THE SEED OF THE SACRED FIG. Theocracy and Chekhov’s Gun [REVIEW]

It is no secret that making films in Iran is no easy task. The developed censorship of the theocratic regime effectively makes life difficult for the more critical observers of reality, both before and after the fact—hence the recurring appeals and protests in Western media regarding the imprisonment, sentencing, or work bans imposed on filmmakers, both well-known and lesser-known. At the same time, however, the Iranian system—whether due to incompetence or as a tactical safety valve—allows, to some extent, the production of films that, while banned (or punished) in Iran, reach international festivals and cinemas. Moreover, these films form the core of Iranian cinema, which, for Polish or European audiences, is characterized by social criticism and existential dramas set against the backdrop of dictatorship. The same applies to The Seed of the Sacred Fig, the new film by Mohammad Rasoulof, a renowned filmmaker who has also faced repression due to his work.

The latest film from the 2020 Golden Bear winner, who now lives in exile in Europe, does not disappoint in terms of its political charge. Even before its premiere at Cannes, the director was blackmailed by authorities and sentenced for “anti-Iranian propaganda” contained in the film submitted to the French festival. This context only amplified the film’s message, which was awarded the Special Jury Prize and the FIPRESCI Prize at Cannes and was also nominated for an Oscar as Best International Feature Film (submitted by Germany, naturally not Iran). And indeed, Rasoulof does not resort to half-measures, openly commenting on the current political climate in Tehran, using as his backdrop the protests that erupted following the death of Mahsa Amini in 2022.

In The Seed of the Sacred Fig, this moment of social unrest is observed through the perspective of a member of Iran’s oppressive apparatus. After twenty years of dedicated service to the regime, Iman finally receives the long-awaited promotion to investigative judge, opening up better prospects for him, his devoted wife, and their two daughters. However, the timing proves unfortunate, as intensified protests focused on women’s rights keep the judiciary extremely busy, causing Iman to grow distant from his family. Alongside his bureaucratic dilemmas and internal power struggles within the ministry, tensions also arise between his traditionally regime-loyal wife, Najmeh, and their daughters, who are increasingly aware of the world around them. In a Chekhovian move, Rasoulof sets the main plot in motion through the disappearance of Iman’s service pistol, building a family drama that serves as a synecdoche for Iran’s socio-political tensions.

The titular fig tree is a plant that grows by spreading its roots into another plant, eventually killing it—a clear metaphor for theocracy, which strangles society with a tangle of religious and legal restrictions. The symbolism of the fig tree and the role of the ayatollahs’ government correspond to Iman’s parental authority: he appears to be a calm and loving father, but under pressure, he gradually reveals an increasingly authoritarian and brutal nature. The escalating tensions between his rebellious daughters, his loyal yet conflicted wife, and his own unwavering faith in divine and governmental authority illustrate the gradual takeover of control by the terror of dictatorship—an ideology theoretically rooted in love and care but ultimately distorted into oppression. This part-whole dynamic functions effectively in The Seed of the Sacred Fig, offering powerful analogies that encapsulate the absurdities of Iran’s system and the filmmakers’ defiance against it.

In recent years, Mohammad Rasoulof has emerged as a leading voice in Iranian cinema—a director with a keen dramatic instinct rather than a focus on psychological depth or poetic compositions. This strength is evident once again in The Seed of the Sacred Fig, which is at its best when it follows situational tension and veers into the realm of a political thriller, set within the claustrophobic confines of a family. Less successful are the film’s more lyrical moments, which aim to provoke reflection but often feel tedious instead. Rasoulof is not Asghar Farhadi, who can extract endless meaning from an intimate situation and delve into deep psychological layers, nor is he Jafar Panahi, who finds power in subtle details. The director of A Man of Integrity attempts to merge Iran’s poetic-psychological film tradition with a more genre-driven approach, but these elements do not fully blend in The Seed of the Sacred Fig, ultimately weakening the film as a whole. The first act—and especially the noticeably drawn-out final act—could have been trimmed without losing the story’s impact. Once again, as in Rasoulof’s previous works, the film suffers from excessive literalism, which diminishes the enjoyment of its otherwise well-crafted symbolism and the melancholy undertones of Persian storytelling.

Despite its flaws, The Seed of the Sacred Fig is more than solid political cinema—it has the potential to become one of the classics of Iranian film. Rasoulof maintains the high standard set by There Is No Evil, reaffirming his position as an international filmmaker unafraid to speak his mind through his work. From a broader perspective, this may be an even more important film than its predecessor, as it amplifies, from within, the significance of the dramatic social protests of 2022. To reinforce this dimension, Rasoulof integrates amateur footage of the protests and their brutal suppression directly into the film. And if this message reaches even a few more people through the film than it otherwise would have, some of its shortcomings—understandable given the constraints of working under an oppressive regime—can be overlooked. What matters most is that Rasoulof, with masterful craftsmanship, distills clear conclusions and genuine emotions from his work.