 / 14 November 1907 / 23 Aban 1286, p. 4; Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 25. Also see text below in paragraph C.; then in Zargarabad Coffee-house, on Cheraq-e Gaz (Amir Kabir) Avenue, by Aqayoff, who also shortly moved to a better place Advertisement in Soor-e Esrafil, Thursday 21 Rabi‘-ol-Avval 1326 / 23 April 1908 / 3 Ordibehesht 1287, no. 26, p. 8; Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 27., followed by Ardeshir-Khan and Esma‘ilioff, who became his rivals J. Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 27. Esma‘il Qafqazi, alias George Esma‘ilioff, was accountant at the Ministry of War (Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 26)., and later ‘Ali Vakili, Khanbaba Mo‘tazedi and others who also chose to become cinema owners.

2. Arrival of the first cinema cameras and projectors.

a. Curiosity of the Shah, as a photographer, about motion pictures; acquisition of the first Cinématographe.

In Iran, the news of the Lumière brothers’ invention and their first representation on the 28th of December 1895 in the basement of the Grand Café, No. 14, Boulevard des Capucines, must have reached Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah a few weeks, or at most two or three months, later. Yet, no information about his reaction is available. Just as his father, but not quite as assiduously, Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah was a keen photographer himself. He possessed numerous cameras and was constantly watchful of new inventions: from cars and trucks and steam engines for irrigation pumps to printing presses to telephones, to gramophones and X-ray devices. The date at which he first became interested in the Cinématographe is unknown, but newly found documents show that in February 1899—Bahman-Esfand 1277, that is over one hundred years ago—he commissioned the famous photographer Mirza-Ahmad-Khan Sani‘-os-Saltaneh For his biography, see Y. Zoka’, Tarikh-e ‘Akkasi, pp. 75-78, and Ghaffari’s article to be published in The Qajar Epoch, Arts and Architecture (see the list of sources at the end of this article)., who was in Paris at the time, to buy him a Cinématographe equipment. Sani‘-os-Saltaneh bought three complete sets and sent them to Tehran. The Shah inspected the equipment on Sunday 10 Shavval 1317 / Tunguz-Yl [the Year of the Pig] / 11 February 1900 / 22 Bahman 1278.

The document of this acquisition is preserved in the archives of the Golestan Palace under Code No. 1, Folder 51, Envelope 3 This unique document on the Iranian cinema is among those preserved at the Golestan Palace, which were first generally classified by Mr. Ahmad Dezvare’i, the director of the Treasury of the Golestan Palace, and then submitted in part to a team directed by Mr. Nader Karimian in view of a more detailed recording. In 1999, while reviewing the work of this team, Mr. ‘Ali-Reza Anissi, the director of the Golestan Palace-Museum, noticed this document and informed the author of its existence.. It lies within the pages of a European lockable booklet bound in a light green leather cover with gilded and amber-studded corner pieces. This booklet is 200mm high and 130mm wide. At present it contains four folios, of which two pages, i.e., the verso of folio one and the recto of folio two, bear written information. The booklet originally contained more folios, but some ten of them were torn off long ago and part of the writings on the recto of folio two have been clumsily erased. According to an inscription dated 19 Sha‘ban 1317 / 23 December 1899 / 2 Dey 1278 at the beginning of the booklet, the items bought for Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah in Europe were to be recorded on a folio at the right hand end of the booklet, and those arriving from Europe through other sources opposite it (on the left). Today, if indeed this recording was continued, nothing except the above-mentioned two folios remains from that list. On the recto of folio one, one reads: “He is the Supreme God / The list of goods and objects ordered in European countries will be written in this booklet, and continued on a new page whenever one is filled. 19 Sha‘ban 1317.”, followed by “From Paris, from Yamin-os-Saltaneh”. Thus, Aqa Yamin-os-Saltaneh, the Iranian plenipotentiary in Paris, is instructed to have the items listed below sent to Iran: broadcloth, ribbons and buttons for the royal horse-carriage attendants, paper and envelopes to be printed with individual and group portraits of His Majesty, and “two cameras were ordered in Paris / Monday 6 Ramazan 1317 (8 January 1900 / 8 Dey 1278)”. Here, of course, a photographic camera is meant, rather than a cinema camera. On the left hand side, on the next folio (2R), first comes a list of items ordered by the Shah in London and delivered, including a fountain pen (stylo), entrusted to the care of the rakht-dar (garments chamberlain), and “cast iron kitchen utensils […] which […] may be installed in two separate rooms. 5 Shavval al-Mokarram [6 February 1900 / 17 Bahman 1278], Tunguz-Yl […] now enter the andarun” The importance of these apparently worthless documents should not remain unnoticed by those studying modernity in Iran and the evolution of the history of its instruments of penmanship, cookery, etc., followed by a document which interests us here, and which reads:

“Complete with their large baudruche (covers?), the three si-no-fotokraf [cinématographe] sets, that is the electric moving lanter majik [lanterne magique] machines which His Majesty had ordered one year ago in Paris and had been brought in His illustrious presence on Sunday 10 Shavval al-Mokarram Tunguz-Yl 1317 [11 February 1900 / 22 Bahman 1278], are in compliance with the description and bill of sale submitted by Sani‘-os-Saltaneh and preserved by E‘temad-Hozur. The entire equipment is now the property of the Exalted Photographic House.”

It is noteworthy that three of the seven items listed belong to photography and cinema, and, as already mentioned, this indicates Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s keen interest in photography. Almost every page of the Shah’s accounts of his travels to Europe also bears allusions to photography. In such an atmosphere, it is only natural that, after the appearance of the cinématographe in Iran, films were both shown and made here, although nothing is known of such works. The positive trend of affairs became well apparent in the following months and, as we shall describe, six months later Mirza-Ebrahim-Khan ‘Akkas-bashi As I was recently informed by Farrokh Ghaffari, Mirza-Ebrahim must still be assumed to have been born in Rajab 1291 (13 August to 12 September 1874 / 23 Mordad to 21 Shahrivar 1253) in Tehran, and that the date of his death must still be considered to have occurred in “1333 AH (1294 AS / 1915 AD)” in Chaboksar. Several of Farrokh Ghaffari’s writings concern his biography and their essence appears in Jamal Omid’s Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, pp. 22-24 (the dates mentioned in this book will be corrected in its next printing). These abstracts were published in Film monthly’s special issue on the centenary of Iranian cinema (p. 21), and the old date of 1333 still appears in his text in Encyclopaedia Iranica, vol. I, p. 719, which must be corrected. Ghaffari has also recently written an article that will appear in the collection The Qajar Epoch, Arts and Architecture, under preparation in London by the Iran Heritage Foundation under P. Luft’s and my own supervision. Also see Yahya Zoka’, pp. 113-116.—the son of Mirza-Ahmad-Khan Sani‘-os-Saltaneh—began making films in Ostend, Belgium.

The type of apparatus sent to Iran is recorded as “cinématographe” Even the first part of the word “cinématographe” had entered Farsi through the French “cinéma”. A Persian description of its operation was published in 1325 / 1907 / 1268, some ninety-nine years ago, by Mirza-‘Ali-Mohammad-Khan Oveissi in Baku, and reproduced in Film Monthly, on the occasion of the hundredth anniversary of Iranian cinema. See list of sources and references, under ‘Ali-Mohammad-Khan Oveissi. I am indebted to Behzad Rahimian for this information., but one should note that, at the time, this specific term—originally applied to the French Lumière brothers’ invention—had more or less become a generic appellation, so that the equipment in question could have included items other than the Lumière brothers’ Cinématographe. The number of sets bought is also debatable. The Persian digit “3” appearing above the letter sin in the word si-no-fotokraf can be interpreted as a vocal mark of that letter and not the number of sets involved, although the tradition of marking the digit “3” in documents is used to stress upon the word seh (three), and not si (thirty) as in here. The digit “3” appears above the letter sin in an advertisement of Omega watches in the middle of the mute film Haj-Aqa Cinema Actor.. If this assumption is correct, then the number of apparatuses bought decreases to one. In the description of the equipment, there is another unclear word that I have read as “ru-kesh” (cover). The Cinématographe was carried around in a sack of thick canvas or leather bag (saccoche in French). Perhaps the writer, who was unfamiliar with this name, has recorded it as such. In any case, both words—ru-kesh and saccoche—mean the same thing. Also, being unfamiliar with the Cinématographe itself as well, the writer has further on omitted the “n” in lanterne magique. In fact, no great mistake has been committed; he has only recorded a popular inaccuracy. Just as the Shah (see paragraph B), or Nazem-ol-Eslam Kermani in his Tarikh-e Bidari-e Iranian, he has transliterated lanterne magique as “lanter majik”.

It should be borne in mind that, on the eve of the cinema era, the Cinématographe could equally function as a film camera and a film projector See Oveissi’s description of the operation of the cinema, mentioned in previous note.. In other words, the Shah came into possession of as many film cameras as he bought Cinématographe projectors. In these conditions, it is quite improbable that, from 10 Shavval 1317 / 11 February 1900 / 22 Bahman 1278 onward, no filming (not filmmaking; see below) took place at the court. And this was six months earlier than any known filming (see below). Also, the first Iranian professional filmmakers and film-showers were most probably Mirza-Ebrahim-Khan ‘Akkas-bashi and his father, Mirza-Ahmad-Khan Sani‘-os-Saltaneh, because the devices, or device according to the document, were “the property of the Exalted Photographic House”, which was in the custody of Sani‘-os-Saltaneh. Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah must be considered the first Iranian amateur filmmaker, because he was a photographer and he certainly tried his hand at film cameras. The document concerning the filming of a lion, which we shall examine further on, also adds weight to this assumption.

If one admits that three cameras were bought, one can wonder why Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah would order three identical units. This may be justifiable as a precaution against the risk of parts breaking down, but a more likely explanation is that three different types of cameras were bought. Perhaps one of these was a 35mm Pathé, which was an imitation of the Cinématographe. During my classification of the photographs and plates of the Golestan Palace, I identified several French films with central perforation, and as this type of films belongs to the early period of the cinema, they can perhaps be considered relics from that initial acquisition. At present, no conclusive opinion can be expressed in this regard, and the author needs to carry out further studies.

b. Infatuation period and second acquisition of the cinématographe

Two months after coming in possession of his three, or one, Cinématographe(s) on Sunday 10 Shavval 1317 / Tunguz-Yl / 11 February 1900 / 22 Bahman 1278, Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah began his first travel to Europe on Thursday 12 Zelhajjeh 1317 / Friday 13 April 1900 / Farvardin 1279 AS, in the company of Sani‘-os-Saltaneh and his son, Mirza-Ebrahim-Khan ‘Akkas-bashi Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], pp. 3, 10. Although the Shah did not write these lines himself and only dictated them for others to write, as he indeed points out, it is obvious that, on the whole, he must be considered their writer and the others his scribes., and returned to Tehran on Sunday 2 Sha‘ban 1318 / 25 November 1900 / Azar 1279 Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 255..

Numerous photographs were made along the Shah’s travel, but since no mention of the cinématographe is made in his travel account before his arrival in Europe, one must conclude that no cinématographe camera was taken along. In the evening of Wednesday 15 Safar 1318 / Thursday 14 June 1900 / 24 Khordad 1279, the Shah alighted in Contrexéville Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 80. The mineral water springs of this French town help curing renal diseases and gout. The Shah resided in the Hôtel/Pavillon de la Souveraine (Graux, pp. 8, 17), which should not be confused with the Palais des Souverains, his residence in Paris. See following pages., and on the next evening he paid a visit to the “tiatr (theater)”, “which they now build here”, and wrote “We admired. They have built a very good building. It seats almost one hundred and fifty spectators.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 81. By tiatr he probably meant the theater of the town’s casino, in which a particular loge had been built for him (Graux, p. 9). The Shah was very fond of theater and went to see as many plays as he could every time he traveled to Europe. Because he was not versed in languages (he only understood and spoke some French Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], pp. 178, 193.), and because his nature preferred burlesque plays, acrobatics, prestidigitation and light music to the opera of Faust “The music [Faust] did not appeal much to His Majesty’s taste”, p. 84 of Badaye‘-e Vaqaye‘, compiled by a Corilin (?) Corilin had collected press excerpts concerning Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s travel to Europe that were translated by Nayyer-ol-Molk and later published under the supervision of Vahidnia (see list of sources). The Shah probably saw The Damnation of Faust by Hector Berlioz, but Ghaffari believes that he more likely saw Charles Gounod’s Faust. Of course, other composers had also created operas on Goethe’s dramatic poem, but any reference to those seems improbable in this case., he more often attended such shows. He never saw plays of Racine or Victor Hugo, but he did see Alexandre Dumas the elder’ The Three Musketeers on stage and often went to Sarah Bernhardt’s theater Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 84 and second voyage, p. 131.. On Tuesday 21 Safar / Wednesday 20 June / 30 Khordad, only five days after returning to Tehran, the Shah wrote in his travel account: “I have sent Sani‘-os-Saltaneh [to Paris] to select engraving and printing equipment for newspapers and the like, which, God willing, he will buy and carry to Iran.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 85, and the final part of this section concerning Savage Landor’s writings. It was with this very equipment that the Shah’s travel account, which is one of the sources of the present article, was printed and its illustrations were engraved Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], pp. 1, 255, and engravings printed in this book.. This order makes no mention of a Cinématographe and it is not clear whether the Shah had inadvertently omitted it or not yet ordered one. The second option seems more probable, because, as we shall see, it appears that it was not until he saw the films sent by Sani‘-os-Saltaneh to Contrexéville and those shown at the international exposition of Paris that he decided to buy cinema appliances, being still attached to photography, as he ever remained.

Meanwhile, Mirza-Ebrahim continued making photographs Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 91.. On Monday 25 Safar 1318 / Sunday 24 June 1900 / 3 Tir 1279, the Shah went to see the Jahan-nama Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 88., another device used to see pictures. Eleven days after Sani‘-os-Saltaneh’s departure to Paris, the Shah received the camera he had asked for and made photographs, having “several glass plates developed” by Mirza-Ebrahim-Khan ‘Akkas-bashi (Friday 1 Rabi‘-ol-Avval / 29 June / 8 Tir) Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 92.. Two days after receiving the camera, that is on Sunday 3 Rabi‘-ol-Avval / 1 July / 10 Tir, “after his lunch” the Shah “called for Mirza-Ebrahim-Khan ‘Akkas-bashi”, sent him to join his father in Paris and “he was instructed to buy several photographic cameras.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 93. After the ‘Akkas-bashi’s return from Paris, he did not go back to Contrexéville. “Instead he sent a white-bearded photographer to deliver the photographic equipment (cinématographe) to the Shah, and this demonstration resulted in the issuance of strict orders to the ‘Akkas-bashi to acquire a cinématographe Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah does not describe the person who brought him the Cinématographe, but recognizes him three weeks later among the photographers gathered to make portraits of him, and notes the fact. Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 136 (3 Rabi‘-os-Sani 1318 / 31 July 1900 / Mordad 1279).. On Sunday 10 Rabi‘-ol-Avval 1318 / 8 July 1900 / 17 Tir 1279, the Shah wrote in his memoirs:

“In the afternoon I told the ‘Akkas-bashi to have the person who had brought back from Paris the sinemofotograf and lanter majik on behalf of Sani‘-os-Saltaneh prepare the equipment for us to see. He went and brought him back near sunset. I inspected both devices. They are well-made novelties. They reproduce the pictures of most places (exposition) in an astonishingly vivid manner. We saw most of the landscapes and monuments (exposition), the falling rain, the flow of the Seine, etc., which We have seen in Paris, and ordered the ‘Akkas-bashi to buy the entire set.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], pp. 100-101.

The musician ‘Ali-Khan Zahir-od-Dowleh, who accompanied the Shah to Paris, has described this demonstration; “On Sunday the tenth at Contrexéville we were watching the cinématographe near sunset.” ‘Ali-Khan Zahir-od-Dowleh, Safarname-ye Zahir-od-Dowleh, p. 201. I am indebted to Farrokh Ghaffari for the information on Zahir-od-Dowleh. The term exposition refers to the international exposition of Paris in 1900, which was laid out on both banks of the Seine and included the Eiffel Tower. Iran also had a stand in the exposition and its director was Mr. Ketabchi-Khan Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], pp. 130, 135-136.. Here the Shah makes no mention of three or one cinématographe(s) which he had received five months earlier in Tehran and it is not clear what difference could have existed between these two orders.

From Contrexéville, Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah set out on an official journey to Russia and no occasion presented itself for the subject of the cinema to be raised before he returned to western Europe. In the afternoon of Saturday 30 Rabi‘-ol-Avval 1318 / 28 July 1900 / 6 Mordad 1279, the Shah arrived in Paris on an official visit Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 129.. Photographic activity flourished: at times Sani‘-os-Saltaneh would bring a group of photographers Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 133., at others the ‘Akkas-bashi would take pictures of the Shah Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 135., and occasionally the Shah would buy new cameras (3 Rabi‘-os-Sani / 31 July / 9 Mordad) Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 138..

In these circumstances, on Monday 8 July 1900 / 2 Rabi‘-os-Sani 1318 / 8 Mordad 1279, upon the arrival of the news of the assassination of the Italian king, Umberto I, the Shah’s program was changed and the official audience of the ambassadors residing in Paris, which was to take place in the afternoon, was postponed. Instead, “on that afternoon His Majesty spent his time listening to music and examining the siminematograf which He wanted to buy…” Corilin, Badaye‘-e Vaqaye‘, p. 48. During his stay in Paris, the Shah resided at the Hôtel des Souverains (see Graux, p. 11), at 43 Avenue du Bois de Boulogne—today Avenue Foch (Corilin, Badaye‘-e Vaqaye‘, p. 43 and the letter of Gaumont Co. to Mirza-Ebrahim further on). This building was later demolished. “The next day, 3 Rabi‘-os-Sani / 31 July / 9 Mordad, He acquired photographic equipment and some devices and cameras, etc.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 138., no mention being made of a Cinématographe, but in the evening of Friday 3 August / 6 Rabi‘-os-Sani / 12 Mordad, having returned to his residence after reviewing a maneuver of French troops at Vincennes and having lunch in the fort of this city, the Shah began “viewing sinomatograf pictures among which were scenes of His Majesty’s own arrival to Paris.” Corilin, Badaye‘-e Vaqaye‘, p. 68.

The most valuable and most interesting cinematographic representation took place at 21:00 hours the following day, Saturday 7 Rabi‘-os-Sani 1318 / 4 August 1900 / 13 Mordad 1279, when Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah visited the international exposition. The news of this visit elicited a brief echo in Le Figaro in the following terms:

“… A highly novel and pleasant representation had been prepared at the exposition in view of His Imperial Majesty’s visit. At nine o’clock in the evening, His Imperial Majesty set foot in the sal der fet [read Salle des Fêtes] and his entire entourage was present. Initially His Imperial Majesty was seated on a chair in the sal and, on the side opposite the royal loge, sinomatograf scenes were shown for his attention that were quite original.” Corilin, Badaye‘-e Vaqaye‘, p. 69.

Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s own description is more extensive and Zahir-od-Dowleh gives valuable information about this representation. The Shah writes: “We went to the exposition and its hall of festivities, where the sinemofotograf, which is moving pictures of objects, was shown.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 146. The film representation at the Salle des Fêtes and the enthralling shows at the “iluzison” (read Illusion) building took place one after the other and in separate places. The Shah continues:

“We went to the iluzison building (Palais des Illusions), where the following took place. First We entered the special door of this building. It was sunset time and the lights of the exposition were burning[.] Upon entering the Salle des Fêtes, We were very impressed. Truly, it is a superb building. It is twice as large as the Tekie-ye Dowlat, and also round, with a roof of painted glass. Around it two tiers of red velvet-covered seats are installed for people to sit on and the sinemofotograf is shown in this hall[.] A large screen was raised in the middle of the hall and the sinemofotograf pictures were projected on it[.] Many things were shown, including African and Arab travelers crossing the African desert on camels, which was most interesting[;] We also saw the exposition, the bustling streets, the Seine and the movement of boats and other floating objects on it, which was most interesting[.] We have ordered the ‘Akkas-bashi to buy all kinds of it and have them carried to Tehran, where, God willing, they will be set up and shown to Our nokars [.] We watched some thirty screens and after the show [of films] at the Salle des Fêtes We went on to the iluzison building.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], pp. 146-147. Illusion shows were created with mirrors and light effects.

Because, as we saw, the Shah had earlier ordered the acquisition of motion picture devices, this renewed order must be considered a reconfirmation of orders to buy various types of the cinématographe; perhaps a lapse had occurred during the Shah’s travel to Russia which made it necessary. As for the intended spectators of the cinématographe, the Mongol term nokar refers to the Shah’s entourage and courtiers, not ordinary servants in its present-day sense. And Si-shardeh is a reference to thirty short stories, or, rather varied anecdotes, often filmed separately and lasting a few minutes each owing to technical limitations. As already mentioned, a good, vivid complementary description is supplied by Zahir-od-Dowleh, who writes:

“We entered this room together with His Majesty and the others. It was an especial reception. No one had come uninvited. There were no more than a hundred Iranians and Europeans. A number of seats equal to the guests’ had been put on one side of this area. We all sat down. On the side facing us a white cloth nailed on a frame measuring seven or eight zar‘ in length and width hung from the ceiling. Five or six minutes after we were seated, all the lights suddenly went out and only that white cloth was visible in that darkness. The director of the room came forth and announced that we would be viewing the best and latest cinématographes of Paris. We all stared at the clear screen. A barren arid desert appeared in which several strings of laden camels were approaching from afar. The camels’ bells could also be faintly heard and the more they approached the stronger their bells’ sound became, to the extent that the camels and their drivers’ shouts, whom I was seeing, seemed to be in the room. Whoever had made the pictures of the caravan on its way also had a phonograph. While the images of its progression were recorded, the phonograph had captured its sounds and voices. When these are replayed simultaneously, the listener and viewer both sees it and hears its sounds. Two, three other screens were also shown. Once we had spent almost an hour watching, the room was lit and we arose.” Zahir-od-Dowleh, Safarnameh, pp. 245-246. Zahir-od-Dowleh and the editor of his text go misspell both the cinema’s address and its name. “Shan de Mari… meaning Mary’s Square” should read “Shan de Mars… meaning Square of Mars, the God of War”, and the museum’s name “Grévin” instead of “Krivan”.

At least one film—the arrival of the caravan—was a talkie, in the sense that, together with its projection, a phonograph (of which an advanced variety known as gramophone, or graphophone, became popular in Iran) reproduced the sounds corresponding to the different scenes. Of course, this was only feasible with the short films of the time, but even then synchronizing the sound with the images was fraught with difficulty. Consequently, mute films retained their monopoly on the international market until the late 1920s, when the first true talking films appeared. And a little later, in winter 1312 / 1934, the mute film Haji-Aqa Cinema Actor was defeated, at least financially, by the talking Lor Girl.

Although unrelated with cinema, the schedule of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s travel on the next two days, Sunday 8 Rabi‘-os-Sani 1318 / 5 August 1900 / 14 Mordad 1279 and Monday, was not without affecting Iranian art then and now. First, on Saturday, Mirza-Mohammad-Khan Kamal-ol-Molk Naqqah-bashi went to see the Shah, who wrote: “Our Naqqash-bashi, Mirza-Mohammad-Khan Kamal-ol-Molk, whom we sent some time ago to Europe to perfect his art, was seen in Paris on these two days [the Saturday on which Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah had attended a film representation and the Sunday after it]. He has truly worked well.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 149. On Monday the Shah visited the Louvre Museum. The events that took place behind the scenes during this visit, and of which he never became aware, constitute a matter apart, but he himself wrote: “We saw the museum of Shush [the galleries dedicated to items unearthed during excavations carried out at Susa]. There was [and still is] a very large column capital there. A painting had also been done by Kamal-ol-Molk that truly bore no difference with the original. He has done an excellent work.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 149. Apparently, the occurrence of Kamal-ol-Molk’s easel on the Shah’s path during his visit of the Louvre was a theatrical arrangement. See Corilin, Badaye‘-e Vaqaye‘, p. 74. See Paoli, pp. 107-108, concerning the events behind the scene during the Shah’s visit of the museum, which I have briefly mentioned in note 29 of my article on Khorheh in Farairan 3/4. These statements express two meaningful points forgotten today or which many do not want to know: firstly, Kamal-ol-Molk and his ancestors, and of course Mirza-Ebrahim-Khan ‘Akkas-bashi and his father (and beyond them high class art), had benefited from royal and aristocratic patronage and their characters were quite different from the ones depicted in today’s Iranian cinema; secondly, artistic vision and taste had fallen apart both technically and conceptually from traditional Iranian perception and, as noted, the Shah’s words indicate that he has become inclined towards visual reality in the western sense, so that a superb painting is equaled to a superb copy. Thus, Kamal-ol-Molk, who would have been an ordinary or good orientalist painter if he were living in Europe, has become an idol whose work nobody dares question, let alone criticize.

On Tuesday 10 Rabi‘-os-Sani 1318 / 7 August 1900 / 16 Mordad 1279, in the Russian stand at the international exposition, Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah saw “a panorama of an Iranian road” in his own words, and, in Nayyer-ol-Molk’s interpretation, “a world atlas comprising a sequential string of landscapes of the road from Badkubeh [Baku] to Tehran which filed past the viewer’s eyes and showed its scenery as in a film. Himself a photographer, the Shah noticed that the artist had worked from photographs; He raised the matter, and the artist acquiesced.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 150; Corilin, Badaye‘-e Vaqaye‘, pp. 77-78. The Shah himself writes about this panorama: “We went to the upper floor hall [of the Russian pavilion], where a panorama of the road of Aryan had been made, actually represented, as though We were Ourselves moving along the road from Badkubeh to Gilan, going on to Qazvin, reaching Tehran, crossing the gates, proceeding past the Ministry of the Court’s garden and residence, eventually entering Our own palace and going in the museum hall. The entire panorama has been drawn by a painter who had come to Tehran in general Korapatkine’s company. We have not traveled across Gilan, but We have seen the road from Qazvin to our capital, Tehran. Truly, he has done a good job[.] In fact, today, in a mere two hours, We have visited the entire island of Madagascar and the desert of Siberia [the pictures of which Shah had earlier seen in the exposition] and traveled to Tehran, to Our own museum hall, and returned to Paris. One cannot realize how it is until one has seen it with his own eyes.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 150. This panorama still exists, and will be described on another occasion.
On Thursday 12 Rabi‘-os-Sani / 9 August / 16 Mordad, the Shah was shown other movies, but was apparently unimpressed, because he made no mention of them in his travel account. However, Zahir-od-Dowleh wrote in his memoirs: “At dusk His Majesty called for me and I went. A cinématographe, that is a moving picture device, had been brought. The representation was done in the same building. It was mediocre.” Zahir-od-Dowleh, Safarnameh, p. 253. “The same building” refers to above-mentioned residence of the Shah. In fact, the Shah had seen “cinématographe scenes of various guns being fired” Corilin, Badaye‘-e Vaqaye‘, p. 86. at the fort of Vincennes, during his review of a maneuver mentioned above.
From Paris Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah went to Ostend, Belgium. In the morning of Tuesday 14 August 1900 / 17 Rabi‘-os-Sani 1318 / 23 Mordad 1279, as he had expressed the desire to go on a ride in an automobile, which was a great novelty. Xavier Paoli, responsible for the Shah’s security in France, writes about the Shah’s relationship with cars and charming ladies: “One day in the Bois de Boulogne, on the outskirts of Paris, seeing an attractive scene, he stopped to take a few instantaneous pictures (vues instantanées). A group of very handsomely dressed ladies were strolling around, oblivious of our presence. Upon seeing them, the Shah told me: “Ask them to come forth that I may take pictures of them.” The ladies were astonished at the invitation, but gladly accepted it. Once the pictures were made, the Shah told Paoli: “Paoli, these ladies are most lovely and beautiful. Ask them if they are willing to come to Tehran with me.” Paoli adds that he somehow evaded the issue, replying that women were not “pianos, Cinématographes or automobiles” that one could just pick and take to Tehran! Paoli, p. 100. Relatively free translation except in quotation marks. In Ostend, charm, automobiles and cinema merged to make the first Iranian film.

In the morning of Tuesday 14 August 1900 / 17 Rabi‘-os-Sani 1318 / 23 Mordad 1279, “Madame Kron Comtesse de Bylant,” who was highly competent in this domain [automobile driving]”, volunteered to “take the Shah on a tour in her own automobile, a steam engine Stanley.” Corilin, Badaye‘-e Vaqaye‘, p. 101. The Comtesse de Bylant/Bylandt, daughter of Comte de Bylant, was the wife of Georges Grön de Copenhague, the representative of Stanley automobiles on Belgian soil Belgian sources. See list of sources at the end of the article.. The Shah did not ride in a car himself, but ordered his minister of finances to take his place. At the end of the demonstration, held on the beach in front of the Shah’s hotel of residence, “as this automobile was most novel and had innumerable qualities”, directions were given to have two models of the same, one with four seats and the other with three, ordered to the manufacture Corilin, Badaye‘-e Vaqaye‘, pp. 101-102.. Undoubtedly, Madame la Comtesse’s beauty and driving abilities had deeply impressed the Shah. A large crowd had gathered in front of the hotel, including Princesse Clémentine, the daughter of the Belgian king Leopold II, “in all beauty and charm”, who freely went here and there and incessantly took pictures Corilin, Badaye‘-e Vaqaye‘, p. 102.. The next morning, on Wednesday 15 August 1900 / 18 Rabi‘-os-Sani 1318 / 24 Mordad 1279, Madame Grön once again demonstrated her skill in driving around curves in the Shah’s presence, who told her: “The excellence of the automobile is now established, on the evidence that it is so docile in your small delicate hands as to allow you to drive it whichever way you wish.” The charm proved effective, and the deal of the cars was sealed. The Shah was pleased with his experience with automobiles on that day and, in order to preserve its memory, he had Madame Grön stand on his left hand side and “a series of moving pictures were taken with the Cinématographe,” following which the Shah went out on the beach Corilin, Badaye‘-e Vaqaye‘, p. 104. Writings on the history of Iranian cinema, which all make direct or indirect use of Corilin’s translated text, erroneously mention a French lady who made films, or a Madame Kron who actually shot films. These are incorrect and the story in Corilin’s text is none but the one related..

In this translation of Nayyer-ol-Molk, it is unclear by whom the photographs were taken, and it appears that the film of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah and Madame Grön was taken first, before the Shah’s stroll on the beach, whereas in Belgian records the reverse is true, and the photographer is known Belgian sources. See list of sources at the end of the article, and Corilin, Badaye‘-e Vaqaye‘, pp. 104-105.:

“Le Chah s’est ensuite dirigé vers la plage en descendant la rampe qui se trouve devant le Palace et il s’est fait ramasser quelques échantillons de coquillages. Après une promenade d’une demi-heure environ… a donné ordre à son photographe particulier de prendre une vue cinématographique du groupe. Après quelques minutes d’attente, sur un signe du photographe, SMI suivie de son entourage s’est avancée lentement et la scène a été prise… [Le Chah] a fait appeler Mme Grön et l’a prié de se placer à sa gauche afin de figurer sur la vue cinématographique”.

Thus, the first documented Iranian film was made by the Shah’s personal photographer, Mirza-Ebrahim ‘Akkas-bashi, on the sandy beach in front of the Hôtel Palace of Ostend, of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Madame Grön and their entourage on the morning of Wednesday 15 August 1900 / 18 Rabi‘-os-Sani 1318 / 24 Mordad 1279. Unfortunately, this film has not been found. It will be noted that it was shot three days before the one made at the floral carnival (see a few lines below), which we had thought to be the first historically documented Iranian film and accordingly adopted its date as the anniversary of Iranian cinema. Another notable point is that the floral carnival scene was that of an event and could therefore be considered documentary or informational, whereas the beach scene was somehow prearranged, because some stage setting was done before and during the shooting (see paragraph 4). In other words, the movement of the cast was effected in view of the filming, and not the opposite; therefore the film was not just “taken”; even if primitively, it was “made”.

The second filming took place in the afternoon of Saturday 21 Rabi‘-os-Sani 1318 / 18 August 1900 / 27 Mordad 1279, during a floral carnival, again in Ostend. Unlike the previous, it was planned in advance and therefore constitutes the first film of its kind in the history of Iranian cinema. Furthermore, even if it is a souvenir, it is also the first Iranian documentary film owing to its preplanned nature and especially its subject. Yet, it is not a documentary news report, because it was never publicly screened. After “His Imperial Majesty” (Sa Majesté Impériale) ordered the ‘Akkas-bashi to film the floral festival, the itinerary of the flower throwers’ carriages and chariots was surveyed in advance. The Villa des Familles, which had a balcony overlooking Longchamp-fleuri, along which the caravan was to proceed, was chosen as the best site for the camera, and the location of the loge in which the Shah was to sit was determined. Belgian sources. See list of sources at the end of the article. Perhaps wishing to reap “honor” (honneur) from its privileged location, the owners of the house had the Shah’s loge built almost exactly opposite it. That balcony truly offered ‘Akkas-bashi’s “interesting work” the best view of the avenue on the dyke, where the carnival was to proceed (c’était du reste le meilleur point de vue de la digue pour cet intéressant travail) Belgian sources. See list of sources at the end of the article..

At 15:00 hours on Saturday 21 Rabi‘-os-Sani 1318 / 18 August 1900 / 27 Mordad 1279, greeted by the cheering crowd, the Shah and his entourage appeared in the royal loge and, after he was presented with three flags, the carnival began Corilin, Badaye‘-e Vaqaye‘, p. 108..

The Shah wrote about that day in his memoirs:

“Today a floral carnival is being held and We have been invited to attend[.] We went to attend[.] His Excellency the prime Minister and the Minister of Foreign Affairs were also in attendance[.] It was a very picturesque feast[.] The entire carriages were invisible and ladies rode them past us with flower bouquets in their arms and the ‘Akkas-bashi was busy taking sinemotograf pictures[.] Some fifty carriages [laden] with flowers were proceeding in a neat file[,] and music was being played[.] A huge crowd had gathered and when the carriages reached Us flower bouquets were thrown towards Us one after the other, so that a tall pile of flowers appeared before Us[.] We in turn threw about a kharvar [300kg] of flowers towards their carriages[.] In Europe these festivities are also called Flower Feast and Flower Battle Translation of the French “bataille de fleurs”, an expression which the Shah himself uses elsewhere (Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [second voyage], p. 80) and which Farrokh Ghaffari found to be the equivalent of Corso fleuri. See Ghaffari, 20 ans de cinéma en Iran, pp. 179-195., and they are [regularly] held. It was most picturesque[;] We had a very good time[.] And the horses of Our carriage were all excellent and bedecked with flowers. They were very well decorated and made a truly superb sight[.] We returned to our residence at sunset[.] A group of Zoroastrians were brought into Our presence…” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], pp. 160-161.

I had found part of this film eighteen years ago (1361 AS / AD 1982), with the assistance of the personnel then in charge of the section at the Golestan Palace (Shahindokht Soltani Rad, Elaheh Shahideh and Hassan ‘Ala’ini), and other fragments were recovered in the course of the classification of the Album House of the Golestan Palace by Javad Hasti, assisted by Farida Qashqa’i, but the definitive identification of their contents eventually came on 13 Aban 1379 / 3 November 2000 in Paris, thanks to the data which Mlle Marion Baptiste and M. le Baron Michel de Radiguès collected for me in Belgium. Some of these films were copied under the supervision of Akbar ‘Alemi in 1362 / 183 at the IRIB, and later on used (in part: 2’ 26”) in the video known as Makhmalbaf’s, but none of us actually knew anything about their actual contents In this concern, also see Section 3, 2.. Today (5 January 2001 / 16 dey 1379), 71.80 m of these films (corresponding to the 2’ 26” mentioned) have been identified on ‘Alemi’s copies, and the originals are preserved in laboratory conditions and being prepared for copying at the Centre National de la Cinématographie in France. As these 35mm nitrate—hence self-destructive—films are stuck together and very brittle, it is not yet known what length of them will be saved for a time, and how much of it will be positive or negative.

Among the films copied in the past, one first sees the arrival of the Shah’s carriage escorted by Belgian mounted gendarmes and guards wielding nude swords. The horsemen wear fur caps like those of British royal guards. The police being in charge of order, a policeman is visible beside the flower-bedecked loge of the Shah. Then the carriages covered with flowers begin moving; the ladies riding the carriages throw flowers at the Shah, and he at them. A little girl runs towards the Shah; she is stopped. The Shah orders her to be allowed forth and embraces her; then someone carries her away. The rain of flowers continues and eventually the Shah leaves the loge towards his carriage. At this moment, noticing that the flags presented to the Shah have been forgotten, someone picks up the—apparently two, and not three—flags and carries them away. The Shah leaves, followed by his escort of mounted guards.

At first glance, it appears certain that Mirza-Ebrahim-Khan ‘Akkas-bashi was filming from within the stand with the Shah’s and his own camera, but this was probably not the case: On 20 August 1900 (Monday 23 Rabi‘-os-Sani 1318 / 29 Mordad 1279), that is two days after the floral carnival, Gaumont Co. sent a letter to the ‘Akkas-bashi in Ostend, informing him that the photographic material he had requested had been delivered in Paris at the date he had indicated, that the two film cameras he had ordered were being delivered (apparently to himself, together with the letter), and that a cameraman from that company then posted in Ostend would be at his service with a complete photographic equipment. Even if it took two only days for the letter and cameras to reach him, he did not receive them earlier than 22 August, that is four days after the floral carnival and a week after the beach scene. Therefore, Mirza-Ebrahim had no camera before 22 August, and the Shah only mentions Mirza-Ebrahim’s film shooting in Ostend, and not elsewhere; for these reasons, quite probably, no such event had taken place earlier during this trip, and Mirza-Ebrahim did his filming in Ostend with the camera of the photographer sent by Gaumont. Of course, he had become acquainted with these devices and learned film processing when buying the cameras, and it may therefore be assumed that he thereafter was in possession of a camera, which he later took with himself to Belgium. This is possible, nevertheless, taking into consideration the Shah’s meticulousness in recording matters related to pictures, one would expect him to also mention Mirza-Ebrahim’s filming elsewhere, whereas this does not happen. In fact, it appears that, even before receiving the letter and the cameras from Gaumont Co. on 20 August, ‘Akkas-bashi had borrowed that company’s camera from its representative since the day of the car ride. The managers of Gaumont. Co., perhaps notified by their photographer, welcomed the event and put the photographer and his camera at the disposition of ‘Akkas-bashi, with no mention being made of the past events. Of course, the proposition to use the instruments did not necessary require the knowledge of the managers of Gaumont Co. about the filming, and they could have made such a proposition to a prospective client on their own. Unfortunately the original letter of Gaumont Co. to Mirza-Ebrahim is in French and has not been published. This document, as well as two brief notes and a bust photograph of Mirza-Ebrahim, were uncovered by Farrokh Ghaffari, and have now been lost, perhaps forever In 1329 AS / 1950, through her husband, Dr. Siavash Shaqaqi, Moluk-Khanom, one of Mirza-Ebrahim’s three daughters handed over documents to Farrokh Ghaffari that includes the following: the letter of Gaumont Co., two letters concerning films shot by Mirza-Ebrahim on the Shah’s orders (see text below), and a bust portrait of Mirza-Ebrahim that has been published by Jamal Omid (Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 116). Some of these documents are first mentioned in note 1 of Farrokh Ghaffari’s article, “The first cinematographic endeavors in Iran”, in ‘Alam-e Honar of 26 Mehr 1330, but general information was supplied to the author by Farrokh Ghaffari himself. Ghaffari’s collection disappeared during the events of Bahman 1357 / February 1979. One can perhaps hope that, just as some of his books eventually found their way to the Central Library of Tehran University, these documents will some day be identified among the belongings of this or that foundation, or elsewhere.. Fortunately, Farrokh Ghaffari had put the photograph, the text of both notes and the Persian translation of the letter at the disposition of Jamal Omid, who had them published, compensating to a certain extent for the loss J. Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 34, note 7.. Ghaffari himself had also given a translation of the letter, which differed only in one point that did not affect its meaning. The point in case was the word “roll”, the anglicized from of the French “rouleau” (spool), which could not have appeared as such in a letter written in French. It has been added in straight brackets in Ghaffaris’ version, which appears here:

“Ostend, Belgium, His Excellency Mirza-Ebrahim-Khan, Photographer of His Imperial Majesty the Shah of Iran,

As per your instructions, I am sending you the 35 and 15 millimeter film cameras you had ordered. We have delivered fifteen cases [rolls] at 43 Avenue du Bois de Boulogne The residence of the Shah, mentioned above. on the day you had determined. In order to avoid any confusion between the two cases that were to be delivered earlier and the thirteen others, they have been painted black. One of our cameramen is in Ostend and his filming equipment and himself are at the disposition of the Shah of Iran. We are also able to inform you that the company of the Baths of Monaco has granted us the exceptional authorization to offer the positive strips of the annual cinematographic competition of the year 1899 to His majesty if such is His wish.” J. Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 34, note 7. Following this note, one reads: This competition, which attracted great attention at the time, was rewarded by prizes of ten thousand and five thousand Francs and numerous two thousand and one thousand Francs prizes. One of these was a film of Dr. Doyen performing a surgery, which Léon Gaumont offered to present to the Shah.

Positive strips refer to ordinary films that can be shown with a projector, the 15 millimeter Gaumont apparatus is probably the 1900 model chronophotographe, or perhaps the chronophotographe with the Démeny system of 1897. Such great figures as Alice Guy and George Méliès utilized it and it was still in use at the Gaumont studios fifteen years after its invention. It appears unlikely for Jamal Omid to have later added the word “rouleau” on his own, and perhaps Ghaffari’s unpublished text includes typesetting omissions, particularly that the remains of raw films brought to Tehran a century ago have now been identified and classified at the Golestan Palace, which attests to their large original number The remains of these films are scarce and have not yet been entirely classified and identified. The proof that they are over a hundred years old is that, besides 35 millimeter films, they include narrow centrally perforated films, and among the unprocessed photographic plates I have found none dated earlier than 1899 or with an expiry date later than 1906.. On another hand, it is quite conceivable that the fifteen cases delivered did not contain only films, and that photographic equipment, various types of films and processing chemicals were also included. Otherwise, one must admit that, just as the Shah used to buy different photographic cameras on various occasions, he could buy photographic plates, cinema film and even cinematographic equipment from other manufacturers, for example Pathé, at other times.

One of the film cameras he bought, which was neither necessarily a Gaumont nor probably mentioned in this company’s letter, was seen by Henry Savage Landor at the Golestan Palace in Tehran in 1901 (1280 AS)—give or take one or two months. In a derogatory tone evocative of Morier’s Haji Baba, Landor writes:

“… Adjoining this room is a boudoir, possessing the latest appliances of civilisation. It contains another grand piano, a large apparatus for projecting moving pictures on screen and an ice-cream soda with four taps, of the type one admires—but does not wish to possess—in the New York chemists shops! The Shah’s however lacks three things: the soda, the ice and the syrups.” Henry Savage Landor, Across Coveted Lands or a Journey from Flushing (Holland) to Calcutta, Overland, London, 2 vols., London, 1902 (US ed. New York, 1903). It has been written (see, e.g., J. Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 22) that, while visiting the Golestan Palace, Henry Savage Landor saw a “large Gaumont Cinématographe”, but, as we saw, the author does not mention a Gaumont Cinématographe. Further on, in the same derogatory tone, Landor also mentions the Shah’s modern printing press (p. 238), meaning the magnificent machine bought in the same year, during the Shah’s first travel to Europe, by Ahmad Sani‘-os-Saltaneh and installed in the Golestan Palace under the supervision of Mirza-Ebrahim ‘Akkas-bashi (see Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], pp. 1-255). The photographs I have seen of the operation indicate that the machinery was installed on the ground floor of the southeastern corner of the White Palace, facing the garden. The Shah’s accounts of his first two travels to Europe were among the books that were typeset and printed with this equipment.

Further along his travel, Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah left Ostend for the mineral water springs of Marienbad, then in Austria and now in the Czech republic. Eighteen days after the floral carnival, on Wednesday 9 Jomadi-ol-Avval 1318 / Tuesday 4 September 1900 / 13 Shahrivar 1279, the ‘Akkas-bashi probably showed him the readied films of those events. The Shah wrote in his memoirs: “The ‘Akkas-bashi had prepared the cinématographe and until half an hour before midnight we spent the time partly conversing and partly viewing our own pictures.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 178. From Marienbad the Shah went to the Austrian capital and, on the last day of his stay in Vienna, on Monday 28 Jomadi-ol-Avval / Sunday 23 September / 1 Mehr, “Sani‘-os-Saltaneh arrived from Paris and was given audience. It turned out that our orders had been correctly executed and reached home.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 196. These “orders” quite probably included the above-mentioned printing equipment and the fifteen cases of photographic material referred to in the letter of Gaumont Co. The filming cameras were in the cases, because, from Ostend to the end of the journey in Tehran, while he repeatedly mentions photography, and even notes that he spent some time annotating photographs Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 191., he utters not a single word about filming, and it appears that the film representation in Marienbad was made with a machine other than the ones the Shah had bought.

Returning from Europe, Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah reached Tehran on 2 Sha‘ban 1318 / 25 November 1900 / 4 Azar 1279, and on 29 Zelhajjeh 1319 / 8 April 1902 / 19 Faravardin 1281, he once against set out towards Europe. During his stay in Tehran, he had had at least from three to five cinema cameras at his disposition: either one or three from the first acquisition, and at least two from the second. No report on the output of this equipment, whether concerning filming or film showing, is available, and no clear picture can be formulated before the films at the Golestan Palace are analyzed. Of course, films must have been made in this period (see below), although these cinematographic activities could not compare with the popularity of photography, which, besides being the hobby of the king, was also well established outside the court. The continued supremacy of photography over cinema is clearly perceptible in the Shah’s memoirs of his second voyage to Europe. In this travel account, the Shah makes scores of allusions to photographs and various types of photographic cameras, as well as picture taking by different people, including himself and Mirza-Ebrahim Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [second voyage], pp. 19, 29, 45, 53, 68, 70, 72, 78, 98, 133, 136 & 151. The acquisition of two, certainly photographic, cameras at Lucerne, Switzerland, on Tuesday 18 Safar 1320 / 27 May 1902 / 6 Khordad 1281 (p. 54) and a photographic camera and an X-ray unit (p. 60), dispatching the ‘Akkas-bashi to Germany to buy the “newly invented photograph” (p. 63), instantaneous photography (p. 66), dispatching the ‘Akkas-bashi to “carry out some orders’ (p. 104), which consisted of buying a photographic camera (p. 106), the painting of a portrait of the Shah, the arrival of ‘Abdollah-Mirza Qajar—the famous Iranian photographer—to take pictures (p. 111), use of a magnesium flash (p. 126)., whereas cinema is mentioned only four times, moreover only from the viewpoint of a spectator and not that of a buyer of its equipment. In early September1902 / mid Tir 1281, the Shah had seen the cinématographe in Karlsbad [now in the Czech Republic], but had not written a single word of the event in his memoirs, having probably found it uninteresting. This representation is mentioned in the description of the evening of Friday 3 Jomadi-ol-Avval 1320 / 8 August 1902 / 17 Mordad 1281 at Contrexéville. The Shah wrote: “The cinématographe is here[.] We saw it to be a panorama like to the one we had seen in Karlsbad[.] We would not have gone had we known [.] There was also a small billiard [pool table] there, as well as several small jahan-namas…” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [second voyage], p. 107. Before that, in his memoirs of Friday 17 Rabi‘-os-Sani / Thursday 24 July / 2 Mordad in London, the Shah also writes about cinema, this time in more appreciative terms, particularly for having seen the film of his own visit. He writes: “We came home, recited our prayers and ate supper[.] After supper the cinématographe was set up and we went downstairs[.] There, the pictures of our visit with His Majesty the King [Edward VII], our visit today of the armory, the previous evening at the theater and the flow of the river were all projected by electric lamps on the screen[,] exactly as though it was ourselves in motion[.] We admired.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [second voyage], p. 119. “The flow of the river” refers to a representation he had seen on the previous evening, in which water was shown to flow until it covered the scene. Ten days later, in Paris, before noon on Sunday 26 Jomadi-ol-Avval / 31 August / 9 Shahrivar, the Shah refused a projector, perhaps of a new type and offered to his attention for sale, following an unsuccessful demonstration. His attention was also drawn probably for the first time to the magnesium flashlight. He writes: “A cinématographe was brought which had a lamp at its back and appeared as though one were leafing through a book[.] In the meanwhile, His Excellency the Atabak-e A‘zam arrived[.] We tried to show him[, but the device] failed, so that even its owner was unable to repair it.] We gave the apparatus back[.] Then a photographer came who made photographs at night[.] He had the curtains drawn and the room filled with smoke and then made a portrait of Bassir-os-Saltaneh and Nasser-ol-Molk.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [second voyage], p. 126. For the last time, in the evening of Sunday 3 Jomadi-ol-Akher 1320 / 7 september 1902 / 16 Shahrivar 1281, in the course of his second European tour, during which, apart from photography, he was more attracted by the phonograph and automobiles than by motion pictures, the Shah went to see films and the jahan-nama in Paris. He wrote in his memoirs: “The ‘Akkas-bashi had also brought a cinématographe[;] we watched for an hour[.] We then spent another hour watching the jahan-nama[.] Our nokars were also there[;] we conversed[;] then we went to bed.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [second voyage], p. 131.

c. The decline

No information is available about what happened between Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s arrival to Tehran on Friday 20 Rajab 1320 / 23 October 1902 / 1 Aban 1281 and his last European tour in 1323 / 1905, but as photography was still part of the scene and the ‘Akkas-bashi and his father were present during these 29 months, one may assume that the same was more or less true about cinema activities at the court. Malijak’s memoirs attest to this. After breaking his fast, on Tuesday 15 Ramazan 1320 / 16 December 1902 / 25 Azar 1281, he went to the court, and later wrote: “We stayed for two hours at the house [Golestan Palace]. Simon the ‘Akkas-bashi had brought a telegraph and was showing it to the Shah.” Malijak, v. 1, p. 330.

The Shah left Tehran on his third voyage to Europe on Sunday 2 Rabi‘-ol-Avval 1323 / 7 June 1905 / 15 Khordad 1284 and returned to his capital before Ramazan of the same year / 28 November / 7 Azar Departure date in Nazem-ol-Eslam Kermani, Tarikh-e Bidari-e Iranian, v. 1, pp. 298, 397 & Malijak, v.1, p. 767; return date in Malijak, v. 1, p. 836.. Apparently no account of this travel, which is said to have taken place in not quite satisfactory conditions, is available A relatively complete illustrated account of this part of the voyage, which took place in France and belgium from 22 June to 31 August 1905 (2 Tir to 10 Shahrivar 1284), appears in Graux and Daragon’s rare book printed in only 300 copies. See European sources, under Graux, pp. 16-33. The Cinématographe is not mentioned in this account (see in particular p. 23)., but albums of photographs made during it by Mirza-Ebrahim and others are preserved in the Album House of the Golestan Palace. After his third voyage, given the restive mood of the society and the king’s sickness, to which he succumbed one year later, on 23 Ziqa‘deh 1324 / 18 January 1907 / 18 Dey 1285, any cinematographic activity at the court during that year could not have been dazzling; and the sloth Malijak does not mention the cinema.

The Constitutionalists’ movement and Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s inclination towards seeing himself as the “guardian” rather than the “master” of his people resulted in his proclamation of the Edict of the Constitution on 14 Jamadi-as-Sani 1324 / 5 August 1906 / 14 Mordad 1285. Had it occurred in an industrialized society, this era, which witnessed the opening of schools and the creation of newspapers, and which, after the Shah’s death, became the scene of revolutions and combats waged by freedom fighters, could have brought prompted the creation of at least unique documentary films. But, in the absence of filmmaking outside the court, this did not happen. Mirza-Ebrahim, the ex-courtier, had lost his patron, and as he was not fully professional, as for example ‘Abdollah-Khan Qajar in photography, he busied himself with other occupations and even sold a cinema camera to the photographer Russi-Khan! Apparently only the photographer Russi-Khan, who was acquainted with Mohammad-‘Ali Shah, made some eighty meters of film of the ‘Ashura ceremonies of 1327 / 1 February 1909 / 12 Bahman 1288 with a camera he had bought from Mirza-Ebrahim-Khan ‘Akkas-bashi Russi-Khan had told Farrokh Ghaffari that “he had bought a camera from the son of Sani‘-Hazrat, Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s ‘Akkas-bashi, in 1909…” (F. Ghaffari, “Avvalin Azmayesh-ha-ye Sinema’i dar Iran” – 2, p. 27 & J. Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 26, in brief). Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s ‘Akkas-bashi was Sani‘-os-Saltaneh and Russi-Khan meant his son, Mirza-Ebrahim, but his attribution of the camera to Sani‘-Hazrat’s son, who was neither a photographer nor the Shah’s ‘Akkas-bashi, is erroneous. Sani‘-Hazrat’s sole connection with photography was that he assassinated Mirza-Javad-Khan, the constitutionalist photographer. This mistake, which had remained uncovered to the present, was perhaps due Russi-Khan’s despotism and support for Mohammad-‘Ali Shah. Concerning Mirza-Javad-Khan’s assassination and Sani‘-Hazrat, see Nazem-ol-Eslam Kermani, Tarikh-e Bidari-e Iranian, part 2, p. 484; Y. Zoka’, Tarikh-e ‘Akkasi, pp. 284-285, and; Dakho (‘Ali-Akbar Dehkhoda), who derisively likens Sani‘-Hazrat’s marching at the head of his platoon to General Korapatkine, whose panorama was mentioned (Soor-e Esrafil, Thursday 11 Zelhajjeh 1325 / Wednesday 15 January 1908 / 25 Dey 1286, no. 20, p. 6). Sani‘-Hazrat was hanged by the revolutionaries on 11 Rajab 1327 / 29 July 1909 / 7 Mordad 1288, Malijak, v. 3, p. 1579 & illustrations in v. 3, pp. 1580-1581.. He sent the film to Russia for developing. It was shown there, but when it arrived to Tehran, the downfall of Mohammad-‘Ali Shah (Friday 27 Jamadi-al-Akher 1327 / 16 July 1909 / 25 Tir 1288) and the looting of Russi-Khan’s shop by the “governmental troops” (i.e., the constitutionalists) Malijak, v. 3, pp. 1550, 1557. on the same day prevented it from being ever seen. It was plundered, together with 200,000 meters of other films F. Ghaffari, “Avvalin Azmayesh-ha-ye Sinema’i dar Iran” – 2, v. 3, pp. 1550, 1557. Ghaffari’s text reads “two hundred thousand meters”, but, as he has advised the author, the correct figure must be 2,000 meters, or perhaps 20,000 meters., and nothing is known of its fate. As noted at the end of part One, Russi-Khan had become a cinema owner since 1 Ramazan 1325 / 8 October 1907 / 16 Mehr 1286 and possessed three cinema projectors at the time Inference from J. Omid’s writings, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 25.. Russi-Khan’s acquisition of cinema cameras and projectors and his screening of films taken in Russia clearly indicate that he intended to begin producing financially profitable films; hence, he must be considered the unsuccessful originator of private filmmaking for the public in Iran. Moreover, having films developed in Russia itself indicates the decline of cinematographic techniques in Iran after the death of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, because the existence of unused positive and negative 35 millimeter or centrally perforated narrow films at the Golestan Palace (see below) suggests that such operations were indeed carried out in the country, at least in the case of narrow films, during his reign. Although Mirza-Ebrahim-Khan ‘Akkas-bashi’s works lacked the printing quality of the great photographers active under Nasser-ed-Din Shah, it is hardly credible that he—who was able to run a relatively large printing house—could not develop a cinema film.

Two
The fate of the royal film cameras
Of the scores of photographic and cinema cameras bought successively by Nasser-ed-Din Shah and Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, nothing but a fragment of matte glass mounted on a lacquered wooden frame remains today in the Golestan Palace. It is to be hoped that the classification and review of the documents preserved at the Golestan Palace will some day reveal the sad fate of these devices. For the time being, the author believes that this collection disappeared at an undetermined date after Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s death, during the suspension of the Golestan Palace ensemble, which lasted until around 1340 AS (AD 1960). Unfortunately, unlike the books transferred during the reign of Reza Shah to the National Library or Iran-e Bastan Museum, these cameras were transferred without any record being made, or having come to light to the present. One of the cinema cameras is said to be have been sold on auction under Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, but the date stated for this sale by Alec Patmagrian to Jamal Omid can only be erroneous or incorrectly converted from a Christian or a Lunar Islamic one. As recounted by Alec Patmagrian to Jamal Omid, in 1283 AS (AD 1904), during the reign of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Khanbaba Mo‘tazedi had come into possession at an auction sale held at the Tekie-ye Dowlat of the Gaumont camera bought by the ‘Akkas-bashi in France in 1900 J. Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 38, note 67.. Khanbaba Mo‘tazedi himself had no recollection of the date of the sale or the origins of the Gaumont camera put on auction at the Tekie-ye Dowlat, except that he had once seen several cinema cameras of the Gaumont type at the Tekie-ye Dowlat and been able to buy one for the price of one hundred Tomans J. Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 38, note 67.. As Khanbaba Mo‘tazedi was born in 1271 AS / AD 1892 J. Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 30., it is highly unlikely for him to have attended an auction sale at the age of twelve, bought a Gaumont camera for one hundred Tomans, remembered the price, but forgotten entirely when he acquired what must have been an unforgettable masterpiece for a child of twelve! Moreover, how could Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, who was in love with photography and cinema, have resigned himself to putting on sale a camera he had bought only four years earlier? The very fact of an auction sale during the reign of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, particularly at the Tekie-ye Dowlat, is quite improbable. One can hardly admit that a Shah who never missed his daily religious duties and, even when in France, diligently participated in araba‘in and ta‘zieh ceremonies Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 83., would hold an auction sale of his cameras at the Tekie-ye Dowlat—built by his father had in view of Moharram ceremonies. And the price of one hundred Tomans appears too expensive for the time. In the author’s opinion, Khanbaba Mo‘tazedi bought this camera at an auction sale held at the Tekie-ye Dowlat long after his return from Europe in 1295 AS / AD 1916 J. Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 30., during the reign of Ahmad Shah according to one source Jamal Omid, speaking of the shooting of Abi va Rabi, this time probably quoting Mo‘tazedi, writes (Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 58, note 26) that the auction sale took place under Ahmad Shah, but, as we shall see a few lines lower, this too is incorrect., and most probably under Reza Shah This is now certain, because Mr. Asghar Mahdavi told the author on 20 Shahrivar 1379 (10 September 2000) that the auction sale, which was also attended by the late Aqa-Seyyed-Jalal Tehrani, was held during the late Taymurtash’s tenure at the Ministry of the Court. Mr. Mahdavi’s words will be reproduced in their entirety at another opportunity.. It is improbable for Khanbaba Mo‘tazedi to have done professional work with this camera. He must have considered it more of a “curiosity” than a working instrument. His working instruments were the cameras and devices he had brought with himself from France Concerning the list of these instruments, which included one (?) Gaumont cinema camera and its ancillaries, see Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 30.. Jamal Omid—quoting Khanbaba Mo‘tazedi?—writes that he had done the shooting of Oganians’ Abi va Rabi with the same Gaumont camera of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah J. Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 58, note 26.. This is improbable, because the film in question was screened in Tehran on 12 Dey 1309 / 2 January 1931, thirty years after Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s cameras were manufactured, and one has to admit that either the camera bought by Mo‘tazedi was not Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s or he had shot Abi va Rabi with the Gaumont camera he had brought back from France in 1295 AS / AD 1916.

In 1288 AS / AD 1909, Mirza-Ebrahim ‘Akkas-bashi sold another camera, of unknown brand and specifications, to Russi-Khan, who, as noted above, used it to make some eighty meters of film Ghaffari, “Avvalin Azmayesh-ha-ye Sinema’i dar Iran” – 2, ‘Alam-e Honar, 4, p. 28.. Nothing justifies attributing royal origins to this camera, which may have belonged to Russi-Khan from new, but the possibility cannot be dismissed; it is conceivable that it had remained in his possession since Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s time and that he now saw no reason to keep it any longer.

3

The films
The documents related to films fall in two categories: written and pictorial. The written documents include a description of the ‘Akkas-bashi’s filming and two brief notes; the pictorial documents are the films themselves, the study of which will begin once their restoration is completed.

1. Written documents about the beginnings of filming
The oldest document is the description of Mirza-Ebrahim ‘Akkas-bashi’s filming of the floral carnival at Ostend during the summer of 1900 / 1279, which will be described in detail. Thereafter, besides two documents whose loss was mentioned, no others have been found. These documents belonged to Moluk-Khanom Mossavver Rahmani, one of Mirza-Ebrahim’s three daughters, and had been donated in 1329 / 1950 to Farrokh Ghaffari by her husband, Eng. Ebrahim Shaqaqi, together with a bust portrait of the ‘Akkas-bashi and the letter of Gaumont Co. to him, the text of which we saw. None of these documents was dated and a brief description of them based upon the words and writings of Farrokh Ghaffari and Jamal Omid follows:

Document 1: On filming the ‘Ashura ceremony at Sabzeh Maydan, Tehran, the first Iranian documentary film, Mirza-Ebrahim ‘Akkas-bashi’s filming of the mourning ceremonies of Moharram at the Sabzeh Maydan, Tehran, attributable to Tassu‘a 1319 / 29 may 1901 / 8 Khordad 1280.

The text of this document notifies the ‘Akkas-bashi of the Shah’s orders to film the mourning processions, particularly the flagellation with swords, during the month of Moharram at the Sabzeh Maydan in Tehran. In view of its contents and style, the Shah’s order to Mirza-Ebrahim was necessarily written by someone in his close entourage. It reads:

“Our beloved brother, His Holiest Imperial Majesty the Shahanshah, may our souls be offered to him in sacrifice, has ordered you to take the Cinématographe early in the morning to the Sabzeh Maydan, where you will take pictures of all the processions, the flagellation with swords, etc.” J. Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 22. In Ghaffari’s unpublished text, “arvahena laho-l-fada” appears as “arvahena fadah” and in his first mention of this document its content is summarized as: “Early in the morning take the Cinématographe to Sabzeh Maydan and shoot (“biandazid”) pictures of all the flagellants’ processions.” (Ghaffari, “Avvalin Azmayesh-ha-ye Sinema’i dar Iran” – 1, original handwritten text; the printed version contains the same text as in “Avvalin Azmayesh-ha-ye Sinema’i dar Iran” – 1, p. 5, with “biandaz” instead of “biandazid”)

This letter bears great importance, because it includes the order for the first Iranian documentary film to be made. Neither the name nor the title of the ‘Akkas-bashi appears in this text, but since the document was in his daughter’s possession, it is conceivable that it was addressed to him. The Shah’s order was not necessarily carried out and the author has not yet been able to identify such a film. But this cannot negate the possibility that the film in question was shot, particularly that, in view of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s deep attention to Moharram ceremonies and the tears he shed on these occasions Nazem-ol-Eslam Kermani, Tarikh-e Bidari-e Iranian, v. 1, p. 131: “He was fond of ta‘ziehs… fervent at weeping.”, the author believes that it did take place. The order of this filming is undated and, at first glance, taking into account the arrival of the first cinématographes to Iran, one is tempted to consider the month of Moharram of the years 1318 to 1324. In Moharram 1318 / 1900 and Moharram 1320 / 1902, the Shah was either on the road or touring Europe, and Moharram 1325 / 1907 corresponded to his downfall, so these dates cannot be envisaged. What remains is Moharram of 1319, 21, 22, 23 and 24. Future studies of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s schedule in the month of Moharram in these years will help delimiting the date of this filming, but in view of the novelty of the cinema after his first travel to Europe in 1319 / 1901, it may not be unrealistic to believe that the order of filming the ceremonies was issued on the Tassu‘a of 1319 / 29 May 1901 / Khordad 1280 and that the filming itself took place on the ‘Ashura of the same year (30 May 1901 / 9 Khordad 1280. The spelling of the word sinémofotograf is also more indicative of 1319 than later years, because, as we saw, after the Shah’s second European tour in 1320 / 1902 / 1281, the correct spelling of sinématograf replaced it. With this historic seniority, the film of the ‘Ashura ceremonies can be considered the first Iranian documentary film, but it also has a memorial character and was shot outside Iran.

Document 2: On filming a lion at Dushan-tappeh, the oldest Iranian fantastic film, attributable to the second half of the winter and the early spring of 1900 / around Esfand 1278 and Farvardin 1279, or more probably from the winter of 1318 / 1900 / 1279 to before the spring of 1320 / 1902 / 1218.

This order too is undated and unsigned, but Farrokh Ghaffari notes that it was written by the Shah himself, on the official crown letterhead paper of “Dushan-tappeh Palace” Ghaffari, “Avvalin Azmayesh-ha-ye Sinema’i dar Iran” – 1, p. 5. The word “crown” does not appear in the printed version of Ghaffari’s text, but existed in his manuscript.. It reads:

“’Akkas[-bashi,] tomorrow morning swiftly bring the sinemofotgraf camera with two, three rouleaux for Us to take pictures of the lions.” Handwritten text of “Avvalin Azmayesh-ha-ye Sinema’i dar Iran” – 1, Ghaffari. In the printed version of “Avvalin Azmayesh-ha-ye Sinema’i dar Iran” – 1, p. 8, the spelling of sinemofotgraf has been changed into sinemofotograf. Apparently writing hastily, the Shah’s had even omitted the bashi postfix. Jamal Omid has published the original text as follows: “’Akkas-bashi, tomorrow morning swiftly bring the sinemofotograf camera with two, three rouleaux for Us to take pictures of the lions”, Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran –1, p. 36, and Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 22.

As the paper and text of this document indicate, it was written by the Shah himself, during a stay at Dushan-tappeh. The lions were kept in the Lion House at Dushan-tappeh, under the supervision of Rajab. The Lion House also housed leopards, which still lived in the wild on the mountains east of Dushan-tappeh, and captive leopards even bore cubs Malijak, Diary, v. 1, pp. 224, 581. Malijak describes the zoological garden of the Dushan-tappeh Palace, called “Bagh-e Shir Khaneh” (Lion House Garden), which had a separate entrance.. The type of letterhead paper to which Ghaffari refers still exists in the hands of some individuals and even in unwritten form at the Golestan Palace, and examples of it were exhibited during the commemoration of the hundredth anniversary of Iranian cinema held at the Golestan Palace in the summer of 1379 (2000).

Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s notes are undated, but they were necessarily written either after the arrival of the film equipment of the first order on 10 Shavval 1317 / 11 Fevrier 1900 / 22 Bahman 1278 and before the Shah’s departure on his first European tour on 12 Zelhajjeh 1317 / Friday 13 April 1900 / 24 Farvardin 1279, or between his return on 2 Sha‘ban 1318 / 25 November 1900 / 4 Azar 1279 and 23 Ziqa‘deh 1324 / 18 January 1907 / 18 Dey 1285, the date of his death. No clues to the exact date at which this order was issued exist, but if the Shah’s eagerness to have films made can be attributed to his recent acquisition of a new unknown device, and particularly if one takes the spelling sinémotgraf as a milestone, then the earlier dates must be envisaged accordingly. Another reason is that the Shah has spoken of “lions”, while only one lion existed at Dushan-tappeh on 13 Safar 1320 / 22 May 1902 / 1 Khordad 1281 Malijak, Diary, v. 1, p. 224., and the order was therefore issued at an earlier date. One can assume that more lions were later brought in, but those familiar with the history of this period know that, as Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s downfall and the advent of the constitutional era drew near, the disarray of the government reached such proportions that one wonders whether the lions and leopards were regularly fed, let alone increased in number. On another hand, lions had become extinct in Iran in that period, and one can hardly believe someone to have thought of, or succeeded in, capturing an extinct, or rare, lion in Fars or Khuzestan and sending it back to Tehran.

This document also shows that the Shah considered himself part of the filming process (“…for Us to take pictures of the lions.”) and that he had certainly held the camera in his own hands, which justifies his appellation of first Iranian amateur filmmaker. Unfortunately, no trace of these moving pictures, which were certainly made, and which could have provided visual evidence of the Iranian lion, exists either.

2. Preliminary survey of the earlier films in the Album-House of the Golestan Palace
An in-depth examination of the films preserved at the Golestan Palace will have to wait until their restoration, now under way (winter 1379 AH / AD 2001), is completed. Restoring and reconstituting these motion pictures are not easy tasks and require time and earnest study. As already mentioned, a large part of the films were identified in 1361 / 1982 Thanks to an introduction by Dr. Mehdi Hojjat, then vice-director in preservation affairs at the Ministry of Culture and Higher Education, the Ministry of Finances and economic Affairs’ General Office of Estates responded favorably to a request on my part to be allowed to study the photographs of the Album House of the Golestan Palace (request and authorization no. 3492 of 25/8/1361, recorded in the registry of the General Office of Estates). That was the beginning of my ongoing research at the Golestan Palace., and a number of them that were less damaged were hurriedly copied in 1362 / 1983 The story is a long one, but Dr. Akbar ‘Alemi, who was in charge of the copying, has given a brief account of it. See his article “Hekayati no az in no-javan-e sad-saleh…”, note 1. Perhaps owing to a typographic error, the years in which the films were copied are erroneously recorded as 1365 and 1362 instead of 1361 and 1362, respectively. And, of course, the monarch related to these films was Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, and not Nasser-ed-Din Shah.. Thereafter these films were exhibited, unclassified, in a small area and part of them were recorded in a video cassette known as Makhmalbaf’s Tape, after its creator, the film director Mohsen Makhmalbaf, which a few have seen. Also, sequences of these films were masterfully composed, albeit not always in conformity with the individuals’ characters—including Mirza-Ebrahim ‘Akkas-bashi’s—and the outlook and atmosphere at the time of the films’ production, by the same film director in his famous Nasser-ed-Din Shah Cinema Actor and successfully shown to the public. A smaller part of the films—which had remained intact in the form of very short, incomplete rolls and bits of films—were also meticulously collected at the Golestan Palace during the past two, three years and put under safe guard in the Album House of the Golestan Palace With the backing of Seyyed Mohammad Beheshti (director of the Iranian Cultural Heritage Organization) and ‘Ali-Reza Anissi (director of the Golestan Palace), and with the assistance of Hassan-Mirza-Mohammad ‘Ala’ini and particularly Javad Hasti and other responsible persons in the various sections of the Golestan Palace., alongside the films previously copied, which had reached an advanced stage of analysis. The films being extremely fragile and adherent, no attempt at fully unrolling the originals was made and only the first images of each were recorded in the inventory of the Golestan Palace. Following elaborate studies, the Iranian Cultural Heritage Organization and the Golestan Palace decided to have the films sent to France, in the framework of Franco-Iranian Cultural Relations, in view of their restoration and reconstitution within possible limits and their copying. The films were sent in early summer 1379 / 2000 to the Centre National de la Cinématographie in France. This center has 131,000 films in its archives, some 10,000 of which are anterior to the outset of World War I in 1293 / 1914.

In a preliminary, general examination, necessarily based mainly on the films already copied, two categories of films were distinguished in terms of their origins (Iranian and foreign), and five in terms of their themes. The creation dates of the films were also approximately determined. It was investigations of this kind that eventually justified the commemoration of the hundredth anniversary of Iranian cinema, which had been contemplated since around three years ago at the Iranian Cultural Heritage Organization, because prior to that, on the evidence of whatever was known or had been acquired by deduction, any commemoration had to be one of the 100th or 101st anniversary of “filmmaking” in Iran rather than that of “Iranian cinema”. The author did not initially wish to raise the matter and, in communion of mind with the Iranian Cultural Heritage Organization, was more interested in salvaging the films than entering this type of discussions, but this spring (1379 / 2000) Shahrokh Golestan objected to the title “Hundredth Anniversary of Cinema” on the same premise, and pointed to the fact—remained unnoticed to the present—that filming should not be confused with filmmaking, noting that what the ‘Akkas-bashi had done in Ostend was filming and not filmmaking, and that we should commemorate the hundredth anniversary of Iranian filming rather than that of Iranian cinema. Following his perspicacious criticism, he was submitted a descriptive explanation demonstrating that filmmaking was indeed done in Iran during the reign of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah. Yet, disregarding that the hundredth anniversary of cinema in the world, commemorated in 1995, was based upon Louis Lumière’s Sortie des Ouvriers, which was not “made” either (see text below), since failing to present convincing proofs could cause this discussion to be raised anew (as it was! See Hooshang Kavoosi’s article, “Thomas Edison, baradaran-e Lumière, asoodeh bekhabid, ma bidarim!” The author makes no mention of the books and articles left behind by the pioneers of cinema history and even denies the validity of some sources and documents they have published with authentic references (“totally untrue”, p. 107!) Apparently, the first version of this article did not come into his hands either.), I preferred to state these reasons. Before that, three points noted in the preceding lines are briefly discussed:

A. The films’ dates: The oldest films belong to the reign of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah and the latest to Reza-Khan’s final days as Sardar Sepah and early days on the throne. It shows the inauguration of the Iranian pavilion at the international exhibition of Philadelphia on 14 Mehr 1305 / 6 October 1926 (see lines below).

B. The films’ origins: The films are mostly Iranian or French, but the film of the inauguration at the exhibition in the USA is American.

C. Preliminary classification and subjects of the films: The films can be divided into five categories: fantastic, memorial, documentary, informational and narrative; always a difficult task, particularly between memorial, documentary, informational and, to some extent, thriller films. In fact, the films then produced to thrill the spectators and have them come to the cinema, for pure pecuniary reasons in many cases, have now become documentary films.

1. Fantastic films: These films mostly belong to the early days of the Cinématographe and emphasize motion, which discriminated it from photography at that early stage. This feature was so strong that cinema is still also called “moving pictures” in the English language, but in France this appellation (“images animées”, not to be confused with “dessins animés”) is no more used. Typical examples of these fantastic films show trains in motion (particularly locomotives approaching and maneuvering), and the most famous film of this series is Louis Lumière’s “Arrivée d’un train en gare de la Ciotat / Arrival of a Train at a Station”). The Iranian counterpart to these films must be considered the “Arrival of the Shah ‘Abd-ol-‘Azim Smoke Engine to the Gart-e Mashin [Gare des Machines]”, which shows the train reaching its terminus at the old railway station and the veiled ladies rushing to board it. Just as most early moving pictures, this film was probably be filmed by Mirza-Ebrahim himself. It is not unlikely that he was directly inspired by the “Arrivée d’un train en gare de la Ciotat” or other films inspired by it. Another Iranian film with a similar structure shows the “donkey-back race of Mozaffar-ed-din Shah’s private servants in a tree-planted street”. This film features the “famous star” (please disregard the author’s extravagances; see text below) ‘Issa-Khan. Of course, as much as the first film could be considered a documentary film—because the scene filmed, that is the arrival of the train, was real—, the second may rather be classified as a narrative film, the donkey-back race having taken place for the purpose of being filmed, and a production having thus been involved.

Another film at the Golestan Palace, which is French, narrow and centrally perforated, as in the Chrono de poche “ElGé” type, shows the arrival of the “Ship from Le Havre to Cherbourg” (“Le Bateau du Havre à Cherbourg”). A somehow similar Iranian film is the “Riders Fording a River”. This narrow film was identified on 25 Tir 1378 / 16 July 1999 and three similar films—all four are extant in their original labeled tin cases—plus a loose film were identified on 5 Shahrivar 1379 / 26 August 2000 at the Golestan Palace. The three labeled films are:

1. “Schoolchildren Leaving the School” (“Sortie d’écoliers”), which recalls the first film of the history of cinema, “La sortie de l’usine” (“Workers Leaving the Lumière Factory”), even by its name (see next paragraph); 2. “Geese” (“Les oies”); 3. “Woman with Poultry” (“Femme aux volailles”); and, 4. an unlabeled film which I have called “Lad Smoking” (“L’adolescent qui fume”) In 1286 AS / AD 1907, Russi-Khan screened a film in which “a man smoked a cigarette and the smoke of his cigarette was visible on the screen.”, Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 36, note 34 (in Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran – 1, p. 69, the word dood (smoke) appears as khod (self), but this has been corrected in the subsequent edition). In view of Russi-Khan’s connections with Mohammad-‘Ali Shah’s court and the identity of their subject, one can assume that the same film is involved, but this is improbable, because Russi-Khan’s was almost certainly a 35mm film, and not a centrally perforated 15mm one.. Although these are nitrate films, which rarely last a hundred years in good conditions, they have remained almost intact on the whole. Each is about 4.5 meters long. Such centrally perforated films were certainly shot in Iran as well, because tin boxes containing unprocessed positive and negative rolls of them have been identified and collected at the Golestan Palace. Yet, no shot film has been found to the present.

2. Memorial films: The first recorded film in the history of Iranian cinema, i.e., Mirza-Ebrahim’s sequence of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah and Madame Grön at Ostend, was shot as such (see part One, paragraph B). The same intention was involved in the second film, the Floral Carnival at Ostend, although it actually constitutes a documentary.

3. Documentary films: These films are mostly European (almost entirely French) and show Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah visiting various places, but another film, which shows him inspecting a parade and artillery maneuvers, must be British. Another film, which I have recently identified, shows Ahmad Shah, wearing a boater, attending a competition staged in his honor at Biarritz by the pelota world champion Chiquito de Cambo around 1920. Among the Iranian films, those of the Floral Carnival at Ostend and the Coronation of Ahmad Shah are notable. Identifying the latter was not easy, and more investigation remains to be done. The Shrine of Hazrat Ma‘sumeh (pbuh) in Qom, a street in Tehran, a military parade, or the sumptuous arrival of an ambassador to the Golestan Palace, are other attractive fragments.

The film of the Shrine of Hazrat Ma‘sumeh (pbuh) in Qom must be one of Mirza-Ebrahim’s early works (around 1900-1901) and it bears the greatest value in clarifying the relation between emerging Iranian cinema and religion. As I have repeatedly noted with regards to painting and photography, and as we saw in the case of Sahhafbashi’s and Russi-Khan’s cinema and is also clearly visible in this film, these arts, including the newborn cinema, were in no way considered at odds with religion. Such hasty conclusions appear to be rooted in an opposition between a westernized view and other outlooks prevailing in the artistic and social studies of the Iranian world.

4. Infomational films: The film of the inauguration on 14 Mehr 1306 / 6 October 1926 of the beautiful Iranian pavilion at the international exhibition of Philadelphia by Seyyed-Hassan Taqizadeh falls in this category. The exhibition was held to commemorate the 150th anniversary of American independence and the majestic Iranian pavilion, built at a cost of 100,000 dollars, emulated the Mother of the Shah’s Mosque in Esfahan. During the exhibition, following his nomination by Dr. A. C. Millspaugh, himself an American and financial advisor to the Iranian government, Taqizadeh was elected commissioner of the Iranian delegation Taqizadeh, Zendegi, pp. 205-206.. This was one year after Ahmad Shah’s dethronement on 31 October 1925 / 13 Rabi‘-os-Sani 1344 / 9 Aban 1304 and ten months after Reza Shah’s accession. This film, which can also be considered a documentary, is American.

5. Narrative films: These films have either European or Iranian origins. The European, mostly French, origins come as no surprise, but no Iranian narrative films had come to light to the present. Among the European narrative films, all of which are apparently incomplete, just as the others, two are more conspicuous: one, which must not belong to the early years of the cinema, shows a couple in a French restaurant, and the other is a different interpretation of “L’arroseur arrosé” (“The Sprinkler Sprinkled”), one of the earliest films of the Lumière brothers and dating back to the first years of the cinema, i.e., 1895 / 1274. It was made after their first film, “La sortie de l’usine” (“Workers Leaving the Lumière Factory”). Of course, “La sortie de l’usine” is of the experimental, fantastic and documentary genre and it was “taken”, whereas “L’arroseur arrosé” was “made”, and is therefore a narrative film in a sense (see text below). In the short film of the Golestan Palace, a gardener sprinkles a couple of lovers with his hose. The boy comes to hands with him, and the girl in turn picks up the hose and sprinkles the gardener who runs away.

Another category of European films attributed to the reign of Mozaffer-ed-Din Shah comprises pornographic films. It is recorded that, “Being a very weak and perverse individual, when returning from Europe, Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah had (also) brought back some erotic European films (he had bought) which he showed in Tehran for his own and his courtiers’ pleasure. These shows may also be considered the first Cinématographe shows in Iran. Several years later the whole batch of these vulgar, erotic (pornographic) films was sold on auction.” These allegations were made in Ghaffari’s presence, who recorded them in Ghaffari, “Avvalin Azmayesh-ha-ye Sinema’i dar Iran” – 1, p. 8, but disagreed with them. The differences between Ghaffari’s manuscript and his printed text are indicated in parentheses. Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s buying pornographic films in Europe is not surprising, but I have never come across a single frame of these, neither in the past twenty years, nor in the course of my earlier meticulous investigations at the Golestan Palace. On the contrary, the statement “Several years later… was sold on auction” is most perplexing: how can one believe that, in Iran, the government would think of organizing such a sale, let alone actually holding it. Auction sales are public, notorious events by nature, even when they are not related to such a subject! One can perhaps accept that these films—if they existed—were sold unnoticed among the photographic and cinematographic equipment sold at an auction under Reza Shah, leaving behind no traces. No other possibility exists, because Reza Shah strongly abhorred pornography and, had he suspected the existence of such films, he would have had them destroyed. His photographer, Mohammad-Ja‘far Khadem, had told Yahya Zoka’ that the Shah had the negative glass plates of Qajar pornography spread in front of the Marble Throne, at the Golestan Palace, and that he personally crushed them to pieces under his boots.

Four

First Iranian “filmmaking” and its “first films”

Produced around 1900-1901 / 1279-80 AS

It is when the filming and its related tasks are done, particularly but not imperatively, on the basis of a story (scenario) and that (also not necessarily) professional individuals assume other people’s roles (yet again not necessarily) in it, wearing their clothes and performing their parts, usually under the supervision of a film director, in an environment (setting) created to reproduce the intended surroundings that it becomes an important foundation of filmmaking. These conditions are realized in a still undetermined number of the film fragments of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s time at the Golestan Palace (undetermined because we are unaware of the contents of the fragile film rolls, which have to be unrolled in laboratory conditions). The original number of exposed films and the brief subjects filmed at the time (a length of a few minutes being a technical restraint then) are also unknown for the same reason. Apart from one exception (“Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah Shooting with the Camera”), all the films identified to the present are of the “burlesque” type and their chronological sequence remains to be determined. On the whole, what sets these films apart from filmmaking in its wide sense, whether in the course of time or at present, is that narrative films are usually made in view of financial (and sometimes political) gains and with public screening in mind, whereas these Iranian films were made for the Shah and his entourage, indeed by themselves, without any financial or political gains being contemplated. From this point of view, the early Iranian cinema is comparable to the first fifty years of photography in this country, and to a large extent to its high class painting in the same era, both of which were courtly and aristocratic. The slow pace at which these arts permeated the (almost nonexistent) middle classes and the population at large, and their ensuing lack of financial support of arts, can be considered to have largely obstructed the development of these arts, which has been the greatest difference between the Iranian and western societies in this domain.

What can be termed the first collection of Iranian cinema films presently consists of 7676 frames (frames 7226 to 15902 of copy reel No. 3). The film fragments copied have a total length of approximately 200 meters and a viewing time of around 10 minutes. If, with slight exaggeration, an identity card is written for this presently disheveled film collection, or, in today’s terms, a “bande d’annonce” is prepared for it, this is what the viewer will read: producer: Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah; scenario writer and director: ‘Issa-Khan; cast: ‘Issa-Khan, Mirza-Abolqassem Ghaffari, Malijak, Mahmood-Khan and other intimates of the Shah; a release of the royal studio. The same “annonce” can be repeated for the “donkey-back race of Mozaffar-ed-din Shah’s private servants in a tree-planted street”, and particularly for “The Shah searching for hunting game through looking glasses”—to which we shall return—, but in the latter the main actor is the Shah himself in his own role.

Date of the film: As Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah and his intimates, particularly ‘Issa-Khan and Abolqassem Ghaffari, appear in these fragments, they must have been shot between the arrival of the film cameras to Tehran on 11 Shavval 1317 / 11 February 1900 / 22 Bahman 1278 and the Shah’s death on 23 Ziqa‘deh 1324 / 18 January 1907 / 18 Dey 1285. In view of the country’s situation in the last years of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s reign (third European tour in 1323 AH / 1905 AD / 1284 AS, grant of the constitution in 1324 AH / 1906 AD / 1285 AS) and the receding novelty of cinema to the benefit of the Shah’s greater interest for photography, these burlesque films must be attributed to a time closer to the date of the arrival of the cameras, probably to after the Shah’s first voyage, around 1900-1901, i.e., 1279-80 AS. The exactness of this dating can be ascertained by the fact that the idle Malijak, who was an accomplished hunter, appears in a film with his gun, but never mentions the shooting sessions in his memoirs. Rather than an omission on his part for whatever reason, this lack is due to the fact that he began writing his memoirs at a later date, on 10 Zelhajjeh 1319 / 20 March 1903 / 29 Esfand 1282.

Style and content: As already mentioned, almost all these films are of the “burlesque” type, then popular and in the leading position across the world. For anyone, the most familiar scene of these films is the “pie fight”, in which two or more people throw creamy pies at each other. Asides from its popularity, the main reason for the adoption of this style in the early period of Iranian filmmaking was its appeal to the Shah. In fact, probably no choice was even made. The Shah’s inclination towards funny things attracted a clown such as Mirza-Abolqassem Ghaffari or a couple of court eunuchs—‘Issa-Khan and Mahmood-Khan—to his private quarters, so that, when it was decided to make a film, this style was naturally adopted. Friend and foe agree that Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah was good-natured and cared for the people, as his granting of the constitution symbolized. But, on the other hand, in the words of Nazem-ol-Eslam Kermani, who was not one of his supporters: “He was exceedingly candid, gullible, moody, facetious, easy-laughing, ill-tempered in private and affected.” Nazem-ol-Eslam Kermani, Tarikh-e Bidari-e Iranian, v. 1, p. 131. His “facetious, easy-laughing” character appears even more clearly when reviewing the pictures at the Golestan Palace, and there are photographs that can be considered in bad taste today. Forgetting that these pictures belonged to the private quarters of the Shah and were not intended for us to see, they can even be considered unbefitting his royal rank. On the whole, paying attention to Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s writings or looking at the photographs taken by himself or upon his orders, we discover a poetic spirit alongside the buffoon-fond Shah. As a proof to this claim, a few quotations from him appear below, which show that, just as some of his sentences represent, justify and somehow constitute the scenarios of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s burlesque films, others make up the foundations of refined and poetic films (sometimes accompanied with impish wit). Unfortunately, finding any fragments of this type of films appears hopeless.

Recounting his second European tour, Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah writes: “We reached a plot of land entirely covered with tiny yellow and violet flowers, as though a multicolored fabric had been spread on the ground… Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [second voyage], p. 25. The moon was beautifully setting behind the forest, so that no painter except the divine hand that has made a painting as this in the sky can depict as beautifully on his canvas… Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [second voyage], p. 35. We passed several hamlets and towns. The entire road ran amidst gardens and a lake was also visible. They said that it had unsalted water in which trout lived… Often perennial broom flowers had blossomed here and there in the mountains and it was very pretty… Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [second voyage], p. 51. [In Florence] … We returned to our room, washed Our hands and face with soap. We then went to the upper gallery of the winter garden, where an English couple was sitting. Indeed, the man smoked twenty cigarettes in that one hour. There was also another man writing postcards. We were conversing with Nezam-od-Dowleh Malkam-Khan. We then came down. Near this hotel there was a woman’s house in which numerous excellent paintings were kept. We admired. The woman spoke a lot, but the collection of paintings was very good… We then went to the building and gallery of the Office [the Uffizi], where premium paintings are kept… We saw several paintings by the famous painter Raphael… Raphael had made the portrait of his own beloved as though it was alive and speaking.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [second voyage], p. 52. A few pages further, after narrating the story of an unfaithful lover transformed into stone by his beloved, the witty Shah adds: “If [in our time] men were to be transformed into stone for being unfaithful to women, no man would remain and the world would become a sea of stones.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [second voyage], p. 81. And finally, at the end of a visit to the Palace of Fontainebleau, which witnessed the downfall of Napoleon, he wrote: “These buildings that now remain thus without a proprietor bear admonition, yet man’s disposition is such that he will not take heed. Man ought to see how these buildings erected by such men have now fallen into ruin.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [second voyage], p. 133.

Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s words, which may evoke burlesque films, refer to ‘Issa-Khan and Mahmood-Khan, who appear repeatedly beside Mirza-Abolqassem Ghaffari in the trivial photographs at the Golestan palace. ‘Issa-Khan and Mahmood-Khan were two dwarf eunuchs very intimate with the Shah. ‘Issa-Khan had dark features and a wiry body, while Mahmood-Khan was pale and fat. Both, particularly ‘Issa-Khan, were humorous and impish. Abolqassem Ghaffari, who was not a eunuch, was no less talented, but his sex prevented him from being always close to the Shah and entering his harem In the collection of beautiful and useful photographs of Ganj-e Payda, recently published by Bahman Jalali concerning some photographs at the Golestan Palace, the name of Agha-Mohammad is attributed to two eunuchs, one erroneously. The dwarf introduced on many pages (including pp. 104 & 105) as “Agha-Mohammad-e khajeh, ma‘ruf be Faqir-ol-Qameh” or “Agha-Mohammad” is in fact ‘Issa-Khan, Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s companion since his days as heir to the throne, who later came to Tehran with him. The other is “Agha-Mohammad-e Qasir-ol-Qameh”, and not “Faqir-ol-Qameh”, one of Nasser-ed-Din Shah’s most important eunuchs and confidants (see E‘temad-os-Saltaneh, Khaterat, Saturday 21 Rabi‘-os-Sani 1310, p. 839). A few photographs of Agha-Mohammad-e Qasir-ol-Qameh exist in the Album House of the Golestan Palace, one of which was printed by Bahman Jalali on page 59, top photo, left hand side. the book also comprises a few photographs of Mahmood-Khan, whom it does not identify, e.g., on pages 110, 143 and 167.. Abolqassem Ghaffari was the half brother of Mehdi Vazir-Homayun Ghaffari, entitled Qa’em-maqam, and Farrokh Ghaffari is a relative of his. Slenderness or corpulence, as major factors in the early burlesque films of up to forty or so years ago, did not remain unnoticed by the Shah, who wrote: “We went to the seaside [of Mazandaran]. There we gathered some seashells, then we fired some rifle shots. There was a large barrel like Mahmood-Khan’s belly. While speaking with ‘Issa-Khan, we referred to it as Mahmood-Khan.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [second voyage], p. 25. Also: “Reaching a place nearby the railway where the slope was steep, we wished Mahmood-Khan and ‘Issa-Khan were there for us to roll Mahmood-Khan down.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [second voyage], p. 36. Then: “As we were moving along, we saw a short man. He was very small. Smaller than ‘Issa-Khan. He had a long beard and was very funny.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [second voyage], p. 36. And finally, he writes about two comic scenes at the theater: “… A boy bit another boy on the thigh. He [the victim] shouted and wept and kept rubbing his thigh to the wall. It was very funny.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [second voyage], p. 73. And: “This evening we went to the theater… one was riding a donkey while speaking amorously to it. It was funny.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [second voyage], p. 83.

In the Golestan Palace film fragments copied to the present, three or four short comic anecdotes are depicted. For the time being, these films can be tentatively called: 1) “Donkey riders fighting with a club-wielding pedestrian”, featuring ‘Issa-Khan and Mirza-Abolqassem Ghaffari (‘Issa-Khan is a wiry dwarf with a dark complexion and Abolqassem Ghaffari is wearing a conical hat); 2) “Caning of the Dwarf and the Black Slave”, featuring ‘Issa-Khan and Malijak (holding a gun); 3) “Showdown with an Arab”, and; 4) “The Dwarf Carried Piggyback by the Arab”, featuring ‘Issa-Khan and Mirza-Abolqassem. As already mentioned, the chronological sequence or indeed the relatedness of these film fragments is unclear, but they are much the same and it is therefore possible that all or some of them depict a single story in several episodes. Without any relationship being involved, this style was continued thirty years later in the first commercial Iranian film, Abi va Rabi, directed by Ovannes Oganians, and it can even be seen to a certain degree in “Haji-Aqa Cinema Actor”.

Another film fragment preserved at the Golestan Palace, which is not burlesque, shows the installation of a large camera (in the true sense, not a photographic one) on its tripod, followed by Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s arrival and his shooting of a few scenes. At first glance, this film appears to be a documentary work—which it is today—, but in fact this fragment is a short narrative film, because it was “made” and not filmed while the Shah was performing a real action; instead, the Shah has played the role of a cameraman in his own palace—a place ill-suited to the operation of a massive camera—, rather than in a landscape.

It appears that no other notable film was created in Iran until thirty years after those “made” in Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s time Around 1924-25 / 1304-05, the Germans were making a documentary-like film in Iran and, failing to find an indigenous actress, they had Marie-Louise Adle—the British born wife of the late E‘temad-ol-Vezareh—assume the role. The author’s knowledge in this concern is scarce and he hopes to be able to provide further explanation in the future., and the reasons of this decline were mentioned above. Although Russi-Khan’s work (‘Ashura) represents the onset of profit-oriented (documentary and not narrative) film production in Iran, even that attempt came to a short end with Russi-Khan’s departure from Iran. As noted above, the first film to appear on the screen after this long period of darkness was Ovannes Oganians’ Abi va Rabi, initially shown in Tehran on 12 Dey 1309 / 2 January 1931. Although Ovannes Oganians was a Russian Armenian migrant, he had adopted the Iranian nationality— just as Russi-Khan before him—and, all in all, his film can be considered Iranian. Its notable distinction from those made in the forgotten past was that it was commercial rather than courtly (governmental), but it involved no great evolution otherwise. It not only adhered to the burlesque style, but also lacked a strongly built scenario, to a certain extent as the films of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s era, and consisted of short sketches more or less welded together. This weakness also appeared, albeit to a much lesser degree, in his Haji-Aqa Cinema Actor, but it was overcome in ‘Abd-ol-Hossein Sepanta’s and Ardeshir Irati’s Lor Girl, particularly owing to its “talkie” quality, and thereafter another period with ups and downs of its own began.

Endnotes

1 A multitude of cinema lovers contributed to the realization of this commemoration, but the following institutions and organizations must at least be mentioned by name; the Cinema Affairs and the Artistic Affairs Vice-directorates of the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance, Fârâbi Cinema Foundation, the Iranian National Film House, the Cinema House, Tehran Museum of Contemporary Art, The Social Vice-directorate of the Municipality of Tehran, the Sure Cinema Development Foundation, Visual Media Co., Mâhnâme-ye Film…
2 Upon Mohammad Shâh Qajar’s request, the Russian and British governments sent daguerreotype apparatus to Persia. The Russian set, a present of the Czar, arrived earlier. Nikolaj Pavlov, a young Russian diplomat trained for the purpose, brought it to Tehran and took the first daguerreotypes recorded in Iranian history in presence of Mohammad Shâh on that date. No mention of these yet unknown events is made either in the extensive article on the beginnings of photography in Iran which I wrote with the assistance of Yahyâ Zokâ’, or in other articles on the subject, but I have amply delved into the matter in a book under preparation. For the article in question, see under Adle, “Notes et documents sur la photographie iranienne et son histoire …”, in the final bibliography.

3 His full name has been copied from a note of his reproduced below his portrait in Nâme-ye Vatan, and the approximate dates of his birth and death are based on information given by Abo’l Qâssem Rezâ’i his son, see text below and the final bibliography.

4 A one-day discrepancy occasionally occurs in converting dates from the lunar calendar to the solar calendar and vice versa. It does not necessarily indicate an error. Nonetheless, texts written in Iran and abroad about the history of the Iranian cinema contain numerous errors regarding their notation of dates in the lunar and solar Hegira calendars and the conversion of these into the Christian calendar and vice versa. Here, in this rather concise text, I cannot not elaborate on this matter, but instead, all the dates will be given with precision despite the fact that they may appear tedious to the ordinary reader. Several mistakes I had made in the first version of this paper have also been corrected.

5 Safarnâme-ye Sahhâfbâshi, pp. 39-40.

6 Ample books and documents concerning these apparatus are extant. For example, see notices 91A to 103 of Images et magie du cinéma français, or E. Toulet, Cinema is 100 Years Old, p. 38, where a parlor equipped with Kinetoscopes is shown. The picture Jamâl Omid has reproduced on page 49 of Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân – 1 is also that of a Kinetoscope.

7 Ja‘far Shahri, in his Târikh-e Ejtemâ‘i-e Tehrân, v. 1, p. 387, note 1, briefly but adequately describes the shahr-e farang. Also see Ghaffâri, Jâm-e Jam – Fânus-e Khyâl…, p. 42.

8 Nâzem-ol-Eslâm Kermâni, Târikh-e Bidâri-ye Irâniân, ed. 1362, v. 1, p. 656. In the previous version of this article, I had mistakenly set the first year of Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh’s reign as 1313 AH; however, because he accessed to the throne near the end of that year, 1314 AH must be considered the first of his reign. Hence the sixth year of his reign would be 1320 AH.

9 Nâzem-ol-Eslâm Kermâni, Târikh-e Bidâri-ye Irâniân, events of Monday 12 Safar 1323 / Tuesday 18 April 1905 (ed. 1346, v. 1, p. 51; ed. 1362, v.1, p. 291), or events of “ Wednesday 14 Zelqa‘de 1323 / 10 January 1906” (ed. 1346, v.1, pp. 120-121; ed. 1362, , v. 1, pp. 360-361).

10 Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân – 1, p. 69; Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 36, note 34. Arbâb Jamshid was acquainted with the cinema, if only for the large sum that Sahhâfbâshi owed him. See rest of text.

11 Malijak, v. 1, p. 533.

12 Malijak, v. 1, p. 533.

13 Malijak, v. 1, p. 534.

14 Malijak, v. 1, p. 330.

15 Malijak, v. 1, pp. 203-205.

16 Malijak, v. 1, p. 217. Elsewhere he writes at the end of the same year: “I went to Sahhâfbâshi’s shop. He had no new equipment” (Malijak, v.1, p. 369).

17 See the advertisement concerning the sale of Sahhâfbâshi’s belongings in Hossein Abutorâbiyân’s Râhnomâ-ye Ketâb, p. 692 and Mâhnâme-ye Sinemâ’i-ye Film, no. 258, p. 17, line 2.

18 Malijak writes (v. 1, p. 204): “We moved along Cherâgh-Gâz Avenue and reached Tupkhâne Square, wherefrom we went to Lâlezâr Avenue, straight to Sahhâfbâshi’s shop.” He used to go there via Mokhber-od-Dowle Avenue as well (v. 2, p. 1272).

19 See the advertisement concerning the auction or the sale of Sahhâfbâshi’s belongings in Abutorâbiyân, Râhnomâ-ye Ketâb, p. 692 and in Mâhnâme-ye Sinemâ’i-ye Film, no. 258, p. 17 as well as several lines lower in the present article.

20 The exact address of Sahhâfbâshi’s shop is given by Jahângir Qahremânshâhi his son (Safarnâme-ye Sahhâfbâshi, preface, p. 15, based upon Gaffari’s text). That address agrees with Malijak’s writings.

21 Jamâlzâde, “Dar bâre-ye Sahhâfbâshi”, p. 129.

22 The names are given by Jahângir Qahremânshâhi in Safarname-ye Sahhâfbâshi, preface, p. 15, based upon Gaffari’s text.

23 Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 124.

24 “Around 1905” is the date that Gaffari gave in his first text on Entezâm’s words (“Avvalin Azemâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân” – 1, p. 8), but later on, in view of his studies, he became more inclined toward the year 1904, and the same inclination is reflected in Jamâl Omid’s writings. In the author’s opinion, since Sahhâfbâshi was in America in that year, as attested to by Omid himself (Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 124), given that Malijak makes no mention of Sahhâfbâshi’s cinema being reopened, and as Entezâm was born in 1895 / 1274 AS, a date around 1905, say 1906 or 1907, when Entezâm was older, is more likely than 1904. On Entezâm’s biography see Azimi, “Entezâm”, in bibliography.

25 See text below. Jamâlzâde has repeated several times (including in “Dar bâre-ye Sahhâfbâshi”, Râhnomâ-ye Ketâb, p. 131, and “Yâdhâ’i az Kudaki va Nowjavâni, p. 47”) that he left Iran in spring 1908, but he is apparently in error, because, again in his own words, he spent the Nowruz [Iranian New Year, beginning on the first day of spring] holidays of 1908 in Istanbul (“Yâdhâ’i az Kudaki va Nowjavâni”, p. 48). Therefore, he was in Iran at least until the end of the winter of 1908 (1286 AS).

26 Inference from a letter of Jamâlzâde to a friend. See “Yâdhâ’i az Kudaki va Nowjavâni”, p. 49. In his own words, Jamâlzâde was born on 22 or 23 Jamâdi-os-Sâni 1309 / 23 or 24 January 1892 / 3 or 4 Bahman 1270 (“Yâdhâ’i az Kudaki va Nowjavâni”, p. 45).

27 See the full text of Jamâlzâde’s account, reproduced a few lines below.

28 Jamâlzâde, “Dar bâre-ye Sahhâfbâshi”, in Râhnomâ-ye Ketâb.

29 Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân – 1, pp. 61-62; Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 25; Ghaffâri, “Avvalin Âzemâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân” – 1, p. 8.

30 Gaffari’s belief has its origin in the following event. He went to a coffee-house opposite Sar-takht-e Barbarihâ Street to shoot a sequence of Jonub-e Shahr in 1958 / 1337 AS (this coffee-house appears in Jonub-e Shahr in a sequence where a street bully listens to a dervish’s story). There, his cameraman, Nâsser Raf‘at, and his assistant, Zakariâ Hâshemi, reported to him that the owner of the coffee-house has been telling them that “a cinema was said to have existed long ago around here on the street front”, and that films used to be shown on the lower floor of his own shop in the past.

According to ‘Abd-ol-Ghaffâr’s map, Sar-takht-e Barbarihâ Street, or Barbarihâ Street under Nâsser-od-Din Shâh, stemmed off Cherâgh-Gâz Avenue and ran between Tekie-ye Barbarihâ and the Cherâgh-Gâz (lighting gas) plant (later Cherâgh-Barq), joining Bâgh-e Vahsh (Ekbâtân) Avenue at the curve on the south of Zell-os-Soltân’s Park (the present site of the Iranian Cultural Heritage Organization. Also see Ja‘far Shahri, Gushe’i az Târikh-e Ejtemâ‘i-e Tehrân-e Qadim, pp. 124-125). Thus, the greater part of the southern section of the present-day Mellat Avenue can be identified to Sar-takht-e Barbarihâ Street.

31 Jamâl Omid mentions three jahân-namâs (Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 23), but Gaffari, quoting Entezâm, maintains “several”. The number of the jahân-namâs was also left vague in Gaffari’s writings (see Ghaffâri, “Avvalin Azemâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân” – 1, p. 8). Gaffari used to believe that jahân-namâs were a kind of stereoscopic viewers (Gaffary, “Coup d’oeil sur les 35 premières années du cinéma en Iran”, p. 227), and the same view is reflected in Omid’s text, already mentioned.

32 Nâzem-ol-Eslâm Kermâni, Târikh-e Bidâri-ye Irâniân, events of Monday 12 Safar 1323 / Tuesday 18 April 1905 (ed. 1346, v. 1, p. 51; ed. 1362, v.1, p. 291). Jamâlzâde gives a more complete description of this attire, but not in the cinema (“Dar bâre-ye Sahhâfbâshi”, p. 128).

33 Gaffari, “Avvalin Âzemâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân” – 1, p. 8. The words ‘fat’ and ‘mallet’ appear as châq and tokhmâq, respectively, in Omid’s text (Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 23), and Gaffari agrees with them.

34 Based on Gaffari’s words to the author, as well as his text, “Avvalin Âzemâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân” – 1, p. 8, and Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 23. Gaffari says that the late Entezâm had probably seen Georges Méliès’ La cuisine infernale.

35 Gaffari, “Avvalin Âzemâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân” – 1, p. 8; Gaffary, F., “Coup d’oeil sur les 35 premières années du cinéma en Iran”, p. 227, and; Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 23.

36 ‘Ali Javâher-Kalâm’s memoirs, quoted by Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 28.

37 Shâhrokh Golestân’s interview with Jamâlzâde on 14 March 1992 in Geneva, broadcast in part in the Fânus-e Khiyâl series of the Persian Service of the BBC on September 1992. In his unfinished sentence, Jamâlzâde on the one hand stresses the ‘very, very’, but on another adds that he is not certain of his assertion. He says, “ it is very, very probable that this Seyf-oz-Zâkerin was [employed] by Sahhâfbâshi; of those things, I heard however nothing.” Without any mention of its flaw, the texts already published of this interview have been completed as follows : “it is very, very probable that this Seyf-oz-Zâkerin was brought in by Sahhâfbâshi; of those things, I heard however nothing.” (Jamâlzâde, “Yâdhâ’i az Kudaki va Nowjavâni”, p. 45); and in another text, published without Shâhrokh Golestân’s authorization, the same sentence appears in this blatantly erroneous form: “it is very, very probable that this Seyf-oz-Zâkerin was none but Sahhâfbâshi; of those things, I heard however nothing”! Golestân, Fânus-e Khiyâl, Gharavi’s text, p. 13.

38 Jamâlzâde, “Yâdhâ’i az Kudaki va Nowjavâni”, pp. 51-52.

39 Jamâl Omid writes himself that he gives two “versions”—not two evidences —on the causes leading to the closure of Sahhâfbâshi’s cinema: “According to the first version… some people considering the creation of Sahhâfbâshi’s cinema on Cherâgh-Gâz Avenue anti-religious, vilified it. Sheykh Fazlollâh Nuri proscribed cinema on religious basis and Sahhâfbâshi was forced to close his cinema down.” The second version is that Sahhâfbâshi being a Constitutionalist activist, had problems with the Court. The ill-speaking of people on his cinema gave the courtiers pretext enough to have it closed down (Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân – 1, pp. 51-52 and note 14; idem, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 23 and note 24. N.B. The notes are unrelated to these two versions). Hamid Nafissi, quoting Sahhâfbâshis’ second wife through her son and while Nuri’s name is omitted in their sayings, only authenticates one—the first—of Omid’s versions. Nafissi writes that Sahhâfbâshi’s cinema was closed because “the famous cleric Shaykh Fazlollâh Nuri had proscribed cinema.” In another article, this time omitting the reference to Omid, Nafissi gives even a date and finalizes his point only on the evidence of his own previous text and writes: “According to a report, in 1904 (1283 AS), Shaykh Fazlollâh Nuri, the influential leader of the day, after going to a public cinema in Tehran, proscribed cinema and brought about its closing” (Taneshhâ-ye Farhang-e Sinemâ’i dar Jomhuri-e Eslâmi, p. 384). Sahhâfbâshi’s wife has been quoted as having said that Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh ordered Sahhâfbâshi to close his cinema because he feared the power of the clergy (Tahâminejâd, Rishe-yâbi-e Ya‘s, p. 14), but this assertion of hers made long after the events appears equally unfounded. In the same way but the other way round, Abo’l Qâssem Rezâ’i’s statement that his father (Sahhâfbâshi) had “very close relationships with the court and Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh” seems in its turn rather exaggerated too (Interview with Golestân, see Golestân, Fânus-e Khiyâl,

Kavir Publication, p. 14). The contrary must have been probably more true, particularly as regards the Court (cf. The event of the Shah being presented with a petition attributed to Sahhâfbâshi at Amir-Bahâdor’s house; see Nâzem-ol-Eslâm Kermâni, Târikh-e Bidâri-ye Irâniân, ed. 1346, v. 2, p. 120).

40 See previous note.

41 Farrokh Gaffari’s conversations with the author and Gaffary, “Coup d’oeil sur les 35 premières années du cinéma en Iran”, p. 229. Gaffari writes in this concern: Russi Khân “opened a new place at Darvâze Qazvin (Bâzârche-ye Qavâm-od-Dowle). Sheykh Fayzollâh [sic., printing error, read Sheykh Fazlollâh], the famous religious leader, sent Russi Khân a message telling him that he wished to see his cinema, and a special session was therefore organized for the Sheykh and his entourage” (“Avvalin Âzemâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân” – 2, p. 5). As for Tahâminejâd’s assertion, quoting Farrokh Gaffari, that Russi Khân claimed that the “Sheykh intended to extort money from us”, Gaffari told me, on 6 February 2001: “I don’t remember, but it’s quite possible.” Jamâl Omid has briefly recorded the latter event in the third person form (“It is said that…”), adding that it bears no mention of Sheykh Fazlollâh’s response (Târikh-e Sinemâ, p. 37, note 43). For Gaffari, the Sheykh’s satisfaction was inherent in the sentence recorded and that no additional stress was needed.
Javâd Farifte—Ahmad Shâh’s cook, as we were told in our youth—was the owner of the “Tehrân” Persian restaurant near the Place de l’Étoile, on rue Troyon, in Paris. Commixing with the grown-ups, we used to go there for a chelo-kabâb lunch on Sundays some thirty-seven, thirty-eight years ago, in the good old times. Gaffari met thrice with Russi Khân, notably twice in that restaurant, on 30 May 1949 and 29 October 1963, obtaining ample information from him particularly during the meeting of 30 May 1949 (Gaffari, “Avvalin Âzemâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân” – 2, p. 5, note 2). This information was published by himself in his early articles, and by Jamâl Omid in his Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân. Gaffari—whose notes were looted after the revolution—cannot remember the exact dates of his subsequent meetings with Russi Khân, but he agrees with what he has told Jamâl Omid and has been published by him, with the difference that the first meeting took place in 1940 and not 1943 (see note 30, p. 36, in Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, or note 1, p. 67, in Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân – 1), because Gaffari lived in Grenoble in 1943.

42 No source refers to this matter, but as, according to his son, Sahhâfbâshi’s “garden and building” (Jamâlzâde, “Dar bâre-ye Sahhâfbâshi”, p. 129) were located between present-day Crystal Cinema and Arbâb Jamshid Avenue (Safarnâme-ye Sahhâfbâshi, preface, p. 15), one may conclude that Sahhâfbâshi “relinquished” his garden and building to Arbâb Jamshid, after whom the avenue was renamed. The term “relinquish” is from Nâzem-ol-Eslâm, who knew Sahhâfbâshi very well, but here he does not mention Arbâb Jamshid and leaves the issue unresolved (Târikh-e Bidâri-ye Irâniân, ed. 1362, v. 2, p. 193). The shop was perhaps left out of the deal because it was hired out. See text below.

43 Maqsudlu, Mokhâberât-e Astarâbâd, v. 1, p. 56. During WWI, Sahhâfbâshi also joined the British army in Persia. See text below.

44 The portrait on the front page of Nâme-ye Vatan is reproduced by Jamâl Omid on page 125 of Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân. No date appears on this page, but he gives its publication date as 1286 AS (1907), which does not agree with what we saw, being one year early.

45 Malijak, v. 2, p. 1272. Of course, it is not certain that Siyâvash Khân had rented the shop from Sahhâfbâshi himself. He could have rented it from a new owner (Arbâb Jamshid?).

46 Memories of Abo’l Qâssem Rezâ’i, Sahhâfbâshi’s younger son, apud., Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 24, and Shâhrokh Golestân’s interview with Rezâ’i in Fânus-e Khiyâl (Golestan, Fânus-e Khiyâl, ed. Kavir Publishers, pp. 14-15).

47 Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 37, note 48, and pp. 27-28.

48 Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 28.

49 See Russi Khân’s advertisement in Habl-ol-Matin, no. 161, Thursday 7 Shavvâl 1325 / 14 November 1907 / 23 Abân 1286, p. 4; Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 25. Also see text below in section C.

50 Advertisement in Sur-e Esrâfil, Thursday 21 Rabi‘-ol-Avval 1326 / 23 April 1908 / 3 Ordibehesht 1287, no. 26, p. 8; Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 27.

51 Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 27. Esmâ‘il Qafqâzi, alias George Esmâ‘ilioff, was accountant at the Ministry of War (Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye

Irân, p. 26).

52 For his biography, see Y. Zoka’, Târikh-e ‘Akkâsi, pp. 75-78, and Gaffari’s article to be published in The Qajar Epoch, Arts and Architecture (see bibliography at the end of this article).

53 This unique document on the Iranian cinema is among those preserved at the Golestan Palace, which first went through a general classification thanks to Mr. Ahmad Dezvâre’i, the director of the Treasury of the Golestan Palace, and then submitted in part to a team directed by Mr. Nâder Karimiyân Sardashti in view of a more detailed recording. In 1999, while reviewing the work of this team, Mr. ‘Ali-Rezâ Anissi, the director of the Golestan Palace-Museum, noticed this document and informed the author of its existence.

54 The importance of these apparently worthless documents should not remain unnoticed by those studying modernity in Iran and by those having interest in the history of instruments of penmanship, cookery, etc in that country.

55 As I was recently informed by Farrokh Gaffari, Mirzâ Ebrâhim must still be assumed to have been born in Rajab 1291 (14 August to 12 September 1874 / 23 Mordâd to 21 Shahrivar 1253) in Tehran, and that the date of his death must still be considered to have occurred in 1333 AH (1915 / 1294 AS) in Châboksar. Several of Gaffari’s writings concern his biography and their essence appears in Omid’s Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, pp. 22-24 (the dates mentioned in this book will be corrected in its next printing). There is also a recent article by Gaffary in Mâhnâme-ye Sinemâ’i-ye Film’s special issue on the centenary of Iranian cinema (see bibliography) and a notice in Encyclopaedia Iranica, v. I, p. 719. Gaffari is currently writing an article on Mirzâ Ebrâhim that will appear in The Qajar Epoch, Arts and Architecture, under preparation in London by the Iran Heritage Foundation and edited by P. Luft’s and my own supervision. Also see Zokâ’, Târikh-e ‘Akkâsi, pp. 113-116.

56 Even the first part of the word “cinematograph” had entered the Persian language through the French “cinéma”. An explanation of the way the cinematograph operated accompanied by a descriptive drawing was published in Persian in 1907 / 1325 AH / 1268 AS, some ninety-nine years ago, by Mirzâ ‘Ali-Mohammad Khân Oveyssi in Baku, and reproduced in Mâhnâme-ye Sinemâ’i-ye Film, published on the occasion of the hundredth anniversary of Iranian cinema. See bibliography under ‘Ali-Mohammad Khân Oveyssi. I am indebted to Behzâd Rahimiyân for this information.

57 For instance, the digit “3” appears above the letter sin in an advertisement of Omega watches in the middle of the silent film Hâji Âqâ Cinema Actor.

58 See ‘Ali-Mohammad Oveyssi’s description of the operation of the cinematograph, mentioned above in note 56.

59 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], pp. 3 and 10. Although the Shah did not write these lines himself and dictated them for others to write, as he indeed pointed it out himself for his both journeys to Europe, it is never the less obvious that, on the whole, he must be considered the writer of his memoirs and the others his scribes.

60 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 255.

61 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 80. The mineral water springs of this French town help curing renal diseases and gout. The Shah resided in the Hôtel / Pavillon de la Souveraine (Graux, pp. 8, 17), which should not be confused with the Palais des Souverains, his residence in Paris. See following pages.

62 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 81. By theater, the Shah perhaps meant the theater of the town’s casino, in which a particular stand had been built for him (Graux, p. 9).

63 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], pp. 178 and 193.

64 “The music [Faust] did not appeal much to His Majesty’s taste”, p. 84 of Badâye‘-e Vaqâye‘, compiled by a (Korilan?). Korilan had collected press excerpts concerning Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh’s travel to Europe. These were translated by Nayyer-ol-Molk and later published by Vahidniyâ (see bibliography under Korilan). The Shah perhaps saw The Damnation of Faust by Hector Berlioz, but Gaffari believes that he more likely saw Charles Gounod’s Faust. Of course, other composers had also created operas on Goethe’s dramatic poem, but it seems improbable that they are referred to here.

65 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 84 and Second Journey, p. 131.

66 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 85, and the final part of this section concerning Savage Landor’s writings.

67 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], pp. 1, 255, and plates printed in this book.

68 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 91.

69 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 88.

70 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 92.

71 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 93.

72 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh does not describe the person who brought him the cinematograph, but recognizes him three weeks later among the photographers gathered to make portraits of him, and notes the fact. Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 136 (3 Rabi‘-os-Sâni 1318 / 31 July 1900 / Mordâd 1279).

73 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], pp. 100-101.

74 ‘Ali Khân Zahir-od-Dowle, Safarnâme-ye Zahir-od-Dowle, p. 201. I am indebted to Farrokh Gaffari for the information on Zahir-od-Dowle.

75 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], pp. 130, 135-136.

76 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 129.

77 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 133.

78 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 135.

79 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 138.

80 Korilan, Badâye‘-e Vaqâye‘, p. 48. During his stay in Paris, the Shah resided at the Hôtel des Souverains (see Graux, p. 11), at 43 Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, today Avenue Foch (see Korilan, Badâye‘-e Vaqâye‘, p. 43 and the letter of Gaumont Co. to Mirzâ Ebrâhim further on). This building was later demolished.

81 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 138.

82 Korilan, Badâye‘-e Vaqâye‘, p. 68.

83 Korilan, Badâye‘-e Vaqâye‘, p. 69.

84 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 146.

85 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], pp. 146-147. Illusion shows were created with mirrors and light effects.

86 Zahir-od-Dowle, Safarnâme, pp. 245-246. Zahir-od-Dowle and the editor of his text misspell both the cinema’s address and its name. “Shan de Mari… meaning Mary’s Square” should read “Champs-de-Mars… meaning Square of Mars”, the God of War, and the museum’s name “Grévin” instead of “Krivan”.

87 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 149.

88 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 149. Apparently, the occurrence of Kamâl-ol-Molk’s easel on the Shâh’s path during his visit of the Louvre was prearranged. See Korilan, Badâye‘-e Vaqâye‘, p. 74. See Paoli, pp. 107-108, concerning the events behind the scene during the Shâh’s visit of the museum, which I have briefly mentioned in note 29 of my article on Khorheh in Farairan 3/4.

89 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 150; Korilan, Badâye‘-e Vaqâye‘, pp. 77-78.

90 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 150.

91 Zahir-od-Dowle, Safarnameh, p. 253. “The same building” refers to the above-mentioned residence of the Shah.

92 Korilan, Badâye‘-e Vaqâye‘, p. 86.

93 Paoli, p. 100. Relatively free translation except in quotation marks.

94 Korilan, Badâye‘-e Vaqâye‘, p. 101.

95 Belgian sources. See bibliography at the end of the article.

96 Korilan, Badâye‘-e Vaqâye‘, pp. 101-102.

97 Korilan, Badâye‘-e Vaqâye‘, p. 102.

98 Korilan, Badâye‘-e Vaqâye‘, p. 104. Writings on the history of Iranian cinema, which all make direct or indirect use of Korilan’s translated text, erroneously mention a French lady who was filming, or a Madame “Kron” who was performing the same action. These are incorrect and the story in Korilan’s text is none but the one related.

99 Belgian sources, see bibliography at the end of the article; and Korilan, Badâye‘-e Vaqâye‘, pp. 104-105.

100 Belgian sources, see bibliography at the end of the article.

101 Belgian sources, see bibliography at the end of the article.

102 Korilan, Badâye‘-e Vaqâye‘, p. 108.

103 Translation of the French “bataille de fleurs”, an expression which the Shah himself uses (Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [Second Journey], p. 80)

and which Farrokh Gaffari found to be the equivalent of Corso fleuri, see Gaffari, “20 ans de cinéma en Iran”, pp. 179-195.

104 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], pp. 160-161.

105 In this concern, also see Section 3, 2.

106 In 1950 / 1329 AS, thanks to Dr Siyâvash Shaqâqi, his stepmother Moluk Khânom Mossavver-Rahmâni, one of Mirzâ Ebrâhim’s three daughters, handed over documents to Farrokh Gaffari through her husband Eng. Hassan Shaqâqi. These documents included the following: the letter of Gaumont Co., two notes concerning films to be shot by Mirzâ Ebrâhim on the Shâh’s orders (see text below), and a bust portrait of Mirzâ Ebrâhim that has been published by Jamâl Omid (Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 116). Some of these documents are first mentioned in note 1 of Farrokh Gaffari’s article, “Avvalin Âzmâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân (1)”, in ‘Âlam-e Honar of 26 Mehr 1330, but general information was supplied to the author by Farrokh Gaffari himself. Gaffari’s collection disappeared during the events following Bahman 1357 / February 1979. One can perhaps hope that, just as some of his books eventually found their way to the Central Library of Tehran University, these documents will some day be identified among the belongings of this or that foundation, or elsewhere.

107 Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 34, note 7.

108 The residence of the Shah, mentioned above.

109 Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 34, note 7. Following this note, one reads: This competition, which attracted great attention at the time, was rewarded by prizes of ten thousand and five thousand Francs and numerous two thousand and one thousand Francs prizes. One of these was a film of Dr. (Doyen?) performing a surgery, which Léon Gaumont had advised to be offered to the Shah.

110 The remaining films are limited and they have not yet been entirely classified and identified. The proof that they are about a hundred years old is that, besides 35 millimeter films, they include narrow centrally perforated 15mm films, and among the unprocessed photographic plates I have found none dated earlier than 1898 or with an expiry date later than 1906.

111 Henry Savage Landor, Across Coveted Lands, v. 1, p. 233. It has been written (see for instance Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 22) that, while visiting the Golestan Palace, Henry Savage Landor saw a “large Gaumont cinematograph”, but, as we saw, the author does not name the cinematograph. Further on, in the same derogatory tone, Landor also mentions the Shâh’s modern printing press (v. 1, p. 238). He means the magnificent machine bought in the same year, during the Shâh’s first journey to Europe, by Ahmad Sani‘-os-Saltane and installed in the Golestan Palace under the supervision of Mirzâ Ebrâhim ‘Akkâs-bâshi (see Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], pp. 1-255). The photographs I have seen of the operations to install the machineries indicate that they were placed on the ground floor of the southeastern corner of the White Palace. They were facing the garden towards the East. The Shâh’s accounts of his first two journeys to Europe were among the books that were typeset and printed with this equipment.

112 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 178.

113 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 196.

114 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 191.

115 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [Second Journey], pp. 19, 29, 45, 53, 68, 70, 72, 78, 98, 133, 136 and 151. The acquisition of two, certainly photographic, cameras at Lucerne, Switzerland, on Tuesday 18 Safar 1320 / 27 May 1902 / 6 Khordâd 1281 (p. 54), a photographic camera and an X-ray unit (p. 60), dispatching the ‘Akkâs-bâshi to Germany to buy the “newly invented photograph” (p. 63), instantaneous photography (p. 66), dispatching the ‘Akkâs-bâshi to “carry out some orders” (p. 104) which concerned a photographic camera (p. 106), the painting or drawing of a portrait of the Shah, the arrival of ‘Abdollâh Mirzâ Qâjâr—the famous Persian photographer—to take pictures (p. 111), use of a magnesium flash (p. 126).

116 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [Second Journey], p. 107.

117 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [Second Journey], p. 119. “The flow of the river” refers to a representation he had seen on the previous evening in which water was shown to flow until it covered the scene.

118 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [Second Journey], p. 126.

119 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [Second Journey], p. 131.

120 Malijak, v. 1, p. 330.

121 Departure date in Nâzem-ol-Eslâm Kermâni, Târikh-e Bidâri-ye Irâniân, ed. 1362, v. 1, pp. 298, 397 and Malijak, v.1, p. 767; return date in Malijak, v. 1, p. 836.

122 A relatively complete illustrated account of this part of the voyage, which took place in France and Belgium from 22 June to 31 August 1905 (2 Tir to 10 Shahrivar 1284), appears in Graux and Daragon’s rare book printed in only 300 copies. See bibliography in other languages than in Persian, under Graux, pp. 16-33. The cinematograph is not mentioned in this account (see in particular p. 23).

123 Russi Khân had told Farrokh Gaffari that “he had bought a camera from the son of Sani‘-Hazrat, Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh’s ‘Akkâs-bâshi, in 1909…” (F. Gaffari, “Avvalin Âzemâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân” – 2, p. 27 and J. Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 26, in brief). Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh’s ‘Akkâs-bâshi was Sani‘-os-Saltane and Russi Khân meant his son, Mirzâ Ebrâhim. Sani‘-Hazrat was neither a photographer nor the Shâh’s ‘Akkâs-bâshi. His sole connection with photography was that he assassinated Mirzâ Javâd Khân, a Constitutionalist photographer. The misattribution, which has not been noticed to the present, was perhaps due to Russi Khân’s being for despotism and his support for Mohammad-‘Ali Shâh. Concerning Mirzâ Javâd Khân’s assassination and Sani‘-Hazrat, see Nâzem-ol-Eslâm Kermâni, Târikh-e Bidâri-ye Irâniân, part 2, p. 484; Y. Zoka’, Târikh-e ‘Akkâsi, pp. 284-285, and Dakho (‘Ali-Akbar Dehkhodâ), who derisively likens Sani‘-Hazrat’s marching at the head of his group to that of General Korapatkine, whose panorama was mentioned, in front of his troops (Sur-e Esrâfil, Thursday 11 Zelhajjeh 1325 / Wednesday 15 January 1908 / 25 Dey 1286, no. 20, p. 6). Sani‘-Hazrat was hanged by the revolutionaries on 11 Rajab 1327 / 29 July 1909 / 7 Mordâd 1288, Malijak, v. 3, p. 1579 and illustrations in v. 3, pp. 1580-1581.

124 Malijak, v. 3, pp. 1550 and 1557.

125 F. Gaffari, “Avvalin Âzemâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân” – 2, p. 27. Gaffari’s text reads “two hundred thousand meters”, but, as he mentioned to the author, the correct figure must be 2,000 meters, or less probably 20,000 meters at most.

126 Inference from Omid’s writings, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 25.

127 Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 38, note 67.

128 Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 38, note 67.

129 Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 30.

130 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 83.

131 Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 30.

132 Jamâl Omid, referring to the shooting of Âbi va Râbi, this time probably quoting Mo‘tazedi, writes (Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 58, note 26) that the auction sale took place under Ahmad Shâh, but, as we shall see a few lines lower, this too is incorrect.

133 This is now certain, because Mr. Asghar Mahdavi told the author on 10 September 2000 (20 Shahrivar 1379) that the auction sale, which was also attended by the late Âqâ Seyyed Jalâl Tehrâni, was held during the late Teymurtâsh’s tenure at the Ministry of the Court. Mr. Mahdavi’s words will be reproduced in their entirety at another opportunity.

134 Concerning the list of these instruments, which included (one?) Gaumont cinema camera and its ancillaries, see Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 30.

135 Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 58, note 26.

136 Gaffari, “Avvalin Âzemâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân” – 2, p. 28.

137 Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 22. In Gaffari’s unpublished text, “arvâhenâ laho-l-fadâ” appears as “arvâhenâ fadâh”. In Gaffari’s first mention of this document, its content is summarized as: “Early in the morning take the cinematograph to Sabze Meydân and shoot (“biandâzid”) pictures of all the processions of those who flagellate themselves with knives.” (Gaffari, “Avvalin Âzemâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân” – 1, original handwritten text; the printed version contains the same text as in “Avvalin Âzemâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân” – 1, p. 5, with “biandâz” instead of “biandâzid”)

138 Nâzem-ol-Eslâm Kermâni, Târikh-e Bidâri-ye Irâniân, ed. 1362, v. 1, p. 131: “He was fond of ta‘zies… fervent at weeping.”

139 Gaffari, “Avvalin Âzemâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân” – 1, p. 5. The word “crown” does not appear in the printed version of Gaffari’s text, but existed in his manuscript.

140 Handwritten text of Gaffari’s “Avvalin Âzemâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân”

· 1. In the printed version of “Avvalin Âzemâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân” – 1, p. 8, the spelling of sinemofotgrâf has been changed into sinemofotogrâf. Apparently writing hastily, the Shâh had even omitted the bâshi postfix. Jamâl Omid has published the original text as follows: “‘Akkâs-bâshi, tomorrow morning swiftly bring the sinemofotogrâf camera with two, three rolls in order that we take pictures of the lions”, Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân –1, p. 36, and Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 22.

141 Malijak, v. 1, pp. 224 and 581. Malijak describes the zoological garden of the Dowshân-tappe Palace, called “Bâgh-e Shir-khâne” (Lion House Garden), which had a separate entrance.

142 Malijak, v. 1, p. 224.

143 Thanks to an introduction by Dr. Mehdi Hojjat—then vice-director for Preservation Affairs at the Ministry of Culture and Higher Education—the Ministry of Finances and Economic Affairs’ General Office of Estates responded favorably to a request on my part to be allowed to study the photographs of the Photothèque of the Golestan Palace (request and authorization no. 3492 of 25/8/1361 AS, recorded in the registry of the General Office of Estates). That was the beginning of my ongoing research at the Golestan Palace.

144 The story is a long one, but Dr. Akbar ‘Âlemi, who was in charge of the copying, has given a brief account of it. See his article “Hekâyati now az in no-javân-e sad-sâle…”, note 1. Perhaps owing to a typographic error, the years in which the films were discovered and then copied are erroneously recorded as 1365 AS [1986] instead of 1361 and 1362 (for the copying), respectively. Obviously, the monarch related to these films was Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, and not Nâsser- od-Din Shâh.

145 With the backing of Seyyed Mohammad Beheshti (director of the Iranian Cultural Heritage Organization) and ‘Ali-Rezâ Anissi (director of the Golestan Palace), and with the assistance of Hassan Mirzâ-Mohammad ‘Alâ’ini and particularly Javâd Hasti as well as other responsible persons in the various sections of the Golestan Palace.

146 See Hushang Kâvusi’s article, “Tomâs Edison, Barâdarân-e Lumiere, Âsude bekhâbid, mâ bidârim!” The author makes no mention of the books and articles left behind by the pioneers of the history of Iranian cinema. He even denies the validity of some sources and documents they have published with undeniable references (he qualifies them as “totally untrue”, p. 107!). Apparently, the first version of this article did not come into his hands either.

147 In 1907 / 1286 AS, Russi Khân screened a film in which “someone smoked a cigarette [and] the smoke of his cigarette was visible on the screen.”, Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 36, note 34 (in Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân – 1, p. 69, the word dud (smoke) appears as khod (self), but this has been corrected in the subsequent edition). In view of Russi Khân’s connections with Mohammad-‘Ali Shâh’s Court and the identity of their subject, one can assume that the same film is involved, but this is improbable, because Russi Khân’s was almost certainly a 35mm film, and not a c†††††entrally perforated 15mm one.

148 Taqizâde, Zendegi, pp. 205-206.

149 Gaffari reports (“Avvalin Âzemâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân” – 1, p. 8) what he has been told, but he told me that he disagrees with them. The differences between Gaffari’s manuscript and his printed text are indicated in parentheses.

150 Nâzem-ol-Eslâm Kermâni, Târikh-e Bidâri-ye Irâniân, ed. 1362, v. 1, p. 131.

151 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [Second Journey], p. 25.

152 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [Second Journey], p. 35.

153 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [Second Journey], p. 51.

154 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [Second Journey], p. 52.

155 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [Second Journey], p. 81.

156 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [Second Journey], p. 133.

157 In the collection of fine and useful photographs of Ganj-e Peydâ, recently published by Bahman Jalâli on some of the Golestan Palace’s photographs, the name of Âghâ Mohammad is attributed to two eunuchs, one erroneously. The dwarf introduced on many pages (including pp. 104 and 105) as “Âghâ Mohammad-e Khâje, ma‘ruf be Faqir-ol-Qâme”, or “Âgha Mohammad”, is in fact ‘Issâ Khân. He was Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh’s companion since his days as heir to the throne and later came to Tehran with him. The other is “Âghâ Mohammad-e Qasir-ol-Qâme”, and not “Faqir-ol-Qâme”, one of Nâsser-od-Din Shâh’s most important eunuchs and confidants (see E‘temâd-os-Saltane, Khâterât, Saturday 21 Rabi‘-os-Sâni 1310, p. 839). A few photographs of Âghâ Mohammad-e Qasir-ol-Qâme exist in the Photothèque of the Golestan Palace, one of which was printed by Bahman Jalâli on page 59, top photo, the man on the left hand side. The book also comprises a few photographs of Mahmud Khân, whom it does not identify, e.g., on pages 110, 143 and 167.

158 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [Second Journey], p. 25.

159 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [Second Journey], p. 36.

160 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [Second Journey], p. 36.

161 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [Second Journey], p. 73.

162 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [Second Journey], p. 83.

163 Around 1924-25 / 1304-05 AS, the Germans were making a documentary-like film in Iran and, failing to find a Persian born actress, they had Marie-Louise Adle—the British born wife of the late E‘temâd-ol-Vezâre—assume the role. The author’s knowledge in this concern is scarce and he hopes to be able to provide further explanation in the future.

Bibliography and Sources in Persian
· ‘Abd-ol-Ghaffâr, Naqshe-ye Tehrân dar Sâl-e 1309 H.Q. (1891), reproduction, re-ed. Sahâb, 1363 AS.

· Abutorâbiyân, Hossein, “E‘lâmiye-ye Sahhâfbâshi”, Râhnomâ-ye Ketâb, 20th year, Âbân-Dey 1356 AS, nos. 8-10, pp. 691-692.

· Adle, Chahryar, “Khorheh, Tali‘e-ye Kâvosh-e ‘Elmi-ye Irâniyân”, Farairan, no. 3/4, Persian and English text, Spring-Summer 2001, pp. 226-265.

· ‘Âlemi, Akbar, “Hekâyati Now az in Now-javân-e Sad-sâle. Sinemâ-ye Irân Sad-sâle va Jahâni Mishavad”, Doniyâ-ye Sokhan, 16th year, no. 90, Esfand 1378 and Farvardin 1379, pp. 64-69.

· ‘Ali-Mohammad Khân Oveyssi (Mirzâ), “Sinemotogrâf”, Haqâyeq periodical, Baku, no. 1, Safar 1325 [16 March – 13 April 1907 / 25 Esfand – 24 Farvardin 1286], pp. 14-16. Mirzâ ‘Ali-Mohammad Khân Oveissi’s article is published in Film monthly, no. 258, Shahrivar 1379, special issue on the centenary of the cinematograph, p. 26. It is also exhibited in color reprography at the Cinema Museum in Tehran.

· Belgian sources: Information gathered for the author by his Belgian Ph.D. course ex-student, Miss Marion Baptiste transmitted to him on the phone just before this version went to print. The research had started earlier in Ostend but time limitation did not allow these works to be completed. This will be done in the future, alongside studies on the early history of the introduction of automobiles in Persia.

· Corilin, see Korilan.

· Dakho (i.e. ‘Ali-Akbar Dehkhodâ), “Charand Parand”, Sur-e Esrâfil, Thursday 11 Ze’l Hajjeh 1325 / Wednesday 15 January 1908 / 25 Dey 1286, no. 20, pp. 5-8.

· E‘temâd-os-Saltane, Mohammad-Hassan Khân, Ruznâme-ye Khâterât, ed. Iraj Afshâr, 4th printing, Tehran, 1377 AS.

· Gaffari, see Ghaffâri.

· Ghaffâri, Farrokh, “Avvalin Âzmâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân”

· 1, ‘Âlam-e Honar, no. 3, 26 Mehr 1330 and the original handwritten text, which the Cinema Museum made available to me thanks to Behzâd Rahimyân.

· Idem, “Avvalin Âzmâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân” – 2, ‘Âlam-e Honar, no. 4, 10 Âbân 1330 and the original handwritten text, which the Cinema Museum made available to me thanks to Behzâd Rahimyân.

· Idem, “Jâm-e Jam – Fânus-e Khiyâl – Sâye va Kheyme-shab-bâzi

dar Irân”, Film va Zendegi, no. 5, pp. 40-42.

· Idem, “Mirzâ Ebrâhim Khân-e ‘Akkâs-bâshi, Nakhostin Filmbardâr-e Irâni”, Mâhnâme-ye Sinemâ’i-ye Film, no. 258, Shahrivar 1379, special issue on the centenary of the cinematograph, pp. 19-21.

· Idem, an article containing recent information, under publication and kindly put at the author’s disposition.

· Idem, Farrokh Gaffari’s conversations with Chahryar Adle, aggregate of Farrokh Gaffari’s discussions with the author on Iranian arts, particularly painting, photography and cinema, during the past twenty years. All his quotations in the present article were last reviewed with him on 6 February 2001 (18 Bahman 1379).

· Golestân, Shâhrokh, interview with Jamâlzâde on 14 March 1992 (23 Esfand 1371) in Geneva, broadcast in part on 1 October 1993 (9 Mehr 1372) in the 2nd part of Fânus-e Khiyâl series by the Persian Service of the BBC.

· Idem, Fânus-e Khiyâl, Sargozasht-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, 6 cassettes, series broadcast by the Persian Service of the BBC which started on 2 Mehr 1372 (24 September 1993), BBC, London, 1994.

· Idem, Fânus-e Khiyâl, Sargozasht-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, from the beginning to the Islamic Revolution as seen by the BBC, altered version published without Golestân’s permission of the series broadcast by the Persian Service of the BBC in 1373 AS, edited by Gharavi, Kavir Publications, Tehran, 1374 AS.

· Idem, discussions with the author in Paris about the history of Iranian cinema. Last exchange of views: 2 Dey 1379 / 21 December 2000.

· Habl-ol-Matin, “E‘lân”, advertisement of Russi Khân’s cinematograph, no. 161, Thursday 7 Shavvâl 1325, 28 Âbân 839 Jalâli, 14 November 1907, p. 4 (if the Hegira lunar calendar is converted , 7 Shavvâl corresponds in fact to Wednesday 13 November 1907 / 22 Âbân 1286 AS, but in the Christian calendar the newspaper’s 14 November corresponds to 23 Âbân).

· Jalâli, Bahman, Ganj-e Peydâ, a collection of photographs of the Golestan Palace-Museum, Tehran, 1377 AS.

· Jamâlzâde, Seyyed Mohammad-‘Ali, “Dar bâre-ye Sahhâfbâshi”, Râhnomâ-ye Ketâb, 21st year, Farvardin-Ordibehesht 1357 AS, no. 1-2, pp. 128-131.

· Idem, “Yâdhâ’i az Kudaki va Nowjavâni”, Chashmandâz, no. 19, spring 1377 AS, Paris, pp. 45-52.

· Kâvusi, Hushang, “Tomâs Edison, Barâdarân-e Lumier, Âsude Bekhâbid mâ Bidârim!”, Mâhnâme-ye Sinemâ’i-ye Film, no. 259, 18th year, Mehr 1379, pp. 106-110.

· Korilan, (compilation of articles by), Badâye‘-e Vaqâye‘-e Nakhostin Safar-e Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh be Orupâ, tr. Rezâ-Qoli ebn-e Ja‘far-Qoli Khân Nayyer-ol-Molk (minister of sciences), ed. Vahidnyâ, Tehran, winter 1349 AS.

· Maqsudlu, Hossein-Qoli Maqsudlu Vakil-od-Dowle, Mokhâberât-e Astarâbâd, ed. Iraj Afshâr and Mohammad-Rasul Daryâgasht, 2 vols., Tehran, 1363 AS.

· Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh Qâjâr, Safarnâme-ye Mobârake-ye Shâhanshâhi [First Journey to Europe], Matba‘e-ye Khâsse-ye Mobârake-ye Shâhanshâhi [Imperial Printing House], Tehran, 1319 AH. This book was offset in Tehran by ‘Ali Dehbâshi (2nd printing, winter 1361 AS).

· Idem, Doyyomin Safarnâme-ye Mobârake-ye Homâyuni, [Second Journey to Europe], text edited by Fakhr-ol-Molk, Matba‘e-ye Mobârake-ye Shâhanshâhi, Tehran, 1320 AH. This book was offset under the title Dovvomin Safarnâme-ye Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh be Farang by Kâvosh Publishers and printed in Tehran in autumn 1362 AS.

· Nâzem-ol-Eslâm Kermâni, Târikh-e Bidâri-ye Irâniyân:

· ed. ‘Ali-Akbar Sa‘idi Sirjâni, 3 parts in 3 vols., Tehran, 1346 AS.

· ed. ‘Ali-Akbar Sa‘idi Sirjani, 3 parts in 2 vols., Tehran, 1362 AS.

· Nafissi, Hamid, “Taneshhâ-ye Farhang-e Sinemâ’i dar Jomhuri-e

Eslâmi”, Irân-nâme, 14th year, no. 3, summer 1375 AS, pp. 383-416.

· Najmi, Nâsser, Dâr-ol-Khelâfe-ye Tehrân, 2nd printing, Tehran, 1362 AS.

· Omid, Jamâl, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, 1279-1357, 2nd printing, Tehran, 1377 AS.

· Russi Khân: see “E‘lân”, in Habl-ol-Matin.

· Sahhâfbâshi: see “E‘lân” in Sur-e Esrâfil of 21 Rabi‘-ol-Avval 1326 AH.

· Sahhâfbâshi, Ebrâhim, Safarnâme-ye Ebrâhim-e Sahhâfbâshi, ed. Mohammad Moshiri, Tehran, 1357 AS.

· Shahri, Ja‘far, Gushe’i az Târikh-e Ejtemâ‘i-e Tehrân-e Qadim, Tehran, 1357 AS.

· Shahri (Shahribâf), Ja‘far, Târikh-e Ejtemâ‘i-e Tehrân dar Qarn-e Sizdahom, 6 vols., Tehran, 1367-68 AS.

· Sur-e Esrâfil, no. 26, Thursday 21 Rabi‘-ol-Avval 1326 / 23 April 1908 / 3 Ordibehesht 1287, “E‘lân” (advertisement) on page 8.

· Tahâminejâd, Mohammad, Rishe-yâbi-e Ya’s, special issue on cinema and theater, no. 5-6, Dey 1273 AS (unfortunately this interesting article was not entirely available to me when this paper was being written).

· Taqizâde, Seyyed Hassan, Zendegi-ye Tufâni: Khâterât-e Seyyed Hassan-e Taqizâde, ed. Iraj Afshar, Los Angeles, 1990.

· Zahir-od-Dowle, ‘Ali-Khân, Safarnâme-ye Zahir-od-Dowle hamrâh bâ Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh be Farangestân, ed. Mohammad-Esmâ‘il Rezvâni, Tehran, 1371 AS.

· Zokâ’, Yahyâ, Târikh-e ‘Akkâsi va ‘Akkâsân-e Pishgâm dar Irân, Tehran, 1376 AS..

Bibliography in languages other than Persian
· Adle, C., “Khorheh, The Dawn of Iranian Scientific Archaeological Excavation”, Farairan, no. 3/4, Persian and English text, Spring-Summer 2001, pp. 226-265.

· Idem, in collaboration with Y. Zoka’, “Notes et documents sur la photographie iranienne et son histoire; I. Les premiers daguerréotypistes, c. 1844-1845 / 1260-1270”, Studia Iranica, vol. 12, fascicule 2, 1983, pp. 249-280 and 2 pls.

· Azimi, F., “Entezâm, 1 ‘Abd-Allâh”, Encyclopaedia Iranica, vol. VIII, pp. 461-462.

· Graux, L. et H. Daragon, S. M. Mozzafer-ef-Din Schah in Schah en France, 1900 – 1902 – 1905, Paris, 1905.

· Gaffary, F., “Coup d’oeil sur les 35 premières années du cinéma en Iran”, Entre l’Iran et l’Occident, Paris, 1989, pp. 225-234, and in particular pp. 226-227.

· Idem, “20 ans de cinéma en Iran”, Civilisations, vol. XXVIII, no. 2, 1990, pp. 179-195.

· Idem, “‘Akkâs-bâshi”, Encyclopaedia Iranica, vol. I, p. 718.

· Idem, article on Mirzâ Ebrâhim ‘Akkâs-bâshi, to be published in The Qajar Epoch, Arts and Architecture, ed. C. Adle and P. Luft, Iran Heritage Foundation, London.

· Image et magie du cinéma français, 100 ans de patrimoine, Exhibition organized by the Centre National de la Cinématographie and the Conservatoire National des Arts et Métiers, Paris, n.d. [1995].

· Naficy, H., “Iranian Writers, the Iranian Cinema and the Case of Dash Akol”, Iranian Studies, vol. 28, no. 2-4, Spring-Autumn 1985, pp. 231-251.

· Paoli, Xavier, Leurs Majestés, Paris, 1912.

· Savage Landor, Henry, Across Coveted Lands or a Journey from Flushing (Holland) to Calcutta, Overland, 2 vols., London, 1902 (US ed., New York, 1903).

· Toulet, E., Cinema is 100 Years Old, London, 1995.

The Emancipated Spectator

Jacques Ranciere

Source: Art Forum , March 2007


Photo by: Hedric Speck

I have called this talk “The Emancipated Spectator.”* As I understand it, a title is always a challenge. It sets forth the presupposition that an expression makes sense, that there is a link between separate terms, which also means between concepts, problems, and theories that seem at first sight to bear no direct relation to one another. In a sense, this title expresses the perplexity that was mine when Marten Spangberg invited me to deliver what is supposed to be the “keynote” lecture of this academy. He told me he wanted me to introduce this collective reflection on “spectatorship” because he had been impressed by my book The Ignorant Schoolmaster [Le Maitre ignorant (1987)]. I began to wonder what connection there could be between the cause and the effect. This is an academy that brings people involved in the worlds of art, theater, and performance together to consider the issue of spectatorship today. The Ignorant Schoolmaster was a meditation on the eccentric theory and the strange destiny of Joseph Jacotot, a French professor who, at the beginning of the nineteenth century, unsettled the academic world by asserting that an ignorant person could teach another ignorant person what he did not know himself, proclaiming the equality of intelligences, and calling for intellectual emancipation against the received wisdom concerning the instruction of the lower classes. His theory sank into oblivion in the middle of the nineteenth century. I thought it necessary to revive it in the 1980s in order to stir up the debate about education and its political stakes. But what use can be made, in the contemporary artistic dialogue, of a man whose artistic universe could be epitomized by names such as Demosthenes, Racine, and Poussin?

On second thought, it occurred to me that the very distance, the lack of any obvious relationship between Jacotot’s theory and the issue of spectatorship today might be fortunate. It could provide an opportunity to radically distance one’s thoughts from the theoretical and political presuppositions that still shore up, even in postmodern disguise, most of the discussion about theater, performance, and spectatorship. I got the impression that indeed it was possible to make sense of this relationship, on condition that we try to piece together the network of presuppositions that put the issue of spectatorship at a strategic intersection in the discussion of the relationship between art and politics and to sketch out the broader pattern of thinking that has for a long time framed the political issues around theater and spectacle (and I use those terms in a very general sense here–to include dance, performance, and all the kinds of spectacle performed by acting bodies in front of a collective audience).

The numerous debates and polemics that have called the theater into question throughout our history can be traced back to a very simple contradiction. Let us call it the paradox of the spectator, a paradox that may prove more crucial than the well-known paradox of the actor and which can be summed up in the simplest terms. There is no theater without spectators (be it only a single and hidden one, as in Diderot’s fictional representation of Le Fils naturel [1757]). But spectatorship is a bad thing. Being a spectator means looking at a spectacle. And looking is a bad thing, for two reasons. First, looking is deemed the opposite of knowing. It means standing before an appearance without knowing the conditions which produced that appearance or the reality that lies behind it. Second, looking is deemed the opposite of acting. He who looks at the spectacle remains motionless in his seat, lacking any power of intervention. Being a spectator means being passive. The spectator is separated from the capacity of knowing just as he is separated from the possibility of acting.

From this diagnosis it is possible to draw two opposing conclusions. The first is that theater in general is a bad thing, that it is the stage of illusion and passivity, which must be dismissed in favor of what it forbids: knowledge and action–the action of knowing and the action led by knowledge. This conclusion was drawn long ago by Plato: The theater is the place where ignorant people are invited to see suffering people. What takes place on the stage is a pathos, the manifestation of a disease, the disease of desire and pain, which is nothing but the self-division of the subject caused by the lack of knowledge. The “action” of theater is nothing but the transmission of that disease through another disease, the disease of the empirical vision that looks at shadows. Theater is the transmission of the ignorance that makes people ill through the medium of ignorance that is optical illusion. Therefore a good community is a community that doesn’t allow the mediation of the theater, a community whose collective virtues are directly incorporated in the living attitudes of its participants.

This seems to be the more logical conclusion to the problem. We know, however, that it is not the conclusion that was most often drawn. The most common conclusion runs as follows: Theater involves spectatorship, and spectatorship is a bad thing. Therefore, we need a new theater, a theater without spectator-ship. We need a theater where the optical relation–implied in the word theatron–is subjected to another relation, implied in the word drama. Drama means action. The theater is a place where an action is actually performed by living bodies in front of living bodies. The latter may have resigned their power. But this power is resumed in the performance of the former, in the intelligence that builds it, in the energy that it conveys. The true sense of the theater must be predicated on that acting power. Theater has to be brought back to its true essence, which is the contrary of what is usually known as theater. What must be pursued is a theater without spectators, a theater where spectators will no longer be spectators, where they will learn things instead of being captured by images and become active participants in a collective performance instead of being passive viewers.

This turn has been understood in two ways, which are antagonistic in principle, though they have often been mixed in theatrical performance and in its legitimization. On the one hand the spectator must be released from the passivity of the viewer, who is fascinated by the appearance standing in front of him and identifies with the characters on the stage. He must be confronted with the spectacle of something strange, which stands as an enigma and demands that he investigate the reason for its strangeness. He must be pressed to abandon the role of passive viewer and to take on that of the scientist who observes phenomena and seeks their cause. On the other hand the spectator must eschew the role of the mere observer who remains still and untouched in front of a distant spectacle. He must be torn from his delusive mastery, drawn into the magical power of theatrical action, where he will exchange the privilege of playing the rational viewer for the experience of possessing theater’s true vital energies.

We acknowledge these two paradigmatic attitudes epitomized by Brecht’s epic theater and Artaud’s theater of cruelty. On the one hand the spectator must become more distant, on the other he must lose any distance. On the one hand he must change the way he looks for a better way of looking, on the other he must abandon the very position of the viewer. The project of reforming the theater ceaselessly wavered between these two poles of distant inquiry and vital embodiment. This means that the presuppositions underpinning the search for a new theater are the same as those that underpinned the dismissal of theater. The reformers of the theater in fact retained the terms of Plato’s polemics, rearranging them by borrowing from Platonism an alternative notion of theater. Plato drew an opposition between the poetic and democratic community of the theater and a “true” community: a choreographic community in which no one remains a motionless spectator, in which everyone moves according to a communitarian rhythm determined by mathematical proportion.

The reformers of the theater restaged the Platonic opposition between choreia and theater as an opposition between the true living essence of the theater and the simulacrum of the “spectacle.” The theater then became the place where passive spectatorship had to be turned into its contrary–the living body of a community enacting its own principle. In this academy’s statement of purpose we read that “theater remains the only place of direct confrontation of the audience with itself as a collective.” We can give that sentence a restrictive meaning that would merely contrast the collective audience of the theater with the individual visitors to an exhibition or the sheer collection of individuals watching a movie. But obviously the sentence means much more. It means that “theater” remains the name for an idea of the community as a living body. It conveys an idea of the community as self-presence opposed to the distance of the representation.

Since the advent of German Romanticism, the concept of theater has been associated with the idea of the living community. Theater appeared as a form of the aesthetic constitution–meaning the sensory constitution–of the community: the community as a way of occupying time and space, as a set of living gestures and attitudes that stands before any kind of political form and institution; community as a performing body instead of an apparatus of forms and rules. In this way theater was associated with the Romantic notion of the aesthetic revolution: the idea of a revolution that would change not only laws and institutions but transform the sensory forms of human experience. The reform of theater thus meant the restoration of its authenticity as an assembly or a ceremony of the community. Theater is an assembly where the people become aware of their situation and discuss their own interests, Brecht would say after Piscator. Theater is the ceremony where the community is given possession of its own energies, Artaud would state. If theater is held to be an equivalent of the true community, the living body of the community opposed to the illusion of mimesis, it comes as no surprise that the attempt at restoring theater to its true essence had as its theoretical backdrop the critique of the spectacle.

What is the essence of spectacle in Guy Debord’s theory? It is externality. The spectacle is the reign of vision. Vision means externality. Now externality means the dispossession of one’s own being. “The more man contemplates, the less he is,” Debord says. This may sound anti-Platonic. Indeed, the main source for the critique of the spectacle is, of course, Feuerbach’s critique of religion. It is what sustains that critique–namely, the Romantic idea of truth as unseparateness. But that idea itself remains in line with the Platonic disparagement of the mimetic image. The contemplation that Debord denounces is the theatrical or mimetic contemplation, the contemplation of the suffering that is provoked by division. “Separation is the alpha and the omega of spectacle,” he writes. What man gazes at in this scheme is the activity that has been stolen from him; it is his own essence torn away from him, turned foreign to him, hostile to him, making for a collective world whose reality is nothing but man’s own dispossession.

From this perspective there is no contradiction between the quest for a theater that can realize its true essence and the critique of the spectacle. “Good” theater is posited as a theater that deploys its separate reality only in order to suppress it, to turn the theatrical form into a form of life of the community. The paradox of the spectator is part of an intellectual disposition that is, even in the name of the theater, in keeping with the Platonic dismissal of the theater. This framework is built around a number of core ideas that must be called into question. Indeed, we must question the very footing on which those ideas are based. I am speaking of a whole set of relations, resting on some key equivalences and some key oppositions: the equivalence of theater and community, of seeing and passivity, of externality and separation, of mediation and simulacrum; the opposition of collective and individual, image and living reality, activity and passivity, self-possession and alienation.

This set of equivalences and oppositions makes for a rather tricky dramaturgy of guilt and redemption. Theater is charged with making spectators passive in opposition to its very essence, which allegedly consists in the self-activity of the community. As a consequence, it sets itself the task of reversing its own effect and compensating for its own guilt by giving back to the spectators their self-consciousness or self-activity. The theatrical stage and the theatrical performance thus become the vanishing mediation between the evil of the spectacle and the virtue of the true theater. They present to the collective audience performances intended to teach the spectators how they can stop being spectators and become performers of a collective activity. Either, according to the Brechtian paradigm, theatrical mediation makes the audience aware of the social situation on which theater itself rests, prompting the audience to act in consequence. Or, according to the Artaudian scheme, it makes them abandon the position of spectator: No longer seated in front of the spectacle, they are instead surrounded by the performance, dragged into the circle of the action, which gives them back their collective energy. In both cases the theater is a self-suppressing mediation.

This is the point where the descriptions and propositions of intellectual emancipation enter into the picture and help us reframe it. Obviously, this idea of a self-suppressing mediation is well known to us. It is precisely the process that is supposed to take place in the pedagogical relation. In the pedagogical process the role of the schoolmaster is posited as the act of suppressing the distance between his knowledge and the ignorance of the ignorant. His lessons and exercises are aimed at continuously reducing the gap between knowledge and ignorance. Unfortunately, in order to reduce the gap, he must reinstate it ceaselessly. In order to replace ignorance with adequate knowledge, he must always keep a step ahead of the ignorant student who is losing his ignorance. The reason for this is simple: In the pedagogical scheme, the ignorant person is not only the one who does not know what he does not know; he is as well the one who ignores that he does not know what he does not know and ignores how to know it. The master is not only he who knows precisely what remains unknown to the ignorant; he also knows how to make it knowable, at what time and what place, according to what protocol. On the one hand pedagogy is set up as a process of objective transmission: one piece of knowledge after another piece, one word after another word, one rule or theorem after another. This knowledge is supposed to be conveyed directly from the master’s mind or from the page of the book to the mind of the pupil. But this equal transmission is predicated on a relation of inequality. The master alone knows the right way, time, and place for that “equal” transmission, because he knows something that the ignorant will never know, short of becoming a master himself, something that is more important than the knowledge conveyed. He knows the exact distance between ignorance and knowledge. That pedagogical distance between a determined ignorance and a determined knowledge is in fact a metaphor. It is the metaphor of a radical break between the way of the ignorant student and the way of the master, the metaphor of a radical break between two intelligences.

The master cannot ignore that the so-called ignorant pupil who sits in front of him in fact knows a lot of things, which he has learned on his own, by looking at and listening to the world around him, by figuring out the meaning of what he has seen and heard, by repeating what he has heard and learned by chance, by comparing what he discovers with what he already knows, and so on. The master cannot ignore that the ignorant pupil has undertaken by these same means the apprenticeship that is the precondition of all others: the apprenticeship of his mother tongue. But for the master this is only the knowledge of the ignorant, the knowledge of the little child who sees and hears at random, compares and guesses by chance, and repeats by routine, without understanding the reason for the effects he observes and reproduces. The role of the master is thus to break with that process of hit-and-miss groping. It is to teach the pupil the knowledge of the knowledgeable, in its own way–the way of the progressive method, which dismisses all groping and all chance by explaining items in order, from the simplest to the most complex, according to what the pupil is capable of understanding, with respect to his age or social background and social expectations.

The primary knowledge that the master owns is the “knowledge of ignorance.” It is the presupposition of a radical break between two forms of intelligence. This is also the primary knowledge that he transmits to the student: the knowledge that he must have things explained to him in order to understand, the knowledge that he cannot understand on his own. It is the knowledge of his incapacity. In this way, progressive instruction is the endless verification of its starting point: inequality. That endless verification of inequality is what Jacotot calls the process of stultification. The opposite of stultification is emancipation. Emancipation is the process of verification of the equality of intelligence. The equality of intelligence is not the equality of all manifestations of intelligence. It is the equality of intelligence in all its manifestations. It means that there is no gap between two forms of intelligence. The human animal learns everything as he has learned his mother tongue, as he has learned to venture through the forest of things and signs that surrounds him, in order to take his place among his fellow humans–by observing, comparing one thing with another thing, one sign with one fact, one sign with another sign, and repeating the experiences he has first encountered by chance. If the “ignorant” person who doesn’t know how to read knows only one thing by heart, be it a simple prayer, he can compare that knowledge with something of which he remains ignorant: the words of the same prayer written on paper. He can learn, sign after sign, the resemblance of that of which he is ignorant to that which he knows. He can do it if, at each step, he observes what is in front of him, tells what he has seen, and verifies what he has told. From the ignorant person to the scientist who builds hypotheses, it is always the same intelligence that is at work: an intelligence that makes figures and comparisons to communicate its intellectual adventures and to understand what another intelligence is trying to communicate to it in turn.

This poetic work of translation is the first condition of any apprenticeship. Intellectual emancipation, as Jacotot conceived of it, means the awareness and the enactment of that equal power of translation and counter-translation. Emancipation entails an idea of distance opposed to the stultifying one. Speaking animals are distant animals who try to communicate through the forest of signs. It is this sense of distance that the “ignorant master”–the master who ignores inequality–is teaching. Distance is not an evil that should be abolished. It is the normal condition of communication. It is not a gap that calls for an expert in the art of suppressing it. The distance that the “ignorant” person has to cover is not the gap between his ignorance and the knowledge of his master; it is the distance between what he already knows and what he still doesn’t know but can learn by the same process. To help his pupil cover that distance, the “ignorant master” need not be ignorant. He need only dissociate his knowledge from his mastery. He does not teach his knowledge to the students. He commands them to venture forth in the forest, to report what they see, what they think of what they have seen, to verify it, and so on. What he ignores is the gap between two intelligences. It is the linkage between the knowledge of the knowledgeable and the ignorance of the ignorant. Any distance is a matter of happenstance. Each intellectual act weaves a casual thread between a form of ignorance and a form of knowledge. No kind of social hierarchy can be predicated on this sense of distance.

What is the relevance of this story with respect to the question of the spectator? Dramaturges today aren’t out to explain to their audience the truth about social relations and the best means to do away with domination. But it isn’t enough to lose one’s illusions. On the contrary, the loss of illusions often leads the dramaturge or the performers to increase the pressure on the spectator: Maybe he will know what has to be done, if the performance changes him, if it sets him apart from his passive attitude and makes him an active participant in the communal world. This is the first point that the reformers of the theater share with the stultifying pedagogues: the idea of the gap between two positions. Even when the dramaturge or the performer doesn’t know what he wants the spectator to do, he knows at least that the spectator has to do something: switch from passivity to activity.

But why not turn things around? Why not think, in this case too, that it is precisely the attempt at suppressing the distance that constitutes the distance itself? Why identify the fact of being seated motionless with inactivity, if not by the presupposition of a radical gap between activity and inactivity? Why identify “looking” with “passivity” if not by the presupposition that looking means looking at the image or the appearance, that it means being separated from the reality that is always behind the image? Why identify hearing with being passive, if not by the presupposition that acting is the opposite of speaking, etc.? All these oppositions–looking/knowing, looking/acting, appearance/reality, activity/passivity–are much more than logical oppositions. They are what I call a partition of the sensible, a distribution of places and of the capacities or incapacities attached to those places. Put in other terms, they are allegories of inequality. This is why you can change the values given to each position without changing the meaning of the oppositions themselves. For instance, you can exchange the positions of the superior and the inferior. The spectator is usually disparaged because he does nothing, while the performers on the stage–or the workers outside–do something with their bodies. But it is easy to turn matters around by stating that those who act, those who work with their bodies, are obviously inferior to those who are able to look–that is, those who can contemplate ideas, foresee the future, or take a global view of our world. The positions can be switched, but the structure remains the same. What counts, in fact, is only the statement of opposition between two categories: There is one population that cannot do what the other population does. There is capacity on one side and incapacity on the other.

Emancipation starts from the opposite principle, the principle of equality. It begins when we dismiss the opposition between looking and acting and understand that the distribution of the visible itself is part of the configuration of domination and subjection. It starts when we realize that looking is also an action that confirms or modifies that distribution, and that “interpreting the world” is already a means of transforming it, of reconfiguring it. The spectator is active, just like the student or the scientist: He observes, he selects, he compares, he interprets. He connects what he observes with many other things he has observed on other stages, in other kinds of spaces. He makes his poem with the poem that is performed in front of him. She participates in the performance if she is able to tell her own story about the story that is in front of her. Or if she is able to undo the performance–for instance, to deny the corporeal energy that it is supposed to convey the here and now and transform it into a mere image, by linking it with something she has read in a book or dreamed about, that she has lived or imagined. These are distant viewers and interpreters of what is performed in front of them. They pay attention to the performance to the extent that they are distant.

This is the second key point: The spectators see, feel, and understand something to the extent that they make their poems as the poet has done, as the actors, dancers, or performers have done. The dramaturge would like them to see this thing, feel that feeling, understand this lesson of what they see, and get into that action in consequence of what they have seen, felt, and understood. He proceeds from the same presupposition as the stultifying master: the presupposition of an equal, undistorted transmission. The master presupposes that what the student learns is precisely what he teaches him. This is the master’s notion of transmission: There is something on one side, in one mind or one body–a knowledge, a capacity, an energy–that must be transferred to the other side, into the other’s mind or body. The presupposition is that the process of learning is not merely the effect of its cause–teaching–but the very transmission of the cause: What the student learns is the knowledge of the master. That identity of cause and effect is the principle of stultification. On the contrary, the principle of emancipation is the dissociation of cause and effect. The paradox of the ignorant master lies therein. The student of the ignorant master learns what his master does not know, since his master commands him to look for something and to recount everything he discovers along the way while the master verifies that he is actually looking for it. The student learns something as an effect of his master’s mastery. But he does not learn his master’s knowledge.

The dramaturge and the performer do not want to “teach” anything. Indeed, they are more than a little wary these days about using the stage as a way of teaching. They want only to bring about a form of awareness or a force of feeling or action. But still they make the supposition that what will be felt or understood will be what they have put in their own script or performance. They presuppose the equality–meaning the homogeneity–of cause and effect. As we know, this equality rests on an inequality. It rests on the presupposition that there is a proper knowledge and proper practice with respect to “distance” and the means of suppressing it. Now this distance takes on two forms. There is the distance between performer and spectator. But there is also the distance inherent in the performance itself, inasmuch as it is a mediating “spectacle” that stands between the artist’s idea and the spectator’s feeling and interpretation. This spectacle is a third term, to which the other two can refer, but which prevents any kind of “equal” or “undistorted” transmission. It is a mediation between them, and that mediation of a third term is crucial in the process of intellectual emancipation. To prevent stultification there must be something between the master and the student. The same thing that links them must also separate them. Jacotot posited the book as that in-between thing. The book is the material thing, foreign to both master and student, through which they can verify what the student has seen, what he has reported about it, what he thinks of what he has reported.

This means that the paradigm of intellectual emancipation is clearly opposed to another idea of emancipation on which the reform of theater has often been grounded–the idea of emancipation as the reappropriation of a self that had been lost in a process of separation. The Debordian critique of the spectacle still rests on the Feuerbachian thinking of representation as an alienation of the self: The human being tears its human essence away from itself by framing a celestial world to which the real human world is submitted. In the same way, the essence of human activity is distanced, alienated from us in the exteriority of the spectacle. The mediation of the “third term” thus appears as the instance of separation, dispossession, and treachery. An idea of the theater predicated on that idea of the spectacle conceives the externality of the stage as a kind of transitory state that has to be superseded. The suppression of that exteriority thus becomes the telos of the performance. That program demands that the spectators be on the stage and the performers in the auditorium. It demands that the very difference between the two spaces be abolished, that the performance take place anywhere other than in a theater. Certainly many improvements in theatrical performance resulted from that breaking down of the traditional distribution of places (in the sense of both sites and roles). But the “redistribution” of places is one thing; the demand that the theater achieve, as its essence, the gathering of an unseparate community is another thing. The first entails the invention of new forms of intellectual adventure; the second entails a new form of Platonic assignment of bodies to their proper–that is, to their “communal”–place.

This presupposition against mediation is connected with a third one, the presupposition that the essence of theater is the essence of the community. The spectator is supposed to be redeemed when he is no longer an individual, when he is restored to the status of a member of a community, when he is carried off in a flood of the collective energy or led to the position of the citizen who acts as a member of the collective. The less the dramaturge knows what the spectators should do as a collective, the more he knows that they must become a collective, turn their mere agglomeration into the community that they virtually are. It is high time, I think, to call into question the idea of the theater as a specifically communitarian place. It is supposed to be such a place because, on the stage, real living bodies perform for people who are physically present together in the same place. In that way it is supposed to provide some unique sense of community, radically different from the situation of the individual watching television, or of moviegoers who sit in front of disembodied, projected images. Strange as it may seem, the widespread use of images and of all kinds of media in theatrical performances hasn’t called the presupposition into question. Images may take the place of living bodies in the performance, but as long as the spectators are gathered there the living and communitarian essence of the theater appears to be saved. Thus it seems impossible to escape the question, What specifically happens among the spectators in a theater that doesn’t happen elsewhere? Is there something more interactive, more communal, that goes on between them than between individuals who watch the same show on TV at the same time?

I think that this “something” is nothing more than the presupposition that the theater is communitarian in and of itself. That presupposition of what “theater” means always runs ahead of the performance and predates its actual effects. But in a theater, or in front of a performance, just as in a museum, at a school, or on the street, there are only individuals, weaving their own way through the forest of words, acts, and things that stand in front of them or around them. The collective power that is common to these spectators is not the status of members of a collective body. Nor is it a peculiar kind of interactivity. It is the power to translate in their own way what they are looking at. It is the power to connect it with the intellectual adventure that makes any of them similar to any other insofar as his or her path looks unlike any other. The common power is the power of the equality of intelligences. This power binds individuals together to the very extent that it keeps them apart from each other; it is the power each of us possesses in equal measure to make our own way in the world. What has to be put to the test by our performances–whether teaching or acting, speaking, writing, making art, etc.–is not the capacity of aggregation of a collective but the capacity of the anonymous, the capacity that makes anybody equal to everybody. This capacity works through unpredictable and irreducible distances. It works through an unpredictable and irreducible play of associations and dissociations.

Associating and dissociating instead of being the privileged medium that conveys the knowledge or energy that makes people active–this could be the principle of an “emancipation of the spectator,” which means the emancipation of any of us as a spectator. Spectatorship is not a passivity that must be turned into activity. It is our normal situation. We learn and teach, we act and know, as spectators who link what they see with what they have seen and told, done and dreamed. There is no privileged medium, just as there is no privileged starting point. Everywhere there are starting points and turning points from which we learn new things, if we first dismiss the presupposition of distance, second the distribution of the roles, and third the borders between territories. We don’t need to turn spectators into actors. We do need to acknowledge that every spectator is already an actor in his own story and that every actor is in turn the spectator of the same kind of story. We needn’t turn the ignorant into the learned or, merely out of a desire to overturn things, make the student or the ignorant person the master of his masters.

Let me make a little detour through my own political and academic experience. I belong to a generation that was poised between two competing perspectives: According to the first, those who possessed the intelligence of the social system had to pass their learning on to those who suffered under that system, so that they would then take action to overthrow it. According to the second, the supposed learned persons were in fact ignorant: Because they knew nothing of what exploitation and rebellion were, they had to become the students of the so-called ignorant workers. Therefore, initially I tried to reelaborate Marxist theory in order to make its theoretical weapons available to a new revolutionary movement, before setting out to learn from those who worked in the factories what exploitation and rebellion meant. For me, as for many other people of my generation, none of those attempts proved very successful. That’s why I decided to look into the history of the workers’ movement, to find out the reasons for the continual mismatching of workers and the intellectuals who came and visited them, either to instruct them or to be instructed by them. It was my good fortune to discover that this relationship wasn’t a matter of knowledge on one side and ignorance on the other, nor was it a matter of knowing versus acting or of individuality versus community. One day in May, during the 1970s, as I was looking through a worker’s correspondence from the 1830s to determine what the condition and consciousness of workers had been at that time, I discovered something quite different: the adventures of two visitors, also on a day in May, but some hundred and forty years before I stumbled upon their letters in the archives. One of the two correspondents had just been introduced into the utopian community of the Saint-Simonians, and he recounted to his friend his daily schedule in utopia: work, exercises, games, singing, and stories. His friend in turn wrote to him about a country outing that he had just gone on with two other workers looking to enjoy their Sunday leisure. But it wasn’t the usual Sunday leisure of the worker seeking to restore his physical and mental forces for the following week of work. It was in fact a breakthrough into another kind of leisure–that of aesthetes who enjoy the forms, lights, and shades of nature, of philosophers who spend their time exchanging metaphysical hypotheses in a country inn, and of apostles who set out to communicate their faith to the chance companions they meet along the road.

Those workers who should have provided me information about the conditions of labor and forms of class-consciousness in the 1830s instead provided something quite different: a sense of likeness or equality. They too were spectators and visitors, amid their own class. Their activity as propagandists could not be torn from their “passivity” as mere strollers and contemplators. The chronicle of their leisure entailed a reframing of the very relationship between doing, seeing, and saying. By becoming “spectators,” they overthrew the given distribution of the sensible, which had it that those who work have no time left to stroll and look at random, that the members of a collective body have no time to be “individuals.” This is what emancipation means: the blurring of the opposition between those who look and those who act, between those who are individuals and those who are members of a collective body. What those days brought our chroniclers was not knowledge and energy for future action. It was the reconfiguration hic et nunc of the distribution of Time and Space. Workers’ emancipation was not about acquiring the knowledge of their condition. It was about configuring a time and a space that invalidated the old distribution of the sensible, which doomed workers to do nothing with their nights but restore their forces for work the next day.

Understanding the sense of that break in the heart of time also meant putting into play another kind of knowledge, predicated not on the presupposition of any gap but on the presupposition of likeness. These men, too, were intellectuals–as anybody is. They were visitors and spectators, just like the researcher who, one hundred and forty years later, would read their letters in a library, just like visitors to Marxist theory or at the gates of a factory. There was no gap to bridge between intellectuals and workers, actors and spectators; no gap between two populations, two situations, or two ages. On the contrary, there was a likeness that had to be acknowledged and put into play in the very production of knowledge. Putting it into play meant two things. First, it meant rejecting the borders between disciplines. Telling the (hi)story of those workers’ days and nights forced me to blur the boundary between the field of “empirical” history and the field of “pure” philosophy. The story that those workers told was about time, about the loss and reappropriation of time. To show what it meant, I had to put their account in direct relation with the theoretical discourse of the philosopher who had, long ago in the Republic, told the same story by explaining that in a well-ordered community everybody must do only one thing, his or her own business, and that workers in any case had no time to spend anywhere other than their workplace or to do anything but the job fitting the (in)capacity with which nature had endowed them. Philosophy, then, could no longer present itself as a sphere of pure thought separated from the sphere of empirical facts. Nor was it the theoretical interpretation of those facts. There were neither facts nor interpretations. There were two ways of telling stories.

Blurring the border between academic disciplines also meant blurring the hierarchy between the levels of discourse, between the narration of a story and the philosophical or scientific explanation of it or the truth lying behind or beneath it. There was no metadiscourse explicating the truth of a lower level of discourse. What had to be done was a work of translation, showing how empirical stories and philosophical discourses translate each other. Producing a new knowledge meant inventing the idiomatic form that would make translation possible. I had to use that idiom to tell of my own intellectual adventure, at the risk that the idiom would remain “unreadable” for those who wanted to know the cause of the story, its true meaning, or the lesson for action that could be drawn from it. I had to produce a discourse that would be readable only for those who would make their own translation from the point of view of their own adventure.

That personal detour may lead us back to the core of our problem. These issues of crossing borders and blurring the distribution of roles are defining characteristics of theater and of contemporary art today, when all artistic competences stray from their own field and exchange places and powers with all others. We have plays without words and dance with words; installations and performances instead of “plastic” works; video projections turned into cycles of frescoes; photographs turned into living pictures or history paintings; sculpture that becomes hypermediatic show; etc. Now, there are three ways of understanding and practicing this confusion of the genres. There is the revival of the Gesamtkunstwerk, which is supposed to be the apotheosis of art as a form of life but which proves instead to be the apotheosis of strong artistic egos or of a kind of hyperactive consumerism, if not of both at the same time. There is the idea of a “hybridization” of the means of art, which complements the view of our age as one of mass individualism expressed through the relentless exchange between roles and identities, reality and virtuality, life and mechanical prostheses, and so on. In my view, this second interpretation ultimately leads to the same place as the first one–to another kind of hyperactive consumerism, another kind of stultification, inasmuch as it effects the crossing of borders and the confusion of roles merely as a means of increasing the power of the performance without questioning its grounds.

The third way–the best way in my view–does not aim at the amplification of the effect but at the transformation of the cause/effect scheme itself, at the dismissal of the set of oppositions that grounds the process of stultification. It invalidates the opposition between activity and passivity as well as the scheme of “equal transmission” and the communitarian idea of the theater that in fact makes it an allegory of inequality. The crossing of borders and the confusion of roles shouldn’t lead to a kind of “hypertheater,” turning spectatorship into activity by turning representation into presence. On the contrary, theater should question its privileging of living presence and bring the stage back to a level of equality with the telling of a story or the writing and the reading of a book. It should be the institution of a new stage of equality, where the different kinds of performances would be translated into one another. In all those performances, in fact, it should be a matter of linking what one knows with what one does not know, of being at the same time performers who display their competences and spectators who are looking to find what those competences might produce in a new context, among unknown people. Artists, like researchers, build the stage where the manifestation and the effect of their competences become dubious as they frame the story of a new adventure in a new idiom. The effect of the idiom cannot be anticipated. It calls for spectators who are active interpreters, who render their own translation, who appropriate the story for themselves, and who ultimately make their own story out of it. An emancipated community is in fact a community of storytellers and translators.

I’m aware that all this may sound like words, mere words. But I wouldn’t take that as an insult. We’ve heard so many speakers pass their words off as more than words, as passwords enabling us to enter a new life. We’ve seen so many spectacles boasting of being no mere spectacles but ceremonials of community. Even now, in spite of the so-called postmodern skepticism about changing the way we live, one sees so many shows posing as religious mysteries that it might not seem so outrageous to hear, for a change, that words are only words. Breaking away from the phantasms of the Word made flesh and the spectator turned active, knowing that words are only words and spectacles only spectacles may help us better understand how words, stories, and performances can help us change something in the world we live in.

JACQUES RANCIERE IS PROFESSOR EMERITUS OF PHILOSOPHY AT THE UNIVERSITY OF PARIS VIII.

* “The Emancipated Spectator” was originally presented, in English, at the opening of the Fifth International Summer Academy of Arts in Frankfurt on August 20, 2004.

Eastern Theatre,Western Theatre

Farairan Quarterly,No.9

Bahram Beyzai

In the East, a play is a narrative performance. For an Eastern performer, it is natural for him to play the role of someone else or demonstrate something other than the self. With the help of the allusion and exaggeration inherent in the art of acting, and by distancing oneself from the role, the actor thereby easily makes the character palpable. Contemporary European theater, by understanding and analyzing these very aspects of acting, on the one hand has helped originate the idea of “role distancing,” and on the other, it has become the foundation of “ritual theater.” However in both Western and Eastern theater, neither “role distancing” nor “ritual” are the sought after goals, but rather the inherent and natural dialect of theater. It therefore follows that although the feelings portrayed are real, the roles are not so, and it is normal for the actors not to become the characters they portray. They do not pronounce, “We are them!” but only give us, the audience, news concerning the “role” or narrate the role’s character to us. Hence it is also natural for the actor to observe the role he is portraying and, by emphasizing both the good and bad traits of the role’s character, incite the audience’s approval or disapproval. So it is natural for the actor, whose whole craft rests in being able to create different imaginative objects and mental images in the minds of the viewer, in the intervals and intermissions of being in character, to be able to ask for “a glass of water to regain his breath”; redo his make-up, or indeed openly read his entire role from a written script. The actor does not mean to imply that what is actually occurring on stage is reality; he is only relating a reality that has already occurred.
Although “role distancing” achieves the same end in both ta‘zieh (religious possion-plays) and in the works of Bertolt Brecht, they are definitely not of the same cloth. By the use of “role distancing,” Brecht attempts to keep the viewer from becoming totally immersed in or captivated by the magic of the scene in order for him to retain his objectivity. It is fundamentally not possible for the actor and the role to become one and the same in ta‘zieh, because whatever the actor does is, in reality, a form of religious homage and worship. He, the actor, believes himself to be a tiny speck in comparison to the saints, their counterparts, or the enemies of the saints that he happens to be portraying. So how can he possibly make himself one with them? He does not even consider the thought of becoming one with either the saints or their enemies. In the first instance, it smacks of blasphemy and in the second, there lies the possibility of being welcomed to hell! That which occurs in Brecht’s works by device, is a fundamentally natural caveat in ta‘zieh.

In these ta‘ziehs, it is not necessary to set a scene for the actions of the champions. They express themselves, their actions, and their roles, either upon their entrances onto the stage or at a later point, by direct discourse with the audience. How can an actor who is to portray a god, a good or a bad spirit, do so by the use of common or ordinary acts and actions? How can a god or a spirit act as the ordinary man in the street? How can a god, spirit, or mythological being express its ideas by the use of ordinary words such as those in common usage by the general public? Players of this type of theater must portray their roles with extraordinary, larger-than-life actions such as special dances, and cries and songs uttered in unusual voices, thereby bringing to life the god, spirit, or mythical being with actions and utterances in their own image.

The narrative and descriptive style of theater is utilized in these plays. As in all other narrative works, it accepts and does not deny it’s own nature.1 Juxtaposition of prayers at the beginning and end of these plays; the prologues and epilogues; the introductions, and the position of the audience as a counterpoint to the play, emphasize both the spectacle of the performance and its sanctity. At the same time, by the use of mutually familiar idiomatic and spiritual contexts and techniques, audience participation is maintained in the performance and action of the play. Exaggeration and hyperbole, which are employed to refer to the supernatural, remove the allegory from the confines of theater, making it quite natural for actors to sometimes define and narrate the character they are portraying. Hence dimensions can no longer appear natural, nor will distance appear logical. The acting alludes to the dimensions and distances in the role and it is the actor who, by setting the mood and using tricks of stagecraft, fires the audiences’ imagination and instinct, thereby making the audience a participant in the performance. In Japanese nô theater, by use of a fictional “séance” in which spirits are summoned and brought forth, a link is established with the past. In Balinese theater the same result is achieved by the use of lengthy reverential dances. The gods and devils are brought to earth to dance before their worshippers, and thereby figuratively remove the distance between god and man. In China all plays are rooted in the legend of the ancestors. The audience is reminded of their principles, ideals and heritage by the revival of their common bygone past as portrayed in these plays. In India and Iran the audience is so intimately involved in these plays that they actually provide some of the stage props as both a charitable deed and in order to become a party to a spiritual and popular act. In present day India, there are still some theatrical ceremonies the likes of which have become scarce in Iran. One such ceremony portrays “the story of Rama” (Ramayana) and requires and involves a whole geographical locale for its performance. After the completion of harvest feasts and religious rites, the peasantry of the village that is providing the player portraying Rama transport him, in accordance with certain rites and rituals, to another village to “propose marriage” to Sita. In this village similar festivities are carried out in welcoming the “bridegroom.” After several days of celebrations, suddenly peasants from yet another village stage a mock attack and “kidnap” Sita. Rama, along with his followers and armed forces, then goes from village to village searching out Sita. A “battle” then takes place in which Sita is recovered and in the final act, the entire community takes part in a general festival. In Iran the remains of similar ceremonies are still extant in the “Mir-e Noroozi” and “the carpet washers of Ardehal of Mashhad” ceremonies.

Religious plays are directly linked to the spectator’s spirit, while secular plays engage his intellect. Eastern theater thus finds itself between these two poles.

Early religious-occult traditions, in giving majesty to superior and unknown powers, as well as other supernatural phenomena, sought to rouse the spectator from torpor. By separating the common man from his daily routine and creating a bond, it purified and uplifted him. Eastern theater, as the logical continuation of primitive traditions, unwittingly bridges the gap between humanity and the universe by going beyond the commonplace. Thus when watching a traditional Eastern play, there is a feeling and energy which bonds the audience with the totality of existence and the universe. Through theater, humanity and existence are once again unified. This synergy of Eastern theater, now lost to Western drama, produces an atmosphere in which both the actor and the audience have a mutually creative role to play. It is naturally the players who, as the main characters, take part in the performance on behalf of all those involved.2

By reference to the other and the actor’s indirect allusions, in a simple fashion, the actor highlights the main theme of the play. By bringing to mind the rites and ceremonies of the ancient traditions, this type of play harks back to the era when society was not yet divided. During that era, communal activity was both drama and ritual, the philosophy of existence, group therapy, renewal and reaffirmation of tribal affiliations. It was a way of gaining strength and power from the group in order to intimidate enemies and encourage the gods and the forces of nature to increase the yield of agricultural produce. It was also a way to discourage the wrath of destructive and evil forces. In a theatrical ceremony, a crowd would gather, and, by calling upon superior forces, gain strength and power from those forces. By doing so, they would vanquish and overcome their common fears, thereby enabling each individual to release their stress.

The main objective of art in most parts of the East, especially in Indian culture, is this same invocation and worship of the gods. Dancing, which is one of India’s main art forms, is actually the language or means of communicating with nature and becoming one with the gods. Even today, most of the gestures used by Eastern dancers have certain meanings which are derived from the ceremonial dances of ancient times.

It is by means of theater that ceremonies are performed, a theater brimming with allegoric riddles and hints, and the characters being portrayed, rather than being alive, ordinary, and tangible, are abstract ideals. If these characters are not wearing a mask, they usually have on heavy make-up; when the performance requires them to dance, it is as though they are dancing inside a temple. By their mysterious movements, they are in fact engaged in performing an extended, vocal form of prayer, like monks of a divine order, who do not reveal their own stories, but speak sincerely of a reality that they consider much superior to themselves.

Introducing riddles and myths into theater, creating realities above and beyond the conceptual reality of the stage, and using familiar mannerisms and commonly held beliefs in such a way so as to detach the audience from its habits and environment and bring to it virtue and grandeur: are Eastern theatrical concepts which have gradually infiltrated Western theater.

Before the introduction of Western “spoken drama,” memorizing and repeating a text to an audience constituted a play in Eastern theater. Having a live person on stage was no longer enough. The audience expected the performance to be life-like and the mood of the play to afford the actors a chance to be creative, spontaneous, and to improvise. This creativity was at the same time both limited and open. The limitation was due to the actor being forced, in principle, to follow the path and traditions laid down by the actors who had preceded him in playing the role. The openness was in the fact that he was free to use his creative ability along with acting expertise and finesse. He could perform the role in the familiar traditional way and yet go beyond what others had previously done with that role. Although the acting had to be in accordance with tradition and custom, each performance could nonetheless be considered a new creation.3

Most players of Eastern theater did not consider themselves as actors. A number of them continued to repeat past traditions by playing the roles in exactly the same structure and pattern, in the belief that they were performing a religious duty. Others copied the exact actions of the past in order to earn the merits of the world beyond. In many areas theater is considered a religious “quest.” Even in the most secular parts of the East, apart from requiring technical experience, no actor can go on stage without some form of spiritual and ethical training. Becoming an actor in most parts of the Eastern world is a form of self-sacrifice, and the actor, by having total control over his spirit and by using all his physical abilities, should be able to produce an environment of unusual conditions. The actors’ entering this environment and returning to the day-to-day routine, which could take place many times in a play, in some obscure way, refers to the bond between heaven and earth. In practice, however the actor shows that he is an ordinary human being who is able to represent a supernatural act. The very essence of the play is not in the words utilized by the players, despite the fact that the words may be most valuable.4
Apart from the major differences between the Eastern and Western theatrical schools of thought, the Eastern playwrights were the product of a visual idiom, whilst most Western playwrights were influenced by the literary and philosophical aspects of their society as a whole. Depth and pragmatism, which are fundamental criteria of Western theater, are seldom found in the Eastern context. This is quite natural since the ideal in Western theater is the recognition of man and his standing in society, whereas the ideal of Eastern theater is the human role in the controversy of existence. Therefore Eastern theater, in its highest form, while presenting a very simple story, does not confine itself to a limited space but rather tries to portray man’s role and place in the totality of creation. For this very reason the characters portrayed in Eastern theater are not equal in depth and psychological implications to those of the West, possessing instead a rich and comprehensive allegorical power. Based on Eastern criteria, a good script is one in which there is, on the one hand, the optimum possibility of being performed in the most eloquent manner possible, and on the other hand, provides the ability to create an atmosphere in which the real and wonderful meaning of existence can be elaborated to the fullest possible degree. Thus the hidden unity amongst all the elements of existence can be portrayed and the apparent disparity eliminated. Everything now becomes unified, and out of this whole, the play emerges. So unlike the West, Eastern scripts are only partly influenced by literature. Eastern plays are not really readable material; rather they are visual phenomena. In many Eastern traditional scripts the literary text is either of secondary importance or even non-existent, but what is the main and important element,

is the scripts’ capacity for pure performing value.

Yet since Eastern theater is mostly non-literary, how can we judge the value of the performance? Artistic performance cannot be recorded as it is dependent on the momentary and fleeting combinations of actions which occur during a performance. Objectively it is not possible to either register or rightfully record the pure interpretation of the whole performance. It follows that in order to preserve traditional Eastern plays, they continue to be passed on from mouth to mouth and from one generation to the next. The same holds true for ancient traditions and ceremonies that also reach their goals in a similar manner. The main means of performing were by way of dancing, mimicry, asides, narration and movements upon the stage. In addition to these we must include non-verbal sounds such as singing, humming, and also sound effects. The elements of speech in a poetic framework, i.e. poetry, by way of conversation or recitation of the text of the play, were introduced much later. Although they later became an important part of the script, they were however not amongst the main aims of the performance. During the creation of scripts and plays in both the Eastern and Western theaters, the effects of these different elements were similar but different, in much the same way that the two cultures were different. In ancient Greece scripts were produced by philosophers, but in India plays were founded by the gods. During the course of history, the outcome of theater in these two cultures pursued different paths. Western theater stimulated the intellectual spectator while Eastern theater satisfied the creative mind.

The importance of intellectual stimulation in the West also underscored another element, which was emphasis upon the text. Intellectual stimulation means that the writer/philosophers’ thoughts are present in the play. This is the reason that, in order to comprehend Western plays, to a certain extent, one must have a good understanding of the author and must be familiar with his lifestyle. (Even the necessity for a critic or theatrical expert, is for the purpose of bringing about a meeting of the minds between the playwright’s thoughts and those of the audience.) A play is a script in which thought and analysis are molded into words. The duty of the performer is to perform these thoughts and analyses within the context of the play and still maintain the depth of the social or philosophical idea. However, texts of Eastern plays are not complicated. Even when they contain elements of mysticism, they are still dealing with emotions rather than logic. They are depicting that which occurs between the lines, as opposed to the written words themselves. In contrast to this, the Western concept has a unified intellectual understanding. The Eastern script, in so far as technicalities are concerned, is solely written to suit the special tastes of the Eastern mentality. This sort of play is an occasion wherein the audience, even in the most literary performance of the play, already knows the whole thing by heart. The Western world’s acquaintance with Eastern theater resulted in a series of endeavors to understand the real meaning of Eastern theater in the West. Efforts were made to create a play that was independent from its text, in other words, a non-literal play. The real essence of the play was unveiled by using action to replace words, and thus necessitating the actor to be creative and extemporize, thereby replacing the reading of the text.

This knowledge of Eastern traditional theater5 induced Western actors to find ways and methods of acting in a non-Aristotelian fashion and also to seek its roots in the Western idiom. In the meantime, Eastern experiences were absorbed by the West which, having been scientifically systemized and labeled, later returned to the East.

In the course of the last century, theater throughout the Eastern world has had a similar fate. Sudden contact with Western culture, as a vigorous and powerful reality, created new problems in their traditional social and cultural world. The Eastern pillars of what, till then, had been considered to be ultimate truths, were shattered. In their place Eastern societies were forced to understand their current realities, and these (which for centuries were not thought to be creditworthy) became a most important and vital factor of the times. Traditions and values which up till then were the most important elements for continuing along the path laid down by the ancients, were rejected and this resulted in a conceptual change. The major effort of this century was to emulate the Westerners’ pragmatic viewpoint on actual reality. This effort inevitably resulted in the birth of a new generation of theater.

The West, after experiencing a lengthy period of military, economic, and political domination of the East, and after a long study and analysis of certain Eastern values, finally overcame its feeling of awe and intimidation of these values. Having thus become aware of these values, they took them and, after carefully analyzing, measuring, sorting, and thoughtfully choosing, transliterated some of them into their own structures. By reaching into the essence of these Eastern values, the West brought forth something completely Western and sometimes even personal. In contrast to this, the East did not advance in a similar manner, since knowledge of Western culture in the East was at best superficial. The East, in trying to rapidly absorb something which it did not as yet fully comprehend, entered a long period of confusion and hopelessness. Since then two matters have, more or less come to pass. First came the East’s denial of its own past values and of its own frames of reference in order to express new concepts and instead replace these with hastily copied, shallow, and weak Western versions. As a result these works were doomed to failure, since, although superficially Western, they lacked the depth and intellect of the Western idiom. Of course this is quite natural. To try to transplant a way of thought that has taken centuries to mature in its own environment, and overnight, attempt to use it in a different context, is impossible. This process requires much time and the right conditions to succeed. To even comprehend a dominant culture can not be achieved in a single generation. The end result of any such supposedly successful transplantation is, at best, a cheap copy with no real identity.

The second matter, which ran concurrently with the first and was not much different, was a limited self-realization. A group of individuals came to realize that having quickly given up and lost their traditional value system, they had actually not gained anything fundamental or worthwhile with which to replace it. Thus they tried to rediscover and explain their traditions and begin to create their own cultural framework, whilst at the same time also attempting to really comprehend Western culture instead of just imitating it. This is where they find themselves in a most strange and difficult circumstance. Just as they try to revitalize their own Eastern value systems and give these a new life, their general public has already come to imitate Western culture at its lowest possible level. Apart from this mimicry, they, the public, do not want anything else. What is more, just as Western thought was trying to be emulated in the East, in the West, it had already reached a dead end.

Within these concentric circles some struggles have already started in an effort to break out, but for these attempts to become more well-defined, tangible, and finally result in an original concept, it will require both time and major effort. However, can this concept really be independent and not just a colorless copy set in the Western mold? Experiences and efforts of various kinds have started in a number of Eastern countries. From amongst these ruins what will emerge? The tomorrow of Eastern theater and culture shall depend on the potency of these experiences.•

1 This method was absorbed by Europe and developed over the course of the last century. It was then returned to the East under the name of “Epic Theater.” The use of the word “Epic” in this context is misleading, for it apparently refers to a “heroic” aspect, whilst in reality it is “narrative.” Aristotle, in his Poetics, categorized the “Epic” as opposed to the “Tragedy,” the first of which is storytelling and the second theatrical. Narrative theater is the use of narration to produce a play.

2 These attracted the admiring attention of Antonin Artaud. See The Theater and Its Double, New York, Evergreen, 1958.

3 More or less similar to Iranian poetic and musical idiom which have their own special forms and limitations, yet still have room for creativity and innovation. Basically the value of each poet or musician is in his ability, while following the accepted idioms of his art, to create something that goes beyond these molds.

4 Balinese theater revealed to us the idea of a physical, nonverbal theater in which anything that takes place on the stage—independent of the script—constitutes a play. While what we know of Western theater is that it derives its unity from the written word, which also is its limiting factor. For the Westerner, the word is the thing. Without it, there is no possibility of any message being conveyed to the audience. Theater is a branch of literature; an auditory form of language. Even if we differentiate between what is spoken on stage as opposed to what we can see written in the text, or even if we limit the theater to what happens during the lapses in dialogue, we still cannot separate the actions from the words. (from Artaud, The Theater and Its Double)

5 Knowledge of Eastern theater had begun long before Voltaire drew inspiration from Chinese plays. In 1789, Kalidasa’s Shakuntala (a 4th century Indian play) was first translated into a European language, and was published in many other languages over the next twenty years. Goethe, while praising Shakuntala, used its prologue on the dialogue between the director and the actress in one of his works, thereby causing an avalanche of Eastern texts to be translated into European languages, starting with Japanese and Chinese masterpieces, and then the great Sanskrit works of India, and finally fifty ta‘ziehs. At that time no Eastern person had so many texts or books of his native country at his disposal.

Cinema Of The Future

A Combination of Oreintal Wisdom and Occidental Knowledge

Mir-Ahmad Mir-Ehsan
Farairan Quarterly,No. 10, Winter 2001

What course will cinema take in the newly arrived twenty-first century? This question involves at once technological, ontological and constructional aspects. It is a question about the films themselves, their technical development, the ways in which they are shown, and even such things as movie theater buildings, projection screens and the viewers’ opinions on the reality of images. The present article, however, delves into the characteristics of high-quality twenty-first century cinema, the emerging new spiritual horizons, and the dominant stylistic trends of intellectual cinema across the world. I am not at all concerned with commercial films filled with fanciful hallucinatory special effects; although today’s fantastic adventures and juvenile sagas may well represent the technological reality of tomorrow’s ordinary life. Nevertheless, even in this perspective, cinema still expresses only the surface of the capricious events of the human play. This article, on the other hand, is concerned with the evolutionary process that has defined and heightened the standards of profound, progressive art; the unique creative wisdom that has shaped the life of the public at large.
I confess that for me, the future is not what “will come into being,” but is to some extent, the lives that “we will create,” that “we will make.” Therefore, speculating about twenty-first century cinema is a slightly mischievous effort on our part to have it evolve as closely as possible to our prediction. This in itself is the energy to play and a creative force, and not just a remote contemplation separate from action and separate from us, because it is happening. But, for sycophantic, dogmatic, one-dimensional minds, cinema of the future will inexorably be the continuation of everything that the mercantilist and monopolistic world of cinema has established through sex, violence, fiction, and eye-catching technology. That science-fiction, gangster, horror, or melodramatic movie genres prosper in the future is not important. At this point, thinking about twenty-first century cinema is a disciplined intellectual process, with or without imagination. This is indispensable in any tentative quest for a model of progress in the domain of scientific and theoretical discovery, plus or minus the thinker’s personal taste. This taste comprises aesthetic views, attitude “in the face of time” and “within time,” and the reaction to existence here and now.
Let us imagine the different methods embracing a retrospective of a cinema of the future, a cinema at the turn of a century, a millennium.

* * *
To each of us, twenty-first century cinema has a particular ring. Our expectations of the context of future cinema will bring about a particular interpretation and a particular perspective. Some, following their biases or tastes, and in the wake of such popular , believe future cinema to be one of image films based on the most extravagant computer-made special effects. Some go as far as predicting its death, others look forward to an ideal, pure, reflective cinema, and some predict the continuation of all genres of cinema. The present article, however, bases its vision of the future on the aesthetic processes that have evolved step by step, the developments achieved in the pictorial arts, and the effects of the technological boom on modern art, particularly cinema. This article believes in the human ideal of intellectual and aesthetic change for the better. It perceives the events of modern cinema as indications of it leaving behind the stage of hallucinatory thrillers. It believes that the main characteristic of tomorrow’s proper cinema will be the elimination of its ugly and deceptive big business side based on sex, violence, illusion, irrationality, superficial emotionalism, and fictional adventure. It therefore considers twenty-first century cinema the outcome and the continuation of a vision and an experience begun in the past century, and even earlier. Modernity, followed by its criticism, holds in its bosom the seed of a __new art that is cinema, and its fate in the future. As it were, cinema was nothing but the essence of the vision, the thinking, the animation and the achievements brought about by technology. All the technological experiences, production systems, and interpretations of the ideals of modernity (laicism, liberalism, universalism…), which culminated in the technological developments upon which modern life was founded, came together to give birth to cinema: an art specific to the modern world, in which the most progressive thinkers were involved…
Caught in a web of capitalistic relationships, cinema of the 20th century deviated from its task of portraying life based on reality. The image was instead geared towards a commercial cinema; in an anti-aesthetic direction and far removed from the above-mentioned ideals.
Today, however, twenty-first century cinema has a new ring. Reaching us now with some delay in both time and meaning, it is the echo of cinematic history, inspired by Nietzche’s philosophy. The new approach to this art is through life and its actual details. It is necessary to first pay sufficient attention to Nietzsche’s genial message, “Be natural.” Also bear in mind the astonishing effect he had upon Walter Benjamin and his views on technological art and the effects of reproducibility on the structure of art. It is only in this perspective that the events of twenty-first century cinema guide us towards a new aesthetic quality in cinema. Hand-held cameras have advanced technologically and widespread technological reproduction is leading to changes in the structure of cinema and its future existence, signs of which are already visible in the foremost works. So, it is not important whether different genres of cinema are continued or not in the future. What is important is for us to find out with what kind of art, life and evolution in the new century will be compatible. Now, allow me to say that twenty-first century cinema is, on the one hand, Nietzsche’s ideal inspired cinema and the peak of modern man’s expectation of art, i.e., a pictorial art that testifies hidden and shocking details of man’s existence. On the other, an intuitive cinema which, just like the mystic’s quest, transforms the film’s quest into a possibility of baring man’s soul and bravely contemplating the images of everyday life that have remained in the dark. Is this contradiction understandable? Nietzsche and mysticism! Nietzsche’s most important message is the natural inclination of man and art. When this naturalness merges with the reality of the image, given the possibility of a quest for purification, we witness the apparently contradictory presence of both naturalness and mysticism. How will the quest of cinema happen in the century to come? We had better recall the path of films, as well as the meaning of this evolution.

* * *
I wish to first review the early period of filmmaking, its trends before WWI. At the end of the neenth century, the brothers Auguste and Louis Lumière held several paying motion picture spectacles at the Grand Café in . December 28th, 1895 is considered as cinema’s official date of birth. Arrival of a Train, Workers Leaving the Lumière Factory, and the aggregate of the films produced by the Lumière brothers reveal the nature of modern, twentieth century technological art. This art, with its reproducibility and public nature, constitutes eyes for seeing the image of life and approaching life through the image; which enables us to pause and review things that are naturally irreproducible and fleeting. However, under the influence of capitalism and mercantilism, cinema soon drifted away from its natural course to become a profitable, and amusing, illusory art. Georges Méliès was the figurehead of a cinema that was focused on imagination. One of his first films, A Trip to the Moon (1902), a sixteen-minute reel based on Jules Verne’s novel, was rendered as a fantasy using the period’s new technical developments. The rocket lands in the moon’s eye, the passengers fight a dangerous war against its insect-like inhabitants, and eventually return safely to earth. That was a new trend which, with such later works as The Devil’s Four Hundred Blows (1906), An Impossible Voyage (1909) and The Conquest of the Pole (1912), marked the new path of capitalism. Yet, even then, the challenge of focusing on life existed. In his famous declaration, Louis Feuillade put forth the idea of transferring reality onto the screen: “The scenes of this film, as it is, are to be slices of life, without any imagination.”*
Soon, however, Feuillade’s ideal changed. Gaumont had him turn to producing superficial romantic and criminal movies. But the confrontation between the cinema of life and the cinema involved in mercantilist pursuits did not end, although cinematic thought remained subjugated until the threshold of the twenty-first century. For example, the film Lost in the Dark (1914), from which Neo-realist cinema originated, was made by Nino Martoglio. Gustavo Serena’s Assunta Spina (1915) also looked realistically at everyday events, but no distributor could be found for his works. On the contrary, cinema turned to Cecil B. de Mille’s cinema, to the cinema of sex, money and violence. Even D. W. Griffith’s great achievements shifted towards commercial dramaturgy, and, dramatic content, storyline and literary narrative elements were used to create exacerbating illusions and profit making in
In Birth of a Nation (1915) and Intolerance (1916), what is shown on the screen is an inherently distorted reality. From , cinema learned how to show events in a distorted manner and spread the culture of pleasant mystification, which it adopted as rigorous rules. The discovery of the power of image realism culminated in Fritz Lang’s Metropolis (1926), in which the leader’s dominant and delivering role in a mechanized society was depicted. “The trouble with Metropolis and Lang’s other works is not only that they cover up social conflicts and equate the laborers’ freedom with their surrender to an authoritarian leader, but that the anti-life viewpoint of Lang’s expressionist cinema in an incoherent imagination, tries to shape space using the most sophisticated light effects, and fails to pay the slightest attention to the real elements and details of man’s life.” **
Throughout the twentieth century, avant-garde aesthetic experiments caused the world’s cinema to progress, but from the viewpoint of everyday life, this cinema fell increasingly under the spell of images evading tangible, real-life details. Even in impressionist cinema—in such works as Abel Gance’s Mater Dolorosa (1917), La folie du Dr. Tube (1915), etc.—the victors were fantasy, light, and shadow plays. Rather than attempting to create films embodying the essence of life, this cinema sought to achieve a kind of refined impressionism in its decoupage and photography. A case in point is Germaine Dulac’s The Smiling Madame Beudet (1923), which tries to give a cerebral meaning to the story by means of frequent cuts and light effects. Of course, even in its most imaginary form, artistic cinema had a poetic feeling and was filled with life. Jean Epstein’s The Faithful Heart (1923) is exemplary in this regard.
The formative experience of the third decade of cinema is also unconcerned with life. In producing Le Ballet Mécanique (1924), Fernand Léger is only engrossed with the forms of the bowls and frying pans and the heavy breathing of the old lady climbing the stairs of a building. In the same years, with his Entr’acte (1924), René Clair also showed that his aim was to rid contemplation of all ordinary logic and relationships. He wanted to confirm the existence of unlimited freedom in cinema. In An Andalusian Dog (1928), Luis Buñuel and Salvador Dali were also infatuated with surrealist representation. However, Buñuel’s opposition to technical tricks and devices somehow preserved the ideal of closeness to reality. In the same decade, Jean Cocteau’s The Blood of triangular love clichés put him nearer to the tradition of . In all this, Charlie Chaplin was the unique symbol of the ideal of life in the cinema of Hollywood.
In , the, established in 1935, never yielded to the fascist spirit of its time. On the contrary, it was the main driving force behind the appearance of Neo-realism. Roberto Rossellini’s , Open City (1945) was a successful film in this style. Hinter Huizer describes the Italian Neo-realism as the most dangerous expression of social movement. It was perhaps this characteristic that upset the relationship between Neo-realist works and real life. Although these works have been universally acclaimed as summits of a life-oriented outlook, this movement initially looked at life with a mentality convinced that the meaning of reality was whatever the leftist ideology judged true. As a result, dramatic context proved detrimental to the objective contemplation of life and its countless facets. Positivism, acting as an obstacle between reality and Neo-realist works, prevented cinema from adopting a life-oriented vision. Nevertheless, beyond its real-looking imagination, this narrative cinema did examine man’s problems. (According to Antonio Pietrangelli who in 1942 wrote in Blanc et Noir: The inevitable fate and the natural roots of cinema must be sought only in the domain of realities—and in the most tangible and penetrating of all, the “domain of truth”). The film magazine, History of Artistic Cinema published its 1943 declaration, which may be termed the declaration of Neo-realism, in the following terms: **

1.Death to the primitive and artificial spirit ruling the major part of our cinematographic production.

2.Death to imaginary, negativist works in which man and his problems are not dealt with.

3.Death to any historic reconstitution or film that is made from a novel not created due to a political necessity.

4.Death to any speaker who dares say all Italians are made of the same paste, inflamed by the same pure sentiment, and equally aware of the problems of life. **

It should be borne in mind that works such as Alessandro Blasetti’s Four Steps in the Clouds (1943), Luchino Visconti’s Obsession (1946), Roberto Rossellini’s Paisan (1946) and Germany Year Zero, Vittorio de Sica’s Shoeshine (1946) and The Bicycle Thief (1948)… all express a sincere feeling toward life and reference reality. Man’s attachment to the social environment and his efforts devoted to making cinema a faithful mirror of reality could not prevent the seperation of real life from Neo-realist cinema. Paying attention to “Death to …” slogans, fascist rhetoric, directives of that declaration and one-dimensional works produced in that period, one sees that, in their narration, Neo-realist film, like any other, follow a subjective, interpretive outlook which they present as objectivity. As in all images, the reality of the image in Neo-realism only expresses a particular world evolved from the reflection of reality in the mind and the subjectivization of life on the cinema screen. All the same, this cinema shows that modern pictorial art is seeking a way to establish contact with life, even if it comes under the influence of this or that ideology.
Efforts to strike the level of life and the effects of man’s actions upon it eventually gave birth to a profound style led by Robert Bresson. Achieving great success in terms of image aesthetics, this unique style eventually grew to become a full-fledged cinematographic theory in which attention to life was an insatiable quest.
No doubt, Bresson’s cinema is also narrative, but by steering clear of hijacking the viewers’ emotions, it tries to break free from the artificial sensations of fictional, story-telling works. A natural, and cool composure far from theatrical expressions, and Bresson’s particular play arrangement, are very important elements if we are to understand the impending realism of transpiration. Although Jean Grémillon’s Gueule d’Amour (1937) and L’étrange Monsieur Victor (1938) belong to the “film noir” genre, they are Neo-realist in essence, like his documentary, Le 6 juin à l’aube (1945).
Unfortunately, life-oriented vision was still a lesser current in the commercial side of western cinema ruled by the mercantilists. The censorship of half of Le 6 juin à l’aube was an expression of this reality, which showed a lack of understanding and failure on their part to understand the importance of touching real-life details, and the deep roots of fantastic storytelling. Louis Daquin’s cinema and his attempts at depicting life in such works as Mark of the Day (1949) caused him, in Ulrich Gregor’s and Uto Patalas’ words, to remain jobless in France for many years, before being compelled to turn to Balzac and Maupassant. René Clément’s documentary films, such as The Battle of the Rails (1945), also declined to the level of story-telling cinema of the sixties. In France, works such as André Malraux’s Days of Hope (1945) and Georges Rouquier’s Farrebique (1949) did not become unforgettable models of the transpirationalist cinema*** of the future, just as Michael Powell’s films, created in the wake of the traditions of Flaherty’s Man of Aran (1934), tended to shift from the imaginary genre to the documentary. Nonetheless, as early as 1944, English films began their role of diverting the public from life’s tangible problems and daily hardships, throwing a veil between real life and cinema by producing lavish thrillers.
In Night Train to Munich (1940), Odd Man Out (1947) and The Third Man (1949), Carol Reed distanced himself from his role in The Stars Look Down (1939), turning instead to popular fads and falling deep into the valley of unrealism with A Kid for Two Farthings (1955) and The Key (1958). And, with Summer Madness (1958) and The Bridge on the River Kwai (1957), David Lean joined a cinema that was distancing itself from real details and moving towards a cinema filled with emotion and adventure.
Ingmar Bergman’s cinema is one of the peaks of artistic cinema; a wonderful, enchanting cinema based on a profound psychological method that continues until Fanny and Alexander (1983). In the , Vertov’s film-eye emerges as the Stalinian cinema of Danskoi’s How Steel was Tempered (1942), The Local Committee Secretary (1942), Pirieff (1942) and Pudovkin’s In the Name of the Fatherland (1943), with all their dogmatic destructive ideological power, covering up life and all its pure tangible moments. Eisenstein’s technical achievements fall prey to the party’s fanatical optimist messages and most horribly betray reality to a worthless official cinema. Produced in the name of socialist realism, examples of this cinema include: Ivan the Terrible (1944), Georgi Vassiliev’s Apology of the Czaritsin (1942), and works by Grigori Khockrai.
An important point is that the message of returning to reality flourished in American cinema. In terms of style, play arrangement and story, this narrative cinema claims to represent a pure life-oriented current, and has been most successful. Is this true? In my opinion, from behind its mask of realism, deals the most severe blows to the vivid feelings of life and assails the realistic mind with its excessive emotionalism and ignores the little but true details of human experience. Undoubtedly, films such as William Wyler’s Memphis Belle (1944) demostrate that American narrative cinema did value human warmth. But is this cinema, or even such films as John Huston’s The Battle of San Pietro (1945), meaningful? What profound wisdom beyond that of the current snobbish American slogans, what social critique deeper than palpable human success, and what insightful question does it contain? “In post-war years, Robert Flaherty was practically the only director who could find a private investor for his Louisiana Story (1948).”* The movement of American documentary-oriented films quickly died down and, paved the way for the growth of mental viewpoints veiled under a mask of realism and films filled with American stimulation and exhortation. This cinema, with its special effects and various narrative arts developed into the present-day cinema: an unrivalled medium continuously disseminating a mass of worthless captivating romances and thrillers filled with sex and violence. Basic Instinct (1992), The Mask (1994), Natural Born Killers (1994), Star Wars (1977), Armageddon (1998), Lethal Weapon (1989), Rambo: First Blood (1985), Star Wars: The Phantom Menace (1999), … all have one thing in common: they strongly avoid reality and are oblivious of anything related to man’s experience of living in the real world.
It is precisely in the context of this cinema that a new trend is emerging in the world, driving us to believe that something happened at the end of the twentieth century causing a change in the cinema of the twenty-first. Is something new happening? Twentieth century documentary film has led to the growth of documented narration, returning to the original naturalness, thoughtfulness, lyricism, and sincerity of cinema, dominated for a century by fiction-oriented currents.
What I mean is that Where is the Friend’s House?, followed by the other productions of Iranian cinema in this modern approach, called future cinema all over the world to a new fate far beyond Neo-realism or any other documentary experiment. A fate it naturally deserved, interwoven with life and all the heavens and hells, disasters and good fortunes, sorrows and joys which can pour forth from reality into the reality of the image. Iranian cinema exhorted the cinema of the world to rediscover life, to return to naturalness and to contemplate the grandeur of the picturesque event of living, more laden with catastrophes, quandaries and pleasures than any “story” or “novel.” Quentin Tarantino’s cinema, Dogma 5 cinema, Chinese cinema and independent American cinema have all been affected by the transpirationalist style of Iranian cinema. The question of documentation even infiltrated American Beauty (1999) with its hand-held camera, as well as The Blair Witch Project (1999), etc.
Something happened in the world, reuniting cinema and life, and against its backdrop the importance of simple, poetic, and natural aspects of transpirationalist Iranian cinema becomes clear. This event is technological progress, which has simplified cameras and made them available to all. Today cameras are used in thousands of homes. Television has vastly expanded visual culture, and advanced apparatus have simplified film production. Increased knowledge and know-how have enabled many families to experience filmmaking. It is precisely in this world that cinema, intermingled with life, is realized. A cinema that grows out of life itself, depicts the moments of life and, more than at any other time, found the means of being expressed by great filmmakers, and people who make personal films. From among these, greater filmmakers will arise whose cinema will more than ever bring to fruition the ideal film-eye. Unique talents will give birth to utterly realistic and supremely poetic masterpieces. In fact, this movement will vastly alter the artistic structure and definition of high-quality cinema in the century ahead. This is my guess. From within this cinema, the courage to bare souls, reveal untold details of lives, and throw down masks will arise. In my opinion, this is the same fight against mystification as that championed by ‘Ain-ol-Qozat Hamadani and oriental mystics. Man’s most modern art, cinema, is preparing to take up this same fight, an event that will put an end to art’s multi-millenary duplicity vis à vis the charater, and to the masking and hiding of actors behind their roles. Hence forth, new Sophocles, Shakespeares and da Vincis will arise from beyond Oedipus, Hamlet, Madame Bovary, and Mona Lisa, acquainting us with heavenly secrets expressed in the manner of Hallaj or ‘Ain-ol-Qozat. They are re-creating their own images; something James Joyce did in The Portrait of the Artist as a Young
The main title of this section, “Cinema at the Turn of a Century, a Millennium,” contains Persian words that epitomize the cinema of the future in terms of linguistic fraternization. It is a name in which and by which language becomes a universal reality and cinema mirrors a new awareness. The reality of dialogue within human civilization makes the meeting of important civilizations possible. In fact, in our text, a bit of the Persian language has been creatively and originally fecundated by items from other languages. Let us repeat the keywords: “cinema,” “turn,” and “millennium.” These linguistic features have gained meaning in the analytical context of the Persian language. Other words include: “enlightenment,” “film,” and “twenty-first century,” brought together in a groundbreaking meeting of Islamic mysticism, modernity and ancient Iranian symbolism in the Celebration of Centuries. The title of this article contains the essence of this article. Here, an ancient civilization, the Iranian civilization during its Renaissance, has something new to tell the world. The Persian language, by juxtaposing signs of various societies and their significant propinquities, is making it possible for man to rid himself from his divergences and believe in his creativity. Three linguistic layers—Persian, Arabic and English—with different artistic, poetic, mystic, intuitive, demonstrative, and rational characteristics make a large dialogue possible, providing a preamble and an opportunity to reflect on the beauty, truthfulness, creativity and freedom of the future. In the third millennium and new century, Iranian art, through its cinema, has something new to say concerning the structure and creation of expression. What is the lure of our cinema which can influence post-modern cinema of the twenty-first century? It might seem as though a few prizes at festivals are the reason behind this lure, but infact it is the post-modernism of our cinema that is responsible.
With the concurrence of unexpected objective and subjective conditions, creative forces communicated their thirst for freedom and touching life, to the country’s intellectual cinema. The Islamic revolution of 1979 abolished the caricature of a cinema that was busy emulating . The ensuing void made it possible for Iranian cinema to breathe fresh air, abandon its habits and touch upon new experiences. Despite obstacles, the spiritual horizon of a time honored civilization encouraged bold expectations. This cinema style achieved the meaning that had been promised from the time of Nietzsche to Lumière to an ideal modern art yet to be born; a meaning that briefly manifested itself, before succumbing to mercantilism and fiction; the meaning of the palpability of the modern world in the cinema of the future.
Thus, the core of this article is the idea that naturalness is the main force of twenty-first century cinema. This naturalness is deeply in conflict with naturalism and inherently intermingled with the great ideal of mystical wisdom of the oneness of existence and the purification of man, who is to create cinema as a compressed image of modern civilization. This is art’s brave approach to the naturalness of life. Therefore the cinema of the future will be radically different from the thoughtless, artificial, fictional, adventure-packed, commercial cinema of Hollywood. It will be a transpirationalist cinema and, in my opinion, will conform to the growth of documented narration; a cinema that gives man the courage to bare his soul; a documented bareness that contains both heaven and hell.

* * *
In the title of the article, the word “cinema” reflects and represents all that is the product of modern civilization, mirroring modernity. It stands before us, and the magic of viewing its images has done the job. But we have not remained passive and awestruck in front of the image-making mirror; we have drawn our own image in a way befitting a cultured person. We have become cultured. We have the ability to repay cinema, this gift of modern civilization, with the gift of something ancient but not old: the intuitive power and the understanding of the aesthetic importance of absence. Cinema was the embodiment of modern reason and perception that sought to guide modern man, through the camera’s eye, to a new, Nietzschean horizon, to advise us to “be natural, see naturally,” and to give us the courage of contemplating the realities within and without ourselves and infusing poetry into this “most dangerous profession,” as called by Holden Linton. However, soon after Lumière, capitalism and its international hegemony led commercial cinema to reign over, or at least marginalize, this essential achievement of modern art for a hundred years. The experience of post-revolutionary Iranian cinema rapidly paved the way for the advice “be natural” to be recalled, but in an unexpected way, through the effects of our ancient wisdom and knowledge. The word “preparations” evokes this spiritual character opposed to habits and seeking freedom from the habitual cinema of the past.
‘Ain-ol-Qozat Hamadani was a mystic opposed to habits and his Tamhidat [Preparations] is important for us from three viewpoints: a) its advice to “be natural”; b) its opposition to the cult of habits, and most importantly; c) its message of being a bare mirror and having the courage of depicting and beholding one’s own heaven and hell. To dare and be constantly original and opposed to all that is familiar, means being bold enough to unveil one’s secrets and share them with other men. Long before our time, ‘Ain-ol-Qozat had strangely realized the importance of the image and the reality of its effect upon man’s spiritual development and quest. He was particularly attentive to one of the divine names of God, mosavver (illustrator), and he revealed divine secrets by mere contemplation while in a trance.

* * *
Thus far in this text, twenty-first century high-quality cinema will take a major step towards ideal imagery and documented narration, it will acquire the courage of being natural and dispassionately contemplate itself and the world, and, by dropping all masks, it will turn from elaborating on the persona and the personage to simply observing real-life details in men’s lives and the hidden tragedy of their daily motions. In this way, cinema will provide an opportunity for a quest; one which mystics long sought in their meditations; and which will bring intuitive experience and poetic wisdom to man. How?
‘Ain-ol-Qozat advocated mirror-like openness and abhorred habits. He thus exhorted us: “If you want the beauty of these secrets to become apparent to you, renounce nurturing habits, for the cult of habits is idolatry. Forget all that you have heard from others, disregard anything you hear as hard as it may be, question only with the tongue of your heart.” So, even today, ‘Ain-ol-Qozat and his aggressive social mysticism invite humanity, all Iranians, and the cinema of the world to this mirror-like quality. “Mirror-like” quality is an interpretation coined by this great mystic. It embodies both his mystic opinions and his socio-political aggressiveness. In Najib Mayel Heravi’s words, all in all, ‘Ain-ol-Qozat truly resembled a mirror. He lived as a mirror, a forgiving mirror.

Aine-at dani chera ghammaz nist? _

Zan-ke zangar az rokhash momtaz nist.

Do you know why your mirror is not forgiving?

It’s because its tarnished areas are indistinguishable from its face.

Indeed, he spent his entire thirty-three year-long cultural career standing steadfast against collective triviality and showed the majority, if not all, to be ugly. At the same time, he retained all the originality and value of his personal mirror. Although collective triviality eventually destroyed him—the mirror—did it also destroy his qualities as a mirror?
In this mirror metaphor—mirror/Iranian mystic-mirror/creative text— I see a way opening, to continue in the form of mirror/twenty-first century cinema. Here too cinema is a creative, living and intellectual mirror, whose quality as such the collective triviality of a mercantilist era and the hegemony of mediocre and ugly cinemas are trying to destroy. But cinema’s quality as a mirror, which remained subjugated for a hundred years, is raising new questions at the outset of the twenty-first century. Did the ugly, thoughtless world of films filled with fascinating special effects, sex, violence and fantasy, destroy Lumière’s life-oriented mirror? Did the new transpirationalist Iranian cinema, with Kiarostami at its helm, begin the style of bare and natural contemplation in a cultivated spirit, thereby encouraging brave documented narration as idealized by ‘Ain-ol-Qozat: “truthfulness, purity, integrity, fairness, openness and honesty”?
Let me briefly note that, ever since its creation, modern technological art has been potentially able to help man tear down all veils and acquire the courage of setting out on a pictorial quest aimed at discovering the hidden realities of life, and to overcome the obstacles on his way towards enlightenment and straightforward speech about real-life details. Cinema’s century-long descent into the abyss of commercialism and the utilization of technology to produce entertaining fiction only expressed a transitory crisis.
In the same period, cameras, which allowed real details and individual lives to be recorded, were perfected and made available to the public. The massive vogue of cameras, which allowed life’s wonderful details to be readily recorded, made it possible for the first time for the poignant details of man’s existence to be pictorially expressed; an unthinkable feat until yesterday. Precisely at this point, alongside the development of a visual culture, the post-industrial technology of video cameras is gradually achieving something at the social level which the immense mystic experience with its intense torments was also after. The possibility of contemplating one’s dark self, the courage of facing oneself and the dark details of one’s life, tearing down one’s veil by confessing to all, that which is seen with the inner eye, to eventually become purified and liberated, discovering and attaining bliss, love and joy and awaking to the new vision earned by one’s courage of contemplating one’s inner night are all things sought by mystics. The ancient mystic’s quest and today’s brave pursuer of modern cinema, with mirror-like qualities, enter in communion with the tree, the bird, the star, indeed with light, and are thus able to reach true, pure intuition. The vast scope of the experience of the camera, which records life’s details and visual culture, dispel the fear that prevented Flaubert from being Flaubert and had him unwind through Madame Bovary’s persona, or made da Vinci wear the mask of Mona Lisa, or compelled avant-garde cineastes to speak about themselves through the mask of fictional dramatic heroes. The past century’s story-telling cinema is characterized by secrecy and fictionality. Digital cameras are making it possible to rise against masks, personae, personages and habituation, and to achieve a documented contemplation of the play of life on a large scale in the cinema of the twenty-first century. From within this cinema, myriad works, both poetic and appalling will grow out; an experience which no contrived drama can equal in poignancy. This, of course, is not due solely to this cinema’s mirror-like, truthful quality, but also to the emergence across the world of thousands of new genial talents joining this generalized picture-making revival. Led by an audience-oriented Iranian cinema, which first began institutionalizing, in a formal experience, the mirror-like quality in the vision of life, people began making movies of themselves; something that only became possible in the closing days of the twentieth century. In this way, bringing together the loftiest achievements of human civilization, twenty-first century cinema paradoxically combines modern knowledge and ancient mystic wisdom. It is a cinema based on the formation, omission and organization of white pages by which the image of real untold secrets takes shape as an architectural whole in the viewer’s mind; a cinema in which Kiarostami and ‘Ain-ol-Qozat meet to generate an art that is revealing, truthful, bold, poetic, opposed to habits and mass mediocrity, joyful, tragic, documented, original, natural…; a cinema in which man has the courage to show his life’s play; a cinema filled with friendship, love, originality and courage; a cinema which seems to have inherited from ‘Ain-ol-Qozat Hamadani, what he uttered in in anguish, “… they have been in fetters but lacked the guts to speak these secrets out.”
Initiated by late twentieth century Iranian cinema, the cinema of the future has found the guts to be natural, free, poetic, revealing anti-fiction and life-oriented, assuring its hegemony by these attributes.
In my opinion, Iranian cinema, dominated by Kiarostami’s life-oriented art, is the leader of twenty-first century cinema and its most moving Nietzschean event; a bridge that links Western knowledge to Oriental intuition and resolves a century-long feud between two attitudes in Western cinema to the benefit of a living cinema that springs out of the experience of life.

*Information on the films from Geschicht des Films.

** History of Artistic Cinema, Ulrich Gregor & Otto Patalas, translated by the late Dr. Hooshang Taheri.

*** Transpirationalist cinema is a term coined by the translator to mean a cinema which captures life as it comes to pass.

History of Iranian Cinema

(Farairan Quarterly,Nos.5&6,Autumn2000-Winter 2001)
ontemporary Iranian cinema is a symbol of our civilization,culture and art; a vanguard of the dialogue among civilizations and an emblem of the creative Iranian mind. Few international festivals have been held without the participation of a film from this country. Iranian films have taken the top prizes of many festivals and thus presented Iranian beliefs, emotions and arts to the world. Film magazines throughout the world have devoted many pages to the introduction and analysis of Iranian films. Iran is one of the few countries to produce national independent features in the era of Hollywood’s undisputed dominance, and now competes with other Asian and European films in global markets. Our presence in this market may be a minor one, but with the flourishing of Iranian cinema, it shows signs of increase. On the other hand, the increasing number and growing variety of national productions have generated a great deal of enthusiasm within the country as well.
Mnijeh Mir-‘Emadi

Introduction to an Analytical History of Iranian Cinema (1929-1978)
From Roots to Cliches
Omid Rohani
1

Based on the definitions and characteristics that “cinema” (with all its synonymous concepts) has taken on during its hundred-year history, Iranian cinema is not yet a hundred years old, despite the fact that we are celebrating its hundredth anniversary. The available historic documents and data show that the first cinematic feature produced in Iran is Abi and Rabi (1930), made by an Armenian filmmaker named Ovaness Oganians, although there is nothing left of this film except some faded photographs and a few lines in reports and articles about its screening in Tehran’s cinemas.1 The first Iranian film still in existence is Haji Aqa, the Cinema Actor (1933) also made by Ovaness Oganians. There is a complete copy of this film, as well as quite detailed comments about the conditions in which it was produced, reports on its early screenings and a few articles in the Tehran press of the time.2 The screening of this film by chance coincided with screening of Iran’s first talking feature The Lor Girl (1933) made by Ardeshir Irani and ‘Abdolhossein Sepanta. This film, which has always been labeled an Iranian film and is the result of Sepanta’s endeavors—he has the multiple function of screenwriter, actor and songwriter, and has even been occasionally credited as its director3—was produced at the Imperial Studios of Bombay and is in fact an Indian production.

Consequently, these two films must be recognized as the beginnings of Iranian cinema, yet both led to dead-ends and a complete standstill of the Iranian film industry. The failure of Haji Aqa, the Cinema Actor ended Oganians’ film career,4 and Sepanta, after making a few more films in India—based on ancient Iranian mythology5—was not able to continue, and the production of Iranian films in India also came to a stop.

The production of feature films in Iran comes to halt in 1933, and that of Iranian films in India stops in 1937; the cinema halls of Tehran and the provinces are once again the monopoly of imported foreign films. No more developments. Iranian cinema is extinct and forgotten.

2
During all those years, from 1900—the year the Gaumont camera was bought by the Qajar shah, brought to Iran and installed in a corridor of the imperial palace—until 1937—the screening date of Sepanta’s last Indian-produced film—with all the “ifs” and “buts”,

must be considered the first period of Iranian cinema; a period which was not very productive, neither in quantity nor in quality. Historic documents tell us that apart from those films produced in India, between the years of 1929 and 1933 only four films were produced and shown, most of which were not successful with the public. The reasons behind their failure are complex and not the focus of this article, yet it is necessary to reflect upon them in order to gain an understanding of the social conditions and the cultural milieu of the early years of the 20th century, and to grasp how Iranian cinema did reshape itself a few years later and was able to achieve success among the general public.

Oganians returned to Iran in 1929, with limited experience in cinematographic education6 but an ocean of enthusiasm, idealism and faith, in hopes of founding a “national cinema”.7 Instead, he found that cinema had yet to be properly established. His first endeavor, even before the making of films, was to found “The School for Cinema Artists”, an art school for the teaching of acting and other cinema-related arts. In reality, he began to make films in order to put his theoretical lessons into practice, and to further encourage his students. Oganians put his efforts into making a silent film, without the knowledge (or maybe despite the fact) that talking films were on their way. One can guess how he must have felt while putting the finishing touches on Haji Aqa, the Cinema Actor for its release in late 1933, and knowing that the first talking film in the Farsi language, The Lor Girl, had already been on the screen for three months. Perhaps he did not accept failure, or perhaps he had no choice but to finish it and have it shown. Perhaps he still hoped for a way to add sound to his film. In the end he did accept his failure, and chose to screen his film with the slight hope that his film (and his efforts) might be understood and appreciated by a public as yet unfamiliar with the language of cinema and still (and perhaps even now) lacking an understanding of the culture of image.

3
For nearly fifteen years film production in Iran ceased altogether. These fifteen years coincide with one of Iran’s most turbulent periods of socio-political change; the fall of the Pahlavi king Reza Shah, the beginning of the second World War and subsequent occupation of Iran from North and South, famine, harsh living conditions, disclosure of governmental corruption and widespread opposition to Reza Shah’s despotism. But at the same time the modernization that had entered traditional Iranian culture from the beginning of Reza Shah’s reign was now being firmly established and consolidated.

Therefore the start of film production in 1929 was the natural consequence of the general Iranian movement toward modernization. It was the wish of the system and the people to create a national cinema industry as yet another sign of advancement, and its failure was also a natural consequence of society’s rejection of the essence of modernity, for society had not yet released its stronghold on tradition or even clarified the existing relationship. Cinema, contrary to many other manifestations of modernity, was not a simple tool to be nationalized with the scanty efforts of a few westernized citizens and intellectuals.

Bur among all manifestations of modernity, cinema was the only one with a forty-year history. The cinematographic camera was introduced to Iran in 1929, as yet another tool of modernization. The establishment of cinemas and the screening of foreign films began quite early on, as an apparently profitable business and, due to its attractive and popular content, soon flourished. The vast cultural differences in Iran caused cinema, like theater, to be a pastime of the wealthy and high classes of society. For forty years, despite the background which photography had in Iran, the attraction it had for people of all classes as well as the royal court, and even the growing trend of westernization in Iran, cinema remained an elite manifestation of modernity among the high classes. It is interesting to note that Iranian photographers were never inclined to use the cinematographic camera to record reports or documentary films, and there are no surviving newsreels or documentaries from that forty-year period.

It is therefore quite normal that film production in Iran would lead to failure, because Haji Aqa, the Cinema Actor was essentially a film d’auteur. Ovanians has in reality written a film, just as Abi and Rabi exploited the comedic models of silent comedy. And The Lor Girl, as the first talking film which was to shape the mind of the audience and thus create certain cinematic symbols and even clichés, remained unsuccessful in creating a productive image-culture, for was never repeated. Sepanta’s work is like Iranian merchandise produced abroad and then imported into the country, while Ovanians’ films could be thought of as Iranian merchandise produced in Iran for export. Neither made use of the opportunity to acquaint their audience with this new culture and language. It in fact takes fifteen years for the socio-cultural conditions of Iran to allow cinema to start a new cycle, with characteristics now more familiar to a more educated audience, one that is more used to all aspects of modernization. With the establishment of leftist tendencies in Iranian politics and the growing inclination of a younger generation towards higher education, layers of modernity and modernism with a nostalgic view of tradition infiltrated social life; while economic growth, the complete reshaping of social strata, as well as urbanization and other factors created a favorable background for this new beginning.

4
Iranian cinema has a fresh start in 1948. The story unfolds as before. A western-educated Iranian, a young adventurer full of hopes and ideals, returns to his homeland bringing filmmaking equipment and his limited technical knowledge. Esma‘il Kooshan—an economist educated in Germany—pioneers the technique of dubbing films in Farsi, and founds Mitra Films with ‘Ali Daryabeigi, resulting in the 1948 film The Storm of Life.8 Mitra Films is dissolved but Kooshan and Daryabeigi each continue their filmmaking careers. Their paths are not that different, the outlook is the same and the technique is quite elementary, their attention as well as that of all those attracted to this new industry/technique is concentrated on establishing and advancing a national industry. Eventually the efforts are fruitful and cinema becomes a “home” industry.

5
The years between 1948 to 1978 are on one hand Iranian cinema’s most productive periods and on the other the most misunderstood. This thirty-year period has always been mistreated by critics and analysts of Iranian cinema. This period has often been labeled “Film-farsi”, a prejudiced term coined by the film critic and historian Hooshang Kavoosi, a haunting pejorative that has prevented a truly serious, objective and analytical approach to this cinema. Whereas in reality, whether we like it or not, all contents, styles and points of view always have and always will be shaped by this view; this yardstick and probing device, which, though not yet well-defined has been transformed into a tool for reviewing and criticizing all Iranian films of the past fifty years.

All critiques, reviews (summarized and generalized) and public opinions on Iranian cinema have been unconsciously shaped by this term, and they consider the films produced in the second thirty-year period as having common characteristics; a common and general psychology, an easy and commonplace structure. The general attentiveness of this cinema to public taste reflects the value it placed on a superficial, degrading and low culture, and had impact on the low quality of this cinema. But this outlook is a bit too simplistic. When Iranian cinema began its new life in 1948, it had no survey or analysis of the audience’s preferences or outlook. The experiences of the first period, i.e., the few films made in Iran and India between 1929 and 1936 are not only completely forgotten, but have failed to resolve a single issue for the new generation of film-makers. Iranian society from the years of 1946 to 1952 bears no comparison in terms of socio-political and cultural transformations to the period between 1929 to 1936, and this new cinema had to start on a trial and error basis, to establish a new relationship between film and audience, and experiment with it in order to arrive at new meanings alongside the known structures, and thus achieve a new relationship.

6
In a general and summarized look at the cinema of 1928 to 1979 (the year of the Islamic Revolution), it can be divided into three distinct periods:

The First Period:
This period begins in 1948 and reflects the early efforts to institutionalize this new activity. The establishment of a studio system, which began with the founding of Mitra Films and later Pars Films by Dr. Kooshan himself took on a more serious aspect by the early fifties. The Iranian studio system, like that of other countries, strives to utilize the box office results, public taste and critical reactions in order to create stable clichés with recurrent yet novel meanings; a mold or structure suitable to the reactions of the audience. This event took place relatively late in Iranian cinema. In fact during its first period (which more or less lasts until 1961) Iranian cinema is going through a repetitive cycle of trial and error. Certain meanings and clichés are emerging and the models produced will bring practical solutions for the second period.

The cinema of the first period is based on several elements, one of them being academic theater in Iran.

Theater first takes shape in Tehran (and a few other provinces) in the 1940s. This theater achieves great importance and prosperity in the years from 1940 to 1953. The roots of this theater were less based on the efforts of the playwrights of the late Qajar and early Pahlavi eras and more on the enterprise of Armenian directors, who establish an academic western theater through performing their translations of western plays in the Armenians’ Clubs of Rasht, Tabriz and Tehran.

These efforts give rise to serious developments in the 1920s; the works of Reza Kamal Shahrzad and later Mir Seyfeddin Kermanshahi and the training of actors and the establishment of schools for acting in the theaters of Lalehzar Street. Experienced and educated actors and risk taking directors and playwrights searching for a western theater with Iranian meanings create a type of entertainment/art that continues into the 1940s. The high points of this extremely productive period were the establishment of Tehran, Farhang and Ferdowsi theaters by ‘Abdol Hossein Nooshin. In the last years of the decade, the scattering of the Ferdowsi theater and the founding of Sa‘di theater by Nooshin’s students and its subsequent closing led to the end of the golden era of theater. This was also the end of the first pe riod of productive theatrical activity in Esfahan; those active in theater were all drawn to the new medium of cinema. Among them were Parviz Khatibi, Majid Mohseni, Tafakkori, Taqaddosi, Halati, Fekri, Hamid Qanbari and others, who were drawn to the new studios to create a new relationship with the audience. If the audience of the street theaters were an educated elite from the urbanized upper middle class, cinema’s audience, especially from the middle fifties onward, was the common people of the bazaar and back streets. A certain type of comedy takes shape in this cinema that has its early roots in the comic plays of theater. Tafakkori, ‘Ali Tabesh and later Nosratollah Vahdat become active in the early fifties. In his early films, Vahdat, alongside Nooshin, tries to achieve a kind of homemade comedy by acting out Iranian jokes. The comedic performances are special and particular to Iran; they do not fit any of the stereotypes used in the rest of the world. It is a combination of situation comedy and comedic dialogue that are sometimes based on various accents and dialects, and the use of slapstick comedy. The second element on which the cinema of the fifties based itself was the serial writings and pulp fiction that appear in the popular weeklies of Iran. The stories of Hosseinqoli Mosta‘an, Javad Fazel and the weekly serials are emotional and tragic dramas. They are based on a black and white psychology, good versus bad, simplified human relationships, dependence on accidents in the narrative course and simplicity in execution and structure. The structures are utterly oversimplified. The camera is an immobile witness, having no interference in the course of story telling. This static point of view is also a legacy of theater. This boxed-in cinema, like the boxed-in theater that preceded it, is successful with the audience.

But this cinema and this psychology and characterization, even its form and structure, is not rootless, but rather based on Iranian folk tales. The narrative mold is derived from the performance methods of storytellers and the structural mold, especially in comedies, is derived from Iranian performing arts such as takht-e hosi—traditional farcical theater performed outdoors—but transforms them to suit the cinematic medium. For dramatic molds it relies on a sentimental outlook and tone, highly emotional and mournful, which is the essence of Iranian folk tales.

The essential quality of the films of this period is the clash of tradition and modernity; peasants confronted with urban society, an event that was actually happening in real life. Majid Mohseni’s first films are all based on this theme. Vahdat’s first few films also used this storyline, and contain within the film all its later consequences: a simple, unpretentious peasant that has fallen deep into the urban trap, or else when confronted with the manifestations of modernity shows certain reactions that shape the basic framework of Iranian comedy.

The most important characteristics of this cinema can be thus summarized.

The cinema of the first period is a very noble yet humble one. With very rudimentary and limited technical means, old and obsolete methods and no cinematic know-how, it is essentially based within the private sector. It receives no help from the government and must therefore stand on its own feet, relying solely on itself and its audience, and all this in the face of competition from the foreign films of the time.

It is at the same time a social-oriented cinema; often critical of society and social conditions, of crude modernity and western invaders of an essentially traditional society, of the implications of society’s rapid urbanization and the disappearance of domestic values. It deals with the authentic problems of Iranian development.

On the other hand, due to the inherent demands of cinema, its nationalism, its reliance on the capital of the private sector and the return of that capital from the audience, it is forced to find clichés that are attractive to the public, and must give importance to the economic aspect of cinema. Perhaps this very importance—a constant presence in countries where cinema depends on the private sector—is what pollutes cinema, and brought unwanted harm to Iranian cinema in its second period.

The Second Period:
In the early sixties transformations in society, economic growth resulting from the rise of oil prices, the growing urbanization brought on by unplanned migration of peasants to cities, changes in consumer models, growing contact of Iranian urban dwellers with foreign countries cause naturally unwanted implications, i.e., social class divisions, westernization and cultural division along with the weakening of traditional values giving them a nostalgic aspect. These are changes that embrace the whole of society, and naturally bring major changes to Iranian cinema. The toning down of traditional values and the establishment of branches of European and American film companies and the ease with which films are imported to Iran, as well as changes in public taste, influence the existing clichés of comic and social films in Iran. One example is the film Korah’s Treasure (1964)—which soon became a cult classic—where we find a clear instance of this formal transformation. This new cinema has now passed its trial and error stage and has found its popular clichés, but is forced to continue transforming in order to sustain itself and survive, and therefore turns even further to easily accepted clichés. The storylines become simpler and easier. The dramatic turns are so matter-of-fact that they seem childish even to an average spectator. Of course the content still reflects the clash of tradition and modernity, but the narrative forms and themes have changed. The cinema of those years tried to compensate the shortcomings of society, thus, the most important social problem of those years being the growing gap between rich and poor, cinema attempts to close the gap through a fantasy approach. Of course the content of many films of the early sixties (and even later) still reflect the clash of tradition and modernity through new narrative forms. If the gap between classes in society is increasing, the classes are being reconciled in these films.

If in social reality, traditional values are being crushed by the forces of modernity, in these films, on the contrary, we witness a different phenomenon: many an urban woman who improves her life through knowing authentically traditional men, who takes refuge in religion and moral principles and thus reaches salvation; many a man who avenges women disgraced by citizens of no value, who rebels to regain values lost; and the dishonored women who have been victimized by men, who have through sheer will and effort defended their individuality against defamation.

All these various themes were already present in the cinema of the fifties, but in the sixties they become its main focus. Revenge, reconciliation of classes, and more than anything else, the tyranny of destiny, fatalism and religiosity are the dominant elements of narratives and themes. This very predestination which governs the lives of each character, rebellion against oppression and victim-adulation overshadow the content of the films (those of the first period as well as later films). They are so Irano-Islamic that there are no outstanding precedents in any other art form or period of art history in Iran.

The creation and appearance of dancing and singing and cabaret scenes in films responds to the needs of an audience which is middle-class or low-class and has come to seek fantasies in answer to these needs. At the same time these scenes have gradually become necessary clichés of lower-class entertainment. Indeed Iranian cinema feels responsible as an entertainment medium for the middle and lower classes, and therefore aims for a level of language, structure, psychology, characterization, point of view and development that moves lower and lower in order to be at the level of understanding of these classes, or what the filmmakers believe this level to be.

The cinema of the sixties, which actually continues into the seventies, follows the social pattern of the times, and all the socio-cultural changes of society can clearly be seen in these films: all types of social class reconciliations, the proximity of poverty and wealth, the union of tradition and modernity—which is not easily accessible in reality—are predominant in these films. The importance of the cinema of these two periods lies in their focus on the social problems of Iran, and the socially critical mentality that is inherent in all of them. Consequently Iranian cinema of the fifties and sixties is a social cinema. Contrary to popular belief, this cinema was not always brash and vulgar. Like any other cinema, out of the fifty or so films produced every year, only a few are outstanding and reliable, while the rest are commonplace works that make up the usual corpus of this entertainment/ technique/ industry.

From a general and distant point of view, fifties cinema is the cinema of the oppressed; strongly moral, humanistic, full of controversial social issues, while the cinema of the sixties seeks to become an entertainment/industry. A cinema with distinct industrial and economic aspects, self-reliant and backed by private investments, but at the same time constantly striving for self-improvement.

What is referred to as “New Iranian Cinema” was actually born of this very established and public-oriented cinema. This cinema tries to expand cinematic language through a new approach and different structure, but the same stories, themes and clichés as before. It is interesting to note that most of these films, at least in the beginning of this trend, not only utilize the elements of this established and public-oriented cinema, but also share common points in terms of point of view and content. Everything emerges from within the heart of those clichés. When Mass‘ud Kimia’i makes Qaysar in 1969, it actually issues from the heart of those existing clichés, but has evolved according to the outlook of an evolving audience, one with changed needs, demands and preferences. In reality, the Iranian cinema of the sixties reflects all the socio-cultural characteristics of its time: its fondness of and belief in the power of destiny which comes from the religiosity of this cinema and its film-makers, the presence of profound (and not superficial) individual and social differences, a degree of respect for traditional and native social values, focus on the challenges existing in an evolving society, namely the clash of tradition and modernity. This is a cinema that responds to the needs of its society. This response is in many cases unsuccessful and in many relatively successful. The percentage of success or failure is similar to any other national cinema.

The Third Period:
Iranian cinema of the seventies is not a well-delineated one, lacking a perceptible beginning or end. Perhaps its end can be traced to the fire in Abadan’s Rex cinema in the summer of 1978, but the beginnings are the socio-cultural and cinematographic problems that began before this event.

With the birth of New Wave cinema in Iran—which takes place in 1969—independent and national film production is divided into two branches:

The main body of cinema which confidently moves forward, and the young generation that has just come of age and are seeking art films and films d’auteur. The new cinema is fed by two sources: a young generation that has departed from the main body of popular and established cinema and hope to arrive at a fresher, newer, yet still popular and public-oriented cinema, with the potential to be transformed into an artistic medium; and another part of this young generation that have been educated in art and cinema abroad. They have gained experience in documentary cinema and in the cultural milieu of the sixties, and find themselves drawn to the cinematic medium as a tool of expression similar to poetry or painting. This second path not only leads to an intellectual and specific public-oriented cinema, but by being recognized in festivals and appreciated by the ever-increasing number of intellectuals and students practically threatens the existence of the main body of cinema.

The main body of public-oriented cinema has its own crises at the end of the sixties. Film production has become expensive and costs are mounting. The star system—an inevitable outcome of this sort of cinema—swallows up most of the production budget and destroys what little variety there may have existed. The import of foreign films is uncontrolled and very cheap. The surplus in oil revenues, which Iran does not know how to spend, has brought a certain superficial social affluence. Urban society is mostly constituted of an affluent middle-class, which through contact with abroad is experiencing another shift in consumption patterns, needs and demands. All this apparent social development, alongside the real and visible cultural growth that takes place in the sixties, creates a large gap between the intellectual class and the rest of society. The general public and the middle classes are no longer satisfied with what they see in films. The cinemas are filled with vulgar foreign films. Sex and violence inevitably get out of proportion, for by the early seventies cinema is thinking only of its own survival. This very survival instinct, the unbalanced competition with foreign films, the preservation of old clichés and the increase of popular elements—in their most degraded state—all bring about the regression of this cinema. The absence of future planning, coupled with the failure to understand society, i.e., the spectator whom the films addresses, brought the downfall of Iranian cinema (and not only general public-oriented cinema, but also specific and intellectual cinema), even before the fire of Abadan’s Rex cinema. 1974 and 1975 were critical years in terms of quantity and quality for Iranian cinema. The main body of cinema dies out, and the specific, intellectual cinema attempts to take its place, but cannot survive the general crisis society is undergoing. The death of Iranian cinema is the turning point of the beginning of the end of an era.

Throughout its fifty-year history, Iranian cinema has a profound as well as superficially religious essence. Certain Iranian qualities have always been deeply embedded in Iranian cinema. Character psychology, human relations, narrative forms and content are all religious in outlook, indeed this religious angle is the unifying element of cinema. All the women who repent reach salvation, and all the noble, traditional men who avenge their family honor are of a religious and traditional nature. But the most significant quality of this cinema is the expression of the tradition/modernity problem, which has been for over a hundred years the main cultural question of this country and its people: how to bridge the gap between its own local religious culture and the manifestations of modernity, how to deal with destiny and accept its consequences, while hoping for salvation through respect of human values, religious codes and ethical principles; for the moment it moves away from the familiar inner values of these people—its real audience—and allows manifestations of modernity to obscure traditional values, it denies itself any chance of true salvation.•

1. There are no existing prints of this film or any of the films of the first period. These films were produced by the reversal method, and there was only a single copy made of each one. The original print of Abi and Rabi has apparently been destroyed in a fire. For more information, refer to The History of Iranian Cinema, Jamal Omid, Rozaneh Publications.

2. But there are existing documents on Haji Aqa. A relatively complete copy is kept at the National Iranian Film-House. For more news and critiques refer to No. 1.

3. Older sources, publications and cinema references often spoke of Sepanta as the director, or author of the film. But Ardeshir Irani’s name appears in the film credits as the director.

4. The events of Oganians’ life are a fascinating story. For more on his biography, refer to No. 1.

5. Sepanta came to Iran for Ferdowsi’s Millennium Anniversary. Alongside than making a film based on the life of Ferdowsi, he also made Leili and Majnun, Shirin and Farhad and Black Eyes. There are no existing copies of these films, at least not in Iran, and investigations into the existence of copies in Bombay have so far been inconclusive. For more information refer to No. 1.

6. The few existing sources on Oganians speak of him as a graduate in Film Studies from Moscow, though this is still a subject of dispute.

7. Oganians’ efforts were directed towards creating national, Iranian films, with an Iranian disposition and focusing on the issues concerning Iranian culture. Therefore he can be considered the originator of national Iranian cinema, even though he failed in his attempts.

8. For more on the meeting and partnership of ‘Ali Daryabeigi and Esma‘il Kooshan, and subsequent collaborations in Mitra Films, refer to No. 1.

Seasoned, Serious, Stern but Orderly

Shahab Yousefi
The oldest film festival in Iran, and essentially one for educational films, the Roshd Film Festival was once again held in Tehran and 24 other cities, showing more than 290 short and feature films. The most significant point to consider is the amount of organization that is required in a festival of such proportions.

Of the 290 films taking part, 108 Iranian and 23 foreign films were shown in the main part of the festival, the international competition section, and 160 other films were screened in other sections, such as reviews and special screenings.

This year 522 films had been sent to the festival office, in addition to the films of the competition section 19 feature films were shown in the “Family Films” section, 26 films took part in the “Iranian Family Films” section and 15 films were shown in the “Festival of Festivals” section. The films were shown in 8 cinemas in Tehran. The morning sessions were devoted to classes of schoolchildren who attended the screenings according to prior scheduling. The discussions and press conferences were held at the Qiam Cinema in Tehran. The discussions focused mainly on educational film themes and the use of television as a tool for the development of educational cinema.

Among other topics discussed at this year’s festival was the role of documentary filmmaking in educational cinema and how drama can be used to advance a culture of education in the age of information and modern communication.

The screenings had small audiences, perhaps due to the history of the festival; both the audience and those involved in the industry have become accustomed to its presence, and it no longer holds its former appeal.

The awards presented at the closing ceremony of the festival were:

The Golden Book for Best Feature Family Film: The Child and the Soldier by Reza Mir Karimi, from Iran;

The Golden Book for Best Science Film: The Mysteries of the Pyramids by Luc Martin Gosset, from France;

The Golden Book for Best Educational Film: The Third Dimension by Reza Mianji, from Iran;

The Golden Book for Best Short Educational Film: The Green Dream by Hossein Mahjoob, from Iran.

Also awarded honorable mention were the films Sanam by Rafi‘ Pitts, First Year Arabic by Behrooz Hassan-Begloo, The First Brick by ‘Ali Vafa’i, Memories and Souvenirs by Mostafa Razzaq-Karimi and Farhad Varham; also mentioned was the Short and Documentary Films Collection of Iran.

The special jury prize was awarded to Iran Is My Home by Parviz Kimiavi and Hooram’s Story by Farhad Mehranfar.•

5th National and 17th International Short Film Festival of the Iranian Young Cinema Society
October 26-31, 2000

A Limited Yet Effective Presence
Jamshid Rahsepar
This year the 17th National Festival of Short Films was also in the 5th year of its international competition. The first 12 years had been organized on a national scale, but 5 years ago it was decided that this festival should take on an international dimension.

The festival began with the screening of the 13-minute film Everlasting Moments by Hossein Setareh, and ended its 6-day duration with the film Illusions of Presence by Mohammad Zarqani. The president of the Young Cinema Society—who is also the chairman of the festival—made the following statement in his opening speech: “The history of cinema begins with the short film, and Iranian cinema has been part of this history since the very beginning. Even though the short film has not been a constant presence in Iranian cinema, today, in its hundredth year, it has achieved a unique standing.”

This year’s festival was marked by two significant features. The first was the volume of events. The sections of the festival were:

The Iranian competition section-Part A was comprised of 35 millimeter and Betacam films. 105 films were entered in this section.

The Iranian competition section-Part B was devoted to films made with amateur video cameras, in VHS or S-VHS forms. 80 films were entered in this section.

The jury panel for Part A consisted of Sa‘eed Haji-miri, ‘Ali-Mohammad Qassemi, Zaven Qukassian, Kianoosh ‘Ayyari and Nasser Taqva’i; the jury for Part B consisted of Ahmad Zabeti-Jahromi, Mass‘ud Emami, Mojtaba Ra’i, ‘Ali Shidfar and Reza Sobhani.

16 Iranian and international films were screened in the Children and Teenagers Section of the festival, with 3 films shown during special screenings. Two of these were from the Iran Wildlife collection and had been produced by the BBC. The other film was A Time for Drunken Horses by Bahman Qobadi.

Among other interesting events were the reviews: a review of the films of the late (martyred) Morteza Avini, a tribute to the animated short films of the National Film Board of Canada, a tribute to Dutch short films and a tribute to French short films. A new addition to the festival was the section entitled “Dialogue among Civilizations”, where 8 Iranian and international films focusing on global dialogue were shown.

Two other important sections of the festival were a look at the films of Vahid Musa’ian, the young director of short films, in which 13 of his films were displayed, and the other section—the most important area of competition—was the international section, comprising 53 Iranian and international films. The jury for this section consisted of Zita Caruahosa, curator of the “Museo da Imagem Edo Som” and the founder and president of the Sao Paulo International Short Film Festival, Lassaad Jamoussi, president of the International Sfax Festival and jury member of the International Clermont-ferrand Short Film Festival of France, Asako Fujioka, Japanese filmmaker and production coordinator of NHK documentaries as well as being coordinator of New Asian Currents section of the Yamakata International Documentary Film Festival, Roger Gonin, director of the prominent Clermont-ferrand International Short Films Festival of France, and Dr. Ahmad Alasti, the Iranian film educator.

The awards of the festival were:
Cash prize for Best Dramatic Film to Charshou, by Mahvash Sheikholeslami

Award for Best Experimental Film to Composition for Four Stairways and a Person, by Olaf Geuer, from Germany;

Award for Best Documentary to Rougegiran, by Mehrdad Osku’i and Ebrahim Sa‘idi from Iran.

In addition to the above, cash prizes, other awards and diplomas of honor were awarded in other fields. The Grand Prize of the festival—$2900 in cash—was awarded to the film Yamouth, a Home, a Tribe, by Farshad Fada’ian.•

Eighth Biennial of the Holy Defense Films
28 September-3 October 2000
Patience and Daring
Shahab Yousefi
The Eighth Biennial of the Holy Defense Films was held from 28 September to 3 October 2000, on a much larger scale than the past episodes. Organized ever since the end of the Iran-Iraq war to acclaim the cinema of the war and commemorate eight years of defense against the enemy, this festival was often dedicated to the representation of Iranian films dealing with the subject, but this year it bore extra importance because it addressed identity and situation of this cinema in relation with its audience.

In fact, the declining interest of cinema-goers in films dealing with the Holy Defense, which was perhaps due to the repetitive nature of their themes and plots, their tone and ideological mood, changes within the society itself, and the receding memory of the days of the Holy Defense, was indeed discussed by the cinema press, the experts involved in the cinema of the war and others whose thoughts were aimed at the growth of this type of cinema. Therefore, the most significant feature of this year’s festival was its organization of discussions concerning this type of films. On another hand, this year the festival was held only in Tehran. Hence, the dialogues and expert discussions were warmly welcomed by the public and knowledgeable figures. Yet, the cinema presenting the films of the festival was far from crowded, despite the fact that the films were shown without charge. The films were mostly reruns that had been repeatedly shown on television. On the contrary, the representations of recent foreign war films at the Cinema House with Persian subtitles gathered a large crowd. These were Full Metal Jacket (Stanley Kubrick), Seven Years in Tibet (Jean Jacques Annaud), Saving Private Ryan (Steven Spielberg), The Killing Fields (Roland Joffe) and Platoon (Oliver Stone). But, undoubtedly, the most important section of the festival concerned the discussions held by experts and the problems of the Holy Defense cinema raised by the producers of this cinema and other individuals involved. These auto-criticism sessions were particularly fruitful, because the participants meticulously but boldly delved into the matter without going into the usual niceties.

The first specialized session, entitled “Knowledge of the audience and means of attracting spectators”, was held with the participation of two filmmakers of the Holy Defense, Mojtaba Ra‘i and Habibollah Bahmani. Ra‘i said: “In Iran the cinema of the war is not a living cinema. Our war films are weak in terms of filmmaking. When a film is not good, even if it deals with our values, it becomes an anti-value because of its weak structure.”

The second specialized session, entitled “Is cinema an art or an industry?”, was held with the participation of Sayfollah Dad, Culture and Islamic Guidance vice-minister of cinema affairs (himself one of the first film directors of the Holy Defense), Behrooz Afkhami, M.P., Manoochehr Mohammadi, film producer,

and Mojtaba Ra‘i. Dad said in his lecture: “Cinema is both an art and an industry.” Afhkhami believed that “Cinema is an industry and not an art.” Mohammadi noted that: “Considering the small output of 50 films a year in Iran, the Iranian cinema cannot be called an industry.” And Ra‘i said: “Cinema, in any of its forms,

bears artistic traces. Even an art film is an industrial product in virtue of its creation process.”

Rassul Molla-Qolipoor, Akbar Nabavi and Morteza Sarhangi were the lecturers of the third session, entitled “Reality in the cinema of the Holy Defense.” Bitterly criticizing the history of this cinema, Molla-Qolipoor attributed the lack of public enthusiasm to the absence of realism in this cinema, adding: “We have devoted our efforts to showing only what is appropriate.” And Sarhangi said: “We must not be afraid to express and show adversity.” Others spoke of difficulties hampering the production of war films in Iran.

The fourth session, entitled “Characterization in the cinema of the Holy Defense”, was held with the participation of two screenwriters, Ensiyeh Shah-Hosseini and Qassem-‘Ali Farasat, the film director Rassul Molla-Qolipoor and the film producer Fereshteh Ta’erpoor. The screenwriters spoke of the lack of characterization in our war cinema. Shah-Hosseini said: “They didn’t let us deal with things that accompany any war.”

The festival was concluded with prizes being awarded, while most of the organizers and participants hoped that, taking into consideration the way in which this year’s session was held, new means of perpetuating this cinema and bringing it closer to the values of the Holy Defense would be found.

Prizes
Best film:
Book from Heavens, Parviz Sheikh-Tadi

Lost Half, Mohammad-‘Ali Ahangar

Hiva, Rassul Molla-Qolipoor

Best special effects:
Lost Half, Morteza Akbari

Best actress:

Book from Heavens, Ro’ya Taymurian

Best director of photography:

Lost Half, Nasser Mahmoodiyeh
The special prize of the jury was awarded to four filmmakers of the Holy Defense: Rassul Molla-Qolipoor, Ebrahim Hatami-Kia, Kamal Tabrizi, ‘Azizollah Hamidnezhad.

The jury of the festival consisted of Majid Majidi, Rakhshan Bani-E‘temad, Mojtaba Ra‘i, Mohammad-Mehdi Asgarpoor and Mass‘ud Farasati.•

The 15th International Film Festival for Children and Young Adults, Esfahan, October 14 -20, 2000

Dry as the Zayandehrood River

Mehdi ‘Abdollahzadeh
This year the International Film Festival for Children and Young Adults was once again held in Esfahan. The opening ceremony took place on the 14th of October at Baq-e Noor, though the screening of films had begun since that morning. Other than a few years when the festival took place in Kerman and Tehran, most years the festival was held in Esfahan.

This year’s festival, like all others, was composed of different sections. The international section was devoted to films from all over the world, most of them very recent productions for children and young adults. The international section was the important and productive area of competition, and among this year’s participants were Hope Beyond the Crimson Sky (Japan, 2000), Ollie Alexander (Slovakia), The Golden Balloon (France), Star Sisters (Sweden, 1999), On Our Own (Denmark and Sweden, 1998), The Sufi’s World (Norway), Marty’s World (France), The Canary Yellow Bicycle (Greece, 1999), Dubashi (India, 1999), Saroja (Sri Lanka, 1999), The Climb (France), The Magic Pearl (India, 2000) and Lawrence in the Land of Liars (Germany). There were also three Iranian participants in the international section: A Time for Drunken Horses by Bahman Qobadi (internationally praised and the winner of the Golden Camera at Cannes 2000), Sanam by Rafi‘ Pietz, and Whisper by Parviz Shahbazi.

The interesting and much awaited section of the festival was the Iranian Children and Young Adults Section. As well as reviewing the work of previous years in this section, there were also films which had been made during the past year: Once Upon A Time by Iraj Tahmasb and Silence by Mohsen Makhmalbaf.

Another significant part of this festival was in recognition of the achievements of the internationally acclaimed Iranian filmmaker Abolfazl Jalili. Most of Jalili’s films had not been screened due to censorship, but he has garnered many awards at international festivals across the globe. All of his films were screened at this year’s festival: Scabies (Gall), Dance of Dust, Det Means Girl, A True Story, Know(Don) and all of his early short films.

Another section was dedicated to Mohammad Reza ‘Aliqoli, the renowned composer of Iranian film scores.

In the opening days of this festival, due to the fact that it took place at the beginning of the school year, the films did not seem to be well received. But with the passing of a few days the audience grew in number. As in previous years, schoolchildren of elementary and secondary grades participated in screenings in the morning and afternoons. The children showed exceptionally enthusiastic reactions to some of the films. Another positive aspect of the festival was the adult attendance of the films. Long lines in front of the cinemas clearly demonstrated their enthusiasm.

Another section of this festival, which has been a constant presence during the years it has been held in Esfahan, is the section devoted to discussions on children’s cinema. These discussions took place late at night at the ‘Abbasi Hotel. The discussions often led to heated debates among the participants, one of whom declared, “Iranian children’s cinema has dried up like the Zayandehrood!”, a reference to how the Zayandehrood river has suffered in the drought which Iran is currently experiencing. This sentence was met with disapproval from many of those present.

An international panel of judges presided at this year’s festival:

Shong McCarthy, the chief executive of the Cinemagic Festival of Ireland; Vinod Ganatra, the Indian documentary filmmaker; Jean-Jacques Mitterand, president and planner of the “Art and Experience” theaters of France; Dr. Samir Nasr, a Canadian filmmaker, educator and film critic of egyption origin. Majid Majidi, the Iranian director, was the president of the panel. The winners of this year’s festival were:

International Competition Section
· Diploma of Honor: Klaus Härö, for the short film Into the Night, from Finland

· Diploma of Honor: Mozaffar Shayda’i, for the animated film Apple, from Iran

· Diploma of Honor: Somarante Dissanayake, for the feature film Saroja, from Sri Lanka

· Golden Butterfly: The animated film Shangool and Mangool and the short film The Mother, both from Iran

· Golden Butterfly for Best Direction: Denis Bardiao, for the film Marty’s World, from France

· Golden Butterfly for Best Film: The Canary Yellow Bicycle, from Greece

Iranian Competition Section
· Golden Butterfly for Best Short Film: The House Is White, by Tayyebeh Falakian

· Golden Butterfly for Best Feature Film: A Time for Drunken Horses, by Bahman Qobadi

· Special Jury Prize: The Mother, by Layla Mirhadi, and honorable mention for Sharpnel in Peace by ‘Ali Shah Hatami

· Diploma of Honor for Best Short Film: Shangool and Mangool, by Farkhondeh Torabi and Morteza Ahadi, and Green Dream, by Hossein Mahjoob

· Diploma of Honor for Best Feature Film: Once Upon A Time, by Iraj Tahmasb, and Sharpnel in Peace by ‘Ali Shah Hatami

International Video Section
· Golden Butterfly: The Bear, by Hillary Audus, from

England

· Diploma of Honor: Acceptance, by Mohammad Shirvani from Iran, and an honorable mention for Mani Tarokh, the young director of Deep Blue

Iranian Video Section
· Best Film:, Acceptance, by Mohammad Shirvani

· Best Direction: Children of the Sea, by Mohsen Shah -Mohammadi.

The CIFEJ Jury Choice
· The Canary Yellow Bicycle, by Dimitris Stavrakas

Jury of One Hundred Children’s Choice
· Honorable Mention for the film Bahador by ‘Abdollah ‘Alimorad

· Diploma of honor for the film The Mother, by Leila Mirhadi.•

Cinema in the Second Century

Diversity, Rediscovery and a Quest for Lost Individuality
Rakhshan Bani-E‘temad
What path will the cinema of tomorrow, the cinema of the second century, take? I do not know.

Perhaps the cinema of tomorrow will draw closer to the individuality of the human being, that which has succumbed to the onslaught of modern technology. This new technology even prevents us from reading our own handwriting. Modern man communicates by electronic mail and digital images. Individuality is lost in these exchanges. Uniformity is spreading among humans. The blurring of geographical and cultural boundaries and the confusion of global exchanges have taken control of our distinctive cultural traits. Differentiation no longer exists. All this is due to modernization and technological advances that are manipulating our world. Perhaps cinema, in its second century, will correct these shortcomings. This is the inevitable turn which events must take. Maybe cinema will achieve what mankind has lost. It will seek those qualities that have been surrendered, the individuality that has been lost. Perhaps cinema will move towards addressing the sense of isolation that is brought on by the bustling pace of modern life. The modern world is one of confusion midst the fierce assault of technology, and the uniformity it brings. Yet there still exist films that have maintained their integrity in this age of technology, the cinema that places greater value upon the individual.

There was a time when cinema had an exclusive role as a new medium. When human aspirations first became large images displayed on a screen, cinema had a specific role. The rapid pace of technology reduced cinema to a technical art. In this technical art, a single concept produces a million prints, forcing the spectator to choose one of the available models. The creative mind is left in the shadows of modern advancement. Specialization in every field transforms the traditional concept of cinema; from the absolute product of mental creativity to something wholly different.

This trend has brought us to a new definition of cinema. It may yet prove successful, but reactions to this new definition will act as an anti-thesis. This new cinema, when brought in contact with new technology will undoubtedly produce an effective synthesis.

It is plain to see that the simple handycam has become a direct tool of expression for the creative mind. Perhaps the boundless freedom of this new form, in avoiding the constraints of a purely technical cinema, will yield new interpretations of cinematic expression. Perhaps the new century will prove that this new form can also be a part of cinema, perhaps it shall be its own unique

form of this art. I believe there are people today who have personal websites on the internet where they have placed an unmoving camera to record 24 hours of a human life on film. People often pass in front of the camera, going about their lives, and voices may be heard without people being seen. In this view, there is no movement or selectivity. There is only an original setting and 24 hours of ordinary human activity. Perhaps the second century will see the beginning of this sort of new cinema. In order to escape the assault of technique, the relationship between the autonomous, indefinable filmmaker and the spectator—which had remained severed for so long—shall regain existence in this simple, direct form.

Until recently, cinema possessed a definition and a history. Certain facilities existed; they could easily be categorized: equipment, sound, camera, lights, actors, scripts, etc. But these definitions have been transformed. There is astounding diversity in contemporary cinema. This diversity is a new occurrence in itself. Cinema is no longer molding image and sound to a preset form. Cinema is the very expression of the disorientation of today’s man. Cinema is on the verge of rediscovering itself.•

Half-made Cinema
‘Abbas Kiarostami
I used to think that cinema halls were kept dark so that the picture could be better seen. When I stared at the way every single person was coiled up in his seat, I realized that the darkness has a more important function. The darkness is meant to separate people, to isolate them so that each one can go deep into his seat and into himself, side by side, yet completely separate, and so that each one can build up his own world while watching the film.

Out of a city, out of those fields, these people or those objects that appear on the screen, he can build up his own special spaces and characters. Everyone making his own special film out of his own special world, resembling no other one.

Cinema does not recount one world, but a different world, neither does it one reality but a myriad realities, nor a unique story but a variety of stories.

For the cinematographer, just as for the spectator, truth isn’t anything outside the system of cinematographic conventions. But it is easy to see that this order is changeable. The reality of daily life and of its happenings isn’t something that is external and objective. It is something that we make up and bring to life. The world of each work of art, the world of each film, reveals a new truth to each one of us. It creates a special and unique vision, in the darkness and privacy of any cinema hall and on any seat, in a moment of aloneness, and it allows everyone to achieve one’s dreams and inward wishes, and to freely express and repeat them. If art is to bring about change and innovation, it can only do so through a creative process closely related to the viewer’s freedom. There is a solid, unbreakable and eternal relationship between the self-made and agreeable world of the artist and the world created by the viewer, which is a mental and liberal world. Art allows man to create truth in the way he desires and thinks is correct or the way he wishes it to be, without being subjugated by imposed-upon truths.

Cinema allows each filmmaker and each viewer to discover, to portray and to make one’s own the ultimate truth of human suffering from the pains which simple people endure in their daily life. If we believe that a filmmaker can be committed to change daily life, this commitment must be found in the freedom given to the viewer for creating meanings. When the film creates a world full of contrasts and contradictions, it also creates the possibility of changing the viewer. There is a world which we perceive to be real but do not find right. This world is not created by our mind. We don’t even accept it. Through the medium of cinema, we create a world that is many times more real, more just and more beautiful than the

world surrounding us. Not because it is a deceptive image of the world, but because it rather bespeaks contradictions; the contradictions between the ideal world and our real world. It is more laden with signs of wishes, sadnesses, jealousies, possessions, and deprivations, joys, sufferings, successes and defeats. It is an

infinitely beautiful world in which ugliness and disorder are more conspicuous. Personal experience plays an essential role in this process. When the world of a film is spread out in front of the viewers, it is through personal experience that each of them learns how to build a special world out of it. Not satisfied with what is, they will look for what it should be. There is a relation between the reality that we build up and the world as it is made, and which is not to our liking.

Here I would like to refer to Godard, who said “Reality is a badly made film”, and also quote Shakespeare, who wrote “We are made of the stuff of our dreams,” meaning that we are more similar to our dreams than to our real life. Cinema is a window that opens onto our dreams; dreams through which we recognize ourselves and by the consciousness and passion we gather from them we alter our lives to the benefit of our dreams.

We isolate ourselves in cinema seats and, retiring into our inner selves, we deepen our self-knowledge through our dreams. Perhaps nowhere else than in a cinema are we as close to one another and yet as isolated from one another. This is the miracle of cinema. The cinema seat is more helpful than the psychiatrist couch for knowing one’s self and needs. The viewer can make his own film with the help of our half-made film. In one instant, hundreds of viewers make a film that belongs to them and is suitable to their own singular interior world.

I want to point out again to Godard who said “What is alive is not what is on the screen, but what goes on between the viewer and the screen.” In this reading of cinema, the filmmaker and the viewer have equal parts, not because the filmmaker charms and the viewer gets charmed. This is not equality. The viewer is truly creative and deserves a part equal to his creativity. Sometimes viewers imagine a film which is much better and in a way a better-made film than the one we have made, and this shows that they can be more creative than we are.

I always think about a cinema which gives more opportunity to the viewer, a “half-made” cinema, an unfinished cinema which gets completed and perfected by the viewer’s creative mind, and the result of this process is hundreds of films produced by the creative minds of hundreds of viewers. It is a reality that the nonfiction film is not popular amongst most viewers. But the narrative must have blanks in it like crossword puzzles that the viewer fills in—like an investigator in a detective story. It’s up to the viewer to discover it. Like in a puzzle, the viewer must discover the connections that are proper to him and build up his story in the way that suits him. He has to discover the story in order to make it his own.

I believe it is this creative implication of the viewer from which we can expect to give life to the picture on the screen. Otherwise both the viewer and the film die out.

Narratives which are so completely and perfectly molded that nothing can be added to or subtracted from them have one great advantage and one great disadvantage: namely that nothing can be added to or taken away from them, and that no mind can penetrate and alter them. This is why viewers with different cultural and intellectual capabilities arrive to the same and only film, and why this varied audience becomes uniform when confronted with our work.

In the second century of cinema’s life, it is impossible not to respect the viewer and not to accept him as an understanding and constructive member of the filmmaking process. In order to arrive at this important aim, maybe it is necessary for the “God of the screen” to descend from his ivory tower and become a simple viewer, and introspectively coil up in the director’s chair (which chair in Iran?!) as in a movie hall seat in the dark and view what is happening in front of the camera, becoming the viewer of the film all the while that it is being shot. Not to neglect or underestimate the role of contingency and accident in this process. To believe that it is not always possible to execute the constructs of our minds. This is only feasible in animation films. In live cinema and with live beings (actors or non-actors) in front of the camera, the role of unpredicted events and incidents must be taken seriously. There is no such thing as a particular and prefabricated form. Everything depends on the interaction of the live and constructive elements of a film. It is a necessity to be the viewer of the film while making it and to go along with that which is alive, full of energy and independent of us. For one hundred years, cinema has been the domain of filmmakers. Let’s be hopeful about its second century.