The heavy shadow of government censorship has loomed over Iranian cinema since the victory of the Islamic Revolution in 1979. This system is extremely rigid and complex, though its complexity does not stem from the inherent intricacy of its governing laws, but rather from the absence of clear regulations. The censorship system and its preferences have varied depending on different administrations. In the first decade after the revolution, even the slightest references to the government’s red lines—such as the depiction of physical relationships between men and women, criticism of the government, or critiques and insults toward Islam—could entangle films in the cycle of censorship and even lead to their complete ban.

The government's censorship system can be regarded as an example of Foucault’s panoptic surveillance. The censorship system acts as an observer, constantly monitoring and controlling directors, who, in turn, are prisoners of this system. A crucial aspect of Foucault’s panopticon is that prisoners are fully aware of the observer’s presence and understand that any deviation from imposed rules may lead to punishment: “He who is subjected to a field of visibility, and who knows it, assumes responsibility for the constraints of power; he makes them play spontaneously upon himself; he inscribes in himself the power relation in which he simultaneously plays both roles; he becomes the principle of his own subjection” (Foucault, 1977, p. 202). Similarly, in Iranian cinema, filmmakers are acutely aware of this oppressive authority.

However, over time, it seems that the terrifying and intricate system of the early revolutionary years has lost some of its discipline and rigidity. In recent years, not only in scripted dialogue but also in the visual elements of Iranian films, there are instances that, had they occurred in the first decade after the revolution, could have sent those films into permanent archival obscurity. For example, the film Conjugal Visit (2022), directed by Omid Shams, is one of the latest productions in Iranian cinema. As the title suggests, it explores conjugal visits between its male and female characters in prison. In the past, even depicting a man and a woman together in the same frame was considered forbidden, let alone showing indirect physical contact or implying a sexual relationship. However, this film includes all these elements, and not only was it released without issue, but it also achieved significant box office success. This decrease in censorship strictness is not due to any opening of Iran’s social or political space. On the contrary, these spaces have not only failed to become more open, but in many ways, have become only more rigid and authoritarian.

The reasons behind this relative leniency in film censorship are numerous and beyond the scope of this article. However, within the framework of this discussion, two possible explanations can be suggested.

First is the persistence of Iranian filmmakers engaging in an act that, in Foucauldian philosophy, is referred to as parrhesia. As Daniele Lorenzini defines it: “Parrhesia is a certain verbal activity in which the speaker has a specific relation to truth through frankness, a certain relation to himself through danger, a certain relation to law through freedom and duty, and a certain relation to other people through critique” (2023, p. 60). Iranian filmmakers have ceaselessly sought ways to circumvent the censorship system through a variety of strategies, often in highly creative and indirect ways. The use of metaphor in both speech and visuals has been a key method for depicting sensitive subjects such as passionate romantic relationships and political criticism in films like Nar o Ney (Saeed Ebrahimifar 1989) or Shabhaye Roshan (Farzad Motamen 2003). Another approach has been turning to historical narratives to implicitly reflect on contemporary national issues, as seen in Kamal-ol-Molk (Ali Hatami, 1989). Perhaps this long-term insistence and persistence by Iranian filmmakers have, over time, contributed to weakening the foundations of this panopticon.

However, there is also a second possible reason for this decline in strict censorship: perhaps this panopticon was empty all along. The absence of clear regulations in the censorship system and the fluctuating intensity of restrictions depending on the administration in power lead one to consider the possibility that the supposedly rigid and fearsome government censorship system may have been nothing more than an illusion from the very beginning—or at the very least, that it never possessed the level of deterrence and severity that we had assumed.

But if so, what force held Iranian filmmakers in a perpetual state of self-censorship and caution? The answer may lie in the internalization of power structures. Foucault’s panopticism does not require a visible enforcer; rather, it operates through the subject’s awareness of potential surveillance. Iranian filmmakers have long assumed that the observer—whether in the form of the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance or an unnamed authority—was watching. This assumption led to an ingrained habit of self-regulation, where filmmakers preemptively censored themselves to avoid the risk of state intervention. If the panopticon was indeed empty, then the power of censorship was not derived from a continuously active observer, but from the filmmakers’ own anticipation of repression—an illusion that became self-sustaining.

What happens when this internalized fear gradually erodes? When filmmakers wager to test the boundaries of censorship, using subversive techniques such as allegory, historical parallelism, and coded language, the perceived omnipotence of the censor weakens. The Iranian censorship system has always relied on ambiguity rather than explicit rules, creating an atmosphere of uncertainty where filmmakers could never be sure what would pass and what would be banned. Ironically, this ambiguity has also provided a degree of flexibility—an opening for filmmakers to maneuver within the gaps and contradictions of the system.

In recent years, a new phenomenon has also emerged: Iranian films that directly challenge the very nature of surveillance and control. From Mohammad Rasoulof’s There Is No Evil (2020), which critiques the mechanisms of state violence, to Jafar Panahi’s No Bears (2022), which blurs the line between reality and fiction to expose the oppressive structures that limit artistic freedom, Iranian cinema has increasingly transformed from a medium of subtle resistance to one of more overt defiance. The act of filmmaking itself has become an act of political resistance, where the mere existence of a film outside state-sanctioned narratives is a form of parrhesia—a daring declaration of truth in the face of power.

Yet, even as filmmakers push the boundaries, the state adapts. The Iranian government has demonstrated time and again that while traditional censorship methods may lose their effectiveness, new forms of power will emerge. Today, with digital platforms providing alternative distribution channels, authorities have shifted from preemptive censorship to punitive measures, targeting filmmakers personally rather than just their films. The arrests of directors like Jafar Panahi and Mohammad Rasoulof illustrate a shift from monitoring the content of films to disciplining the individuals behind them. In this way, the panopticon is not necessarily empty but has evolved into a more insidious form—one that no longer relies on constant surveillance but on the selective and unpredictable enforcement of power as control. (Deleuze, 1992)

Perhaps the ultimate question is not whether the panopticon is empty, but whether Iranian filmmakers have learned to look past its walls. If the history of Iranian cinema proves anything, it is that creative resistance is not just in reaction to an oppressive force—rather, it is an ongoing dialogue with power, a dance between visibility and invisibility, speech and silence, presence and absence. Whether through coded metaphors, whispered truths, or bold acts of defiance, Iranian filmmakers continue to redefine the limits of expression, proving that even in the shadow of censorship, cinema remains a space where truth may be spoken, if only by those brave enough to risk it.

Work Cited:

Deleuze, G. (1992). “Postscript on the Societies of Control.” October 59: 3–7.

Foucault, M. (1977). Discipline and punish: The birth of the prison (A. Sheridan, Trans.). Pantheon Books.

Lorenzini, D. (2023). The force of truth: Critique, genealogy, and truth-telling in Michel Foucault. University of Chicago Press.