How Director Mohammad Rasoulof Shot his Oscar-Nominated “The Seed of the Sacred Fig” in Secret

Iranian filmmaker Mohammad Rasoulof wanted to tell a big story — so he went small. The Seed of the Sacred Fig explores his country’s authoritarian rule, repressive justice, patriarchal dominance, and women’s rights through its impact on one family.

Taking place during the 2022 Woman, Life, Freedom movement, a nationwide protest sparked by the arrest of Mahsa Amini, a 22-year-old Iranian woman jailed for not wearing a hijab and beaten to death while in custody, the film revolves around Tehranian lawyer Iman (Missagh Zareh), his wife Najmeh (Soheila Golestani) and their two daughters Rezvan (Mahsa Rostami) and Sana (Setareh Maleki).

A regime loyalist, Iman has recently been promoted to investigating judge in Tehran’s Islamic Revolutionary Court. Tasked with charging government dissidents, he quickly learns his role is to simply rubber stamp indictments, guilt or innocence be damned. The job also puts him in danger. So much so that he is given a gun for protection.

Ignoring justice begins to weigh on Iman, and his home life takes a toll. He grows distant from Najmeh and alienates himself from his daughters, angered that their friends are being beaten and arrested. Tensions escalate. Iman’s gun goes missing, threatening to tear his family apart.  

Under government scrutiny himself, writer/director Rasoulof had to leave Iran and finish his film in Germany. To avoid prison, he now lives in exile. Hailed for its searing narrative, taut filmmaking, and uncompromising examination of Iranian rule, The Seed of the Sacred Fig has gained worldwide acclaim and has been nominated to represent Germany in the Best International Feature Film category at this year’s Oscars.

In a candid conversation deftly interpreted by scholar Sheida Dayani, Rasoulof details shooting in secret, incorporating footage shot by protestors, and why it was important to tell this story.

What did you think when you learned the film was nominated for an Oscar?

It was a very strange feeling because I am Iranian, but I’m traveling with a travel document from Germany. And the moment I heard the news, I felt like the same was happening to my film. It was made in Iran but it has surpassed all kinds of borders and languages and nationalities.

How did you come up with the idea?

After years of dealing with security agents, interrogations, going to courts, and distinguishing myself from these people, I questioned what made them different from me. How are they able to do the kinds of things they do and I am not? I was in prison when the Woman, Life, Freedom movement was at its peak. A prison official told me that he really hates his job. He doesn’t like the way his family treats him because of it. He’s thinking about suicide. That conversation sparked the idea of making a film about a family with a deep chasm.

What were the challenges in assembling your cast and crew?

This is always an issue for me when I make an underground film. How am I going to find people who think like me? This time was different. After the movement, a lot of people told me that if I needed help, they would be game… actors, technicians, and cinematographers. The movement had a huge influence on the way people found each other and wanted to work with each other. They wanted to participate in films that would defy censorship. By doing so, they reclaimed a sense of integrity.

I understand that Soheila, your lead actress, is prohibited from leaving Iran. Have you spoken with her? How is she doing?

I was actually speaking to her a few moments ago right before joining this meeting. She’s doing very well. She’s a very strong person even though she’s under a lot of pressure. She’s banned from working. She’s banned from leaving the country. Still, she is doing wonderfully.

But Iran has taken action against the film.

We were all in a court together. She was there in person. A few of us outside Iran were tried in absentia. We were prosecuted for disseminating lies against the regime and for disseminating what they consider prostitution. This is not a translation lapse. These are the words they’re using.

It must make you think you’re doing something right.

That’s absolutely true. It does make me feel I’m doing something right. This kind of filmmaking and this kind of resistance — defying a dictatorship and a system of repression —  gives you a sense of integrity. That’s how the crew felt. Pooyan Aghababaei, my cinematographer, had many good offers, all for a lot more money. Instead, he decided to work on this.

You filmed in secret. What difficulties did that present?

It’s a very good question. Sometimes, we were on schedule. Sometimes, everything got canceled because everything got really complicated. We had three values we stuck to. One: always have a small crew. Two: have little equipment. And three: I needed to direct at a distance.

Please explain this

I was connected through a monitor with a safe connection by way of safe audio. I would tell my assistants what to do on set. Sometimes I was kilometers from the set. Sometimes I was closer and I could speak through a walkie-talkie. But even when I was closer, I was never on set myself.

That sounds challenging.

Sometimes it got complicated. My voice would be broadcast and there was always an eerie feeling. The crew members joked that it felt like talking to God because it was only one way. They couldn’t talk back. It was quite difficult in the beginning. But it gradually turned into a method of its own, and we evolved from that process. It resembled when we were under lockdown for the pandemic. We learned how to connect from afar.

Why did you do it this way?

The shooting of any film, through prearrangement, is monitored by the police. On paper, this project looks fine. But if they saw me, we would get into trouble. If I were under surveillance, the project would be disclosed and we wouldn’t be able to continue. I always made sure not to take any electronics with me. If I did, they would show my location as if I were at home.

You used actual footage of the protests.  

In Iran, journalists are under a lot of pressure, especially when there are demonstrations. There is nothing they can do. In the absence of journalism, the demonstrators recorded the images themselves and broadcast them on social media and out to the world. It shows the necessity of social media for the Iranian people. I also realized there was no way I could reconstruct those scenes. Even if I could, it wouldn’t have the same impact as the real ones would have on the viewer.

The final sequence is very tense and impactful. It reminded me of an Alfred Hitchcock film.

Initially, I envisioned a war in my mind. But when I found the location where I shot, I saw that it had great pathways and hidden spots.

And became a standoff.

The story of this film is greater than just a story of a family. It’s a story of a family happening in modern Iran. But it has its roots in the past. Patriarchy in Iran has very deep roots in tradition and culture. At the same time, the women’s movement is just as strong. And so I realized that the final sequence could show that the patriarchy and the women’s movement have been fighting one another throughout Iranian history. And this fight, this war, has always been under the shadow of religion. If you look at the final scene, there’s a shrine overlooking everything that’s happening.

It’s a really nice piece of filmmaking.

Thank you so much.

What do you hope audiences will take away from The Seed of the Sacred Fig?

It’s really important for me that the audience sees how devotion turns into prejudice and prejudice leads to violence.

Featured image: A scene from The Seed of the Sacred Fig. Courtesy Neon.