Aucun ours

Director Jafar Panahi is midway in his imprisonment/house arrest in Iran, a victim of a relentless Islamic theocracy. That little matter hasn't kept him from making five films, sometimes using technology to direct remotely, for instance, his current "No Bears," in which he depicts himself directing a film within the film. Directing a Turkish town from a place near the Iranian border lends a romance to an otherwise mortally-dangerous enterprise.

His films show how he fights the restrictions of the regime on his art. All five in some way or another may reveal his oppression and lack of artistic autonomy. Panahi's films reflect his late mentor, Abbas Kiarostami, and his challenging tension between "narrative" and "documentary," when a camera seems to play between fiction and reality.

Because he hasn't been allowed to leave Iran for 10 years, his movies have a cachet usually relegated to an artistic outlaw: "This Is Not a Film," "Closed Curtain," "Taxi" and "3 Faces" are almost classics. New Yorker magazine says "No Bears" is one of the best dramas of the year, and they're right.

In No Bears, after a wild opening in which an exiled Iranian couple argue in the street about a corrupt passport and escape into Europe, we realize it's a scene from the movie he is remotely directing. Then we are thrown into a Romeo and Juliet mash up that leaves Panahi's director at the mercy of local forces, both official and citizenry, who lay tradition and family rumbling at his feet for a photo disc he allegedly has that would resolve a fight over an arranged marriage.

Panahi's director claims he has no such compromising photo of the couple, but he shows little respect for the local traditions inherent in the love affair. Underneath, of course, is his comment on cinema as a means of discerning truth in a culture of fake news. The scene of Panahi feverishly looking for cellphone reception smartly underscores the struggle to find truth.

At the least, No Bears is a profound statement about the power of filmmaking as it clashes with custom and reality. It is a masterful meta-fiction that tells a complicated cultural tale and the fraught participation of cinema. 80 for Brady it is not.

Film director Jafar Panahi is prohibited from leaving Iran, but is trying to make a film in neighbouring Turkey. In order to make that work, he moves to a remote village near the border, where the communications are a bit hit and miss. With the help of his obliging host "Ghanbar" (Vahid Mobaseri), though, he tries to make the best of it. Initially, it's a friendly village but when he takes (or doesn't!) a photograph of a young couple, he finds himself drawn into an increasingly acrid stand-off between two young men, and their families, to whom a girl may have been betrothed when her umbilical cord was cut. His frustrations with these encroachments are not helped by production difficulties with the two two stars of his documentary-style film - real life lovers who are trying to find a way to escape, safely, to Paris. There is the slightest hint of menace here as the plot develops and although we see little actual evidence, there is a distinct sense that this man is increasingly unwelcome, despite the platitudes from the villagers, encouraging a sixth-sense feeling that the authorities are distantly watching this film-maker. There is a distinct perception of intimidation! What is also clear is that these ordinary Iranian people live in fear of the police, the Revolutionary guard and that rather flies in the face of their genuine, peaceable and hospitable, nature. Now, perhaps Panahi's less-is-more style works for some, but for me I found this all rather a slow watch. He shuffles around with little useful dialogue to develop his on-screen persona, nor my interest in him. Clearly this is a story about freedom and a sort of subliminal oppression but somehow the characters themselves here didn't really develop that theme sufficiently, nor did they really engage me. The ending, too, is disappointing and inconclusive in equal measure and I was rather underwhelmed. The film does offer us an interesting depiction of rural life that probably hasn't changed in millennia, but somehow I felt little better than a fly on the wall with nowhere near enough to go on to join in. Perhaps just too much of this is predicated on a knowledge by the audience of this director and of his relationship with his government.

The film "No Bears" starts off simple but becomes more complex as it progresses. Even if you're not familiar with the work of Kiarostami and Makhmalbaf, you can still enjoy it. The director, Panahi, mixes documentary-style and autobiographical elements to create a powerful emotional impact. Panahi, who is at the center of the film, is forced to confront the consequences of his work, both for himself and his collaborators. The final image of the film is sobering and resonates with the unspoken anguish of an artist exiled in his own country, who has had enough. It is clear that the director has little left to lose, and this makes "No Bears" one of the best movies of the previous year.

The way Jafar Panahi successfully transcends and exceeds all the limits in his filmmaking always leaves me mind-boggled and is fascinatingly masterful. This viewing experience left me with a question "To what extent are you willing to go to tell your story?"

No Bears takes us through a powerful journey of sophisticated simplicity that expands boundaries and defies censorship restrictions both mentally and physically and in a blend of fiction and realism with a story of adaptive determination in creating, fear of crucial decisions, and passion for the story.

His ability to shape the narrative with all these elements is beyond impressive as Panahi sheds his lens on a parallel story between reality and fiction under the premise of hope, while metaphorically introducing a bigger political theme of the fear of modern authority versus the absurdity of the superstition that remains a common element in both narratives including the self-reflexively portrayal of himself as a character, which also introduces an intimate layer.

The storytelling crafts beautifully palpable emotions some of which are felt indirectly, where the sense of fear and threat are always visible and kept translating different feelings so well through an observative lens.

No Bears is a metafictional exploration by Jafar Panahi, tackling the social and political restraints placed on himself and others. While the subject matter might seem daunting, the film is surprisingly accessible. Despite its gravity, it maintains a humble, understated tone, grounded by Panahi's calm demeanour, honesty, and politeness. Moments of dark-tinged humour-like Panahi reviewing footage accidentally left running on a camera-lighten the tension.

Panahi stars as himself, directing a film about two people attempting to migrate illegally, which is presented as a semi-documentary. In a unique twist, No Bears becomes a semi-documentary within a semi-documentary, blurring the boundaries of fiction and reality. Panahi has relocated to a small village near the Turkish border to direct remotely via webcam, as he was subject to a chronic travel ban at the time. Perhaps he sought proximity to his crew or a respite from the surveillance of Tehran. However, his interactions with the local villagers and the tensions of living near the border create a layered narrative that reflects both the film's themes and Panahi's real-life challenges. The frequent disruptions to his work caused by poor internet signal serve as a fitting metaphor for the control and limitations imposed on his creative freedom.

At its core, No Bears is a film about resistance. Panahi refuses to bow to Iranian authorities' attempts to silence him. His dealings with the villagers mirror his experiences with the regime-both characterised by arbitrary rules, superstitions, and traditions that he quietly defies. Acting as a beacon of reason, Panahi invites viewers to question the power of authoritarian systems, suggesting that their strength lies in collective compliance. The title, No Bears, reflects this theme. Villagers keep the young indoors with tales of bears prowling at night, but no such bears exist-a lie that encapsulates the broader dangers of imagined fears used as tools of control.

Panahi's calm rationality contrasts with the fabrications and self-deceptions around him. He resists not only the idea of leaving Iran to escape its constraints but also the notion that he should be forced to abandon his homeland to live freely. Why should he, or anyone, have to leave to live authentically?

Beneath Panahi's serene exterior lies a quiet yet profound frustration-his inability to fully integrate, to prevent tragedy, or to appeal to others' sense of reason. He is like Lemuel Gulliver, bound by the Lilliputians, constrained by a system of small yet unyielding forces.