Borders and Bureaucracy, but No Bears
Jafar Panahi is no stranger to the dangers of making art. The director has made numerous films since the Iranian government arrested him in 2010 and banned him from making movies under accusations of rebellious propaganda. Those movies include 2011’s This is Not a Film, which was infamously smuggled into France for the Cannes Film Festival. (Panahi was recently released from prison after being arrested again during last summer’s Iranian protests.)
Art can be a risky endeavor. It’s something we frequently take for granted. But art—and humanity—can also flourish as a counter to such threats. And in that vein, Panahi’s latest film boasts a tremendous power and beauty that breaks free of the limitations placed on the filmmaker. No Bears is a film set along the border of Iran and Turkey; it’s also set along the borders of reality and fiction, of freedom and restriction. It takes place in a land where one’s location is always a matter of a mere few steps, a camera angle, or a piece of paper.
No Bears is remarkably playful in its form, even as its tone gets increasingly serious. It announces its intent from the very first scene (which may be the best opening scene of the year). We see some mundane action along a bustling commercial street, the single take panning to follow service workers and street peddlers. Eventually the shot rests on a small cafe where a woman, Zara, is pulled away from her customers for a hushed conversation. Bakhtiyar, her partner, has obtained a fake passport for Zara to escape the country. At first, it’s a moment of deep relief, as the idea of a new life draws nearer to reality. But Bakhtiyar reveals that he wasn’t yet able to find one for himself, leaving Zara enraged.
It’s a tense scene right up to the moment that someone says “Cut!” and the actors step toward the camera. As the director gives notes to Bakhtiyar and Zara, we realize that we haven’t quite been watching reality. But that’s only the first surprise. The shot widens after a moment, and everything we’ve been looking at is now framed within a laptop screen. The director isn’t even on location. He’s simply monitoring the proceedings and giving direction to his crew through a video call. The scene masterfully sets the tone for everything that will follow: form, theme, wit, and tension. It breaks our expectations twice and elicits an admiring laugh, but it also teaches us how to watch the film that is to come.
Panahi simultaneously directs and acts, playing a fictionalized version of himself. The fictional Panahi is staying in a small village near the Iranian border with Turkey, and he’s attempting to direct a film from afar while his cast and the rest of his crew are in a Turkish town. That film follows Bakhtiyar and Zara’s attempts to flee their country, narrating the difficulties of securing passports and planning out their journey. The lovers’ situation serves to mirror Panahi’s—he’s been forbidden by the government from leaving the country, leaving him with the meager option of using video calls to create this film.
It’s a sly recursion that allows Panahi to interrogate his own situation. (The real Panahi was given a similar restriction.) All three of these characters are desperate to pursue their passions with creative freedom; all three are trapped by obtuse laws and documents and rulings from officials.
Panahi’s troubles extend beyond his film, however. The village he’s staying in turns out to carry its own incomprehensible rules and customs. After taking a few photographs around the village, Panahi is confronted by a young woman. She fears that Panahi has taken a photo of her with a man she loves. The problem arises when it’s revealed that, through local custom, she’s already been promised as a wife to the son of another family. While he would like nothing more than to avoid the whole ordeal, Panahi is unfortunately ensnared by this feud. He repeatedly fights to disentangle himself, all while working to keep his film on track.
No Bears is about barriers of every kind: legal, geographical, narrative, communal, and the inescapably human. As Panahi himself wonders, “If it’s that easy, why is it so complicated to cross?” Structurally, the boundaries of the film continue to fold in on themselves as local villagers are asked to become impromptu cinematographers or, in a crucial confrontation, even a sort of test audience—all while remaining characters.
Panahi uses the narrative thread of the village feud to sharply critique the multifaceted bureaucracies that intervene in human affairs. While the village initially seems a warm and welcoming place, competing opinions and interfamilial feuds turn it into an arena of tension where the rules are just as invisible as international boundaries. When Panahi is asked to give an official testimony, a villager reassures him that “even lying under oath is acceptable.” At another point, he asks in astonishment, “You’re accusing me with the same testimony you just said was illegal?”
Through all of this, Panahi rages against machinations of national and communal varieties. No matter how much creativity and passion Panahi (or the villagers, or the film crew) approaches life with, some problems can’t be solved with words and goodwill. Panahi and his characters are always embroiled, constantly accused of obtuse wrongdoings.
No Bears is a dizzying mix of truth and fiction. It’s a nested story that constantly interrogates the film’s subjects, creators, and audience, all while showing a sly wit. But beneath that playfulness, there’s a real anger at the heart of Panahi’s film. The best intentions of men and women on all sides are no match for the insidious power wielded through borders and bureaucracy. Late in the film, one character brushes aside Panahi’s concerns by telling him there are no bears in the village. “Just paper bears.” But even paper bears can tear a person apart.
