Iranian film The Salesman takes an unflinching look at honour and shame.
THE SALESMAN TURNS A HYPER-MASCULINE IRANIAN FILM GENRE ON ITS HEAD
Rape culture is a persistent social issue t hr o ughout t he world, often complicated by a stigma against victims — a primary reason why so many survivors stay quiet. In Iranian filmmaker Asghar Farhadi’s latest film, The Salesman, the subject is never raised and the attack is barely described by the victim, Rana ( Taraneh Alidoosti), to her husband Emad ( Shahab Hosseini). And for that we as viewers are pushed to assume the worst.
Rana and Emad are actors in a local production of Death of A Salesman, with some fictional details of Arthur Miller’s play eerily reminiscent of the duo’s life. They’ve moved into a new apartment that unbeknownst to them was vacated by a prostitute. One night, Rana inadvertently buzzes in a client of the prostitute’s assuming it’s Emad. She’s attacked in her shower, but we never see the assault, only the aftermath as she’s being treated for head injuries, with the rescuing neighbours describing to Emad what they heard. But the show must go on. Rana and Emad attempt to get back to their lives — with limited success. She doesn’t want to be left alone or use the bathroom. Psychologically, Rana’s dealing with a trauma that clearly extends beyond typical physical assault, but she can’t talk about it. Instead, Rana tries to communicate the seriousness of what happened through her actions. Emad doesn’t understand, or perhaps, ashamed, doesn’t want to.
He unconsciously blames their relationship’s breakdown on the perpetrator instead of his own inability to handle the attack. While Rana stoically tries to move on, Emad impulsively acts on his feelings with absolutely no regard for how it may affect Rana, who actually experienced the traumatizing assault.
Like Farhadi’s previous films, The Salesman consistently tries to show us the subtle difficulties Iranian women face in their day- today lives. The Islamic influence on Iranian culture has resulted in an honour-shame system that frequently blames rape victims — thereby ensuring survivors stay quiet even with their loved ones, like in the case of Rana.
The Salesman, then, is obliged to portray the silenced role honour continues to play in Iranian society, even in contemporary middle- class Iranian life. In the process, Farhadi criticizes his culture’s patriarchal structure. Slowly but surely, though, The Salesman becomes a rape-revenge movie, as Emad obsessively tries to track down the rapist.
To maintain the mystery of what happened, the audience can’t see too much of Rana, but Farhadi’s insistence on providing us more of Emad’s perspective may have unintended consequences. At first, we sympathize with Emad, but as his obsession grows, we begin to criticize his focus on finding the rapist at the cost of his relationship.
Farhadi tends to write very nuanced male characters, but his films are much more well- rounded when there is at least one strong female perspective as well — see About Elly and the upcoming DVD release of Fireworks Wednesday for examples. But what Farhadi is really trying to do with The Salesman is turn an old commercial style of Iranian movie on its head: the jaheli film, a hypermasculine genre in which the good guys avenge abuses against women, children and the poor, to save their honour.
Rape is the particular horrific misdeed in the best and most-popular example of the genre, Qaisar, and its revenge fantasy certainly reified the self- righteous feelings of male viewers back in the day. The Salesman uses a mildmannered actor/ teacher instead of the typical “tough guy” to illuminate how such vengeful feelings are still present no matter how educated or civilized a man may be. Unlike the escapism offered in jaheli films, Farhadi wants us to know just how unsatisfactory and damaging such honour- obsessed displays of machismo really are.
The Salesman ends on a dour note and its last act is reminiscent of Denis Villeneuve’s Prisoners — a film similarly themed on the selfdestruction of instinctual vindication. Like that film, The Salesman is gruesome to watch, and it was probably even more difficult to make. Perhaps because the portrayal of rape is so layered and nuanced, Farhadi couldn’t spend as much time on other departments he normally shines in. While visually, the Iranian auteur continues to impress and improve on his previous films, The Salesman is missing one key Farhadian ingredient: pacing.
At 125 minutes, The Salesman can be a bit of a slog. However, it remains a daring and provocative work, one that’s so subdued and secretive it’s easy to dismiss the seriousness of its subject matter. ΩΩΩ