limbs, tangled, dancing; gaping mouths; and sightless eyes — much of Iranian
artist Bahman Mohassess’ work strikes the first-time viewer alternately as a
celebration of the human body — and a testament to human suffering. Dubbed “the
Persian Picasso” in the West, Mohassess was once the doyen of the Iranian art
world, yet his work was the victim of censorship after the Revolution. One of
his most high-profile sculptures was even given paper underwear to protect its
modesty. It was later “accidentally” destroyed. Incensed by the turn the cultural atmosphere
in Tehran had taken, Mohassess left the city for good, but not before
destroying the bulk of his remaining work in a final, tragic act of defiance.
and filmmaker Mitra Farahani’s documentary Fifi
Howls from Happiness (which opens in New York on August 8 and
in LA on the 15th) is named for the one painting Mohassess could never bear to part with. The film begins with the director tracing Mohassess to a
hotel room in Rome, though she coyly refuses to tell us how she managed to
track the reclusive artist down. Her decision not to detail her search for
Mohassess is well-judged, for it allows the man himself to take center stage in
all his cackling, cantankerous, and complex glory. Cigarette in hand — and an oxygen
tank at his side — an embittered Mohassess promises to tell his life story, “so
that every idiot doesn’t purport to write my biography the way it suits him.”
The resultant film bears scant resemblance to a biography, but is at once something
more delicate — and powerful. As the ailing artist embarks upon one final
commission, Farahani juxtaposes his railing against “immortality and all that
rubbish” with his need to leave something for posterity in her own work — even
to the point of dictating elements of the documentary’s visuals and voiceover — in what becomes a poignant meditation on the importance of artistic freedom and
Farahani, who now lives in Paris, is no stranger to the kind of scrutiny that made Mohassess’ existence in Iran impossible. Her 2004 documentary Taboos, which dealt with issues
surrounding sexual desire in Iranian society, was filmed clandestinely in the country, and she was arrested and
held in prison on returning to Tehran in 2009 in the wake of Iran’s disputed
Women and Hollywood spoke with Farahani about Mohassess,
his art, and how the “ignorance” which Mohassess blamed for the destruction
of his oeuvre continues to haunt the Iran of today.
What initially drew you to Bahman Mohassess and his work, and made you decide
to seek him out?
The story of Bahman Mohassess was known to most Iranians who at least have
heard about art and literature. It’s not his symbolic importance,
acknowledgement, or fame that was lacking, but his physical presence. He would
always be referred to rather as a myth or a living legend than an actually
existing person. Mohassess’ works function in such a way that his fishes [a
recurrent image in the artist’s work] and still lifes are looking out there to
the world, a cynical and crude look. Thus the “creator” of such “creatures”
should embody such a look to the world himself. I wanted to find the
disappeared body behind this very peculiar look.
In the film, Mohassess describes the destruction of his work as “the victory
of the ignorance of these times.” Was part of your motivation in investigating
the fate of Mohassess a desire to highlight the fact that that ignorance still
reigns victorious today?
Certainly. Do you have any doubts about it?
Do you entirely share Mohassess’ disillusionment with the lot of the artist
(especially the female artist) in Iran, or are you optimistic for
Not optimistic at all. What I share with him the most is the belief that the
issue of power is not bound to power per
se, but often depends on the people themselves, to what extent they
unconsciously encourage this power and its structures.
There are several moments in the film where your relationship with the audience
is very playful — your refusal to tell us how you tracked Mohassess to his hotel
room in Rome, for example. Is it important to you to make your directorial
presence felt in this way in all your work, or was this just a conscious
imitation of Mohassess’ own impish personality?
I feel there was no other way for the film to eventually exist, than having
Mohassess’ constant recommendations and “film directions” integrated and put
forward. Not only because it “allowed” me to do this impossible film on an
impossible character reflecting on his potentially impossible chef d’oeuvre. But mainly because
Mohassess was a man of power, at every stage of his life, embodying,
counterbalancing, addressing or fighting power.
Therefore, I was certainly not
surprised, and I praised those instructions as part of the process. They were
revealing to me. I discovered that I would never do “my” film on someone’s life.
I was only helping the last chapter of an already begun movie, to become
archived and visible, a movie begun long ago, without me. The movie of the
collective ignorance, which leads us to forget and dismiss our greatest spirits,
a movie in which Bahman Mohassess was the main protagonist (giving his film
WaH: This is your second documentary portrait
of an Iranian modern artist of note (Farahani interviewed pioneering female
artist Behjat Sadr in 2006 for Behjat
Sadr: Time Suspended). Is this something you wish to continue doing? Where
do you see your film work going in the future?
I’m not likely to do another film specifically on “someone,” though art history
remains a constant interest and resource for me.
Have you any advice for aspiring female filmmakers?
MF: 1. Since a camera is something too heavy for women and initially made for men,
you need a good cameraman.
2. Never give advice to women about how to behave or
work because they are shrewd enough already.
3. Never seek financial
independence in independent cinema since independent cinema doesn’t make money.