The sacred fig tree has an unusual life cycle.

Its seeds, contained in bird droppings, fall onto other trees.

Aerial roots sprout and grow down to the ground, while the branches wrap around the host tree and strangle it.

In the end, the sacred fig stands alone.

The origin of domination and oppression nests in the primordial core of society: the family. The weapon is nothing more than a pretext, an illusion of power, while violence perpetuates itself as an ancestral inheritance, inscribed in the cultural code, regenerated by intolerance, and fueled by a faith that, in its dogmatism, becomes an instrument of madness.

Chekhov used to say that if a gun appears in a story, sooner or later, it must be fired. Here, however, the gun disappears. And with it, the fragile balance of a man, Iman, who has served the regime for twenty years, collapses. Taking refuge in a sanctuary in the desert, he is not seeking redemption but a connection with the immutable. "The world has changed, but God has not," he asserts, with the certainty of someone clinging to power as a last anchor.

He prays, but it is not just the ritual that marks his vigil: destiny summons him to a metamorphosis, an inner twist that will lead him to embody the law—both judge and executioner. His transformation does not happen by choice but through an inescapable chain of events triggered by the disappearance of his service weapon. That object, always by his side, the epitome of his undisputed authority within his household, vanishes into thin air, shaking the power he built on silent submission and the absence of contradiction.

But power is not solid, and its fragility is revealed precisely through the loss of the gun, which threatens to erase his professional credibility in an instant: twenty-one years of career could dissolve, three years in prison await him if he does not find it. Suspicion creeps into his home, turning his family into a theater of oppression and paranoia.

The film does not merely recount a private drama but serves as a broader investigation, delving into the very essence of coercion and systemic violence.

His daughters, Rezvan and Sana, seem to know more than they admit. "You don't see it because you're inside and you want to preserve it at all costs," whispers Rezvan to their mother, who has always tried to mediate between them and their father—a man who has made subjugation to the State his reason for living. The mother compromises out of love, the daughters out of necessity.

Rezvan and Sana, awakened by the urgency of necessary insubordination in their restless youth, respond to the echo of popular protests shaking the foundations of a suffocating society.

The film does not offer immediate answers, and in the meantime, Rasoulof scatters clues throughout the narrative, building tension with cruel clarity. The mystery is not just the driving force of the story but a device to reveal the layered nature of oppression and rebellion.

Iman, convinced that the truth lies in bodies and gestures, takes his daughters to Alireza, an expert in psychology. With the help of metal detectors, blindfolds, and body language analysis, the search for the gun turns into an inquisitorial process disguised as therapy. The confession becomes an extorted act, secretly recorded, while the wife takes the blame to protect her daughters. But Sana is not just a spectator: immersed in the digital world, she follows the web, not State television. Technology provides her with tools of resistance, tutorials for surviving paternal oppression.

Iman becomes the paradigm of an evil that is not an exception but the norm. The family, which should be a space of care and affection, reveals itself as the first and most implacable stage of tyranny. Religion, which should guide the soul, transforms into a chain and a justification for domination. The film is terrifying because it offers no alibis, no distance: the viewer is forced to question, to ask whether what they see is reality or representation. Rasoulof does not grant the luxury of reassuring fiction—his cinema is an act of testimony.

Violence grows exponentially, surfacing in the obsession of a man who, losing control, reveals his true nature. What was once his family becomes a prison camp: the daughters no longer need to defend themselves from the outside world but from him. Meanwhile, beyond the household walls, the theocracy imposes sentences: participating in a protest equals five years in prison. "Down with the theocracy," voices cry in the streets, while the system entrenches itself in dogma: "Faith is an act of absolute submission, it does not answer questions."

"That's what you want from us," the daughters retort to their father, who has now become their tormentor.

The threats do not come only from within: a car tries to ram theirs—a warning for those who sign death sentences. In the rearview mirror, Iman sees a woman with a visor cap and heavy makeup, and his gaze fills with disgust. Femininity, freedom, dissent—everything he fears and represses. But control cannot be eternal. The stolen gun is the detonator of a greater collapse: that of a system perpetuated in the family, in institutions, in bodies bent to the will of God or of those who arrogate the right to be His intermediary.

In the finale, a desperate escape through the ruins of a crumbling country. Iran, evoked not only as a place but as an existential condition, emerges in its irreparable fracture—a labyrinth with no exit, where every new beginning is merely a repetition of evil in different forms. But the theft of the weapon shatters this pact, opening a breach in the wall of subjugation.

And in that breach, a gesture. Najmeh, in secret, washes the blood from the devastated face of Sadaf, a student punished for daring to claim her freedom. A silent yet disruptive act of resistance, opposing the logic of oppression with the power of care and female solidarity. In that gesture, the horror of reality becomes unbearable.

167 minutes that, after the first hour of bourgeois interiority, offer no respite; the narrative becomes testimony, denunciation, a stifled scream that cannot be ignored. Rasoulof constructs a film in which the past is not a distant shadow but a condition that perpetuates itself in the present, forcing reflection on what is and what could be. If evil exists, it is because it is allowed to exist. But in disobedience lies the possibility of another story. All that remains is to watch, understand, act. Because whoever looks away is already complicit.

Essential.

29-Jan-2025 by Beatrice