The end of “This Is Not a Film” somewhat cheekily credits Mojtaba Mirtahmasb and Jafar Panahi with “an effort,” a sentiment emblematic of the frustrated need that informs every moment of this not-film. Panahi scoffs at the notion that footage of him idly hanging around his apartment could ever constitute 'art' or even be worth watching, but his refusal to call the end product a film only serves to highlight the many other things this work emphatically, thrillingly, is: an act of civil disobedience, a referendum on cinema's capacity to document everyday life, a snapshot of a very specific cultural and political moment in contemporary Iran. It's also as engaging a story of an individual attempting to assert independence in the shadow of an oppressive regime as any related to us through Panahi’s narrative films.

Throughout "This Is Not a Film," Panahi deals with the stress of a 20-year ban from filmmaking and the possibility (now, sadly, a reality) of a six-year prison sentence handed down by Iran’s Culture Ministry. He is a condemned man, a restless creative mind forced into idleness; he spends his time (and ours) in ways that might seem unremarkable—eating breakfast, feeding his daughter’s pet iguana, taking iPhone pictures from his window onto the street below—were it not for the very present threat of a significant portion of his life and career being taken away from him. If “This Is Not a Film” were nothing but a chronicle of this anxious moment in Panahi’s life, it would still be a valuable personal-historical document. But Panahi and Mirtahmasb have clearly recognized in this situation a commonality with the characters depicted in Panahi’s earlier films, and out of this not-film a kind of not-narrative begins to emerge, expanding the scope of the project in modest but surprising ways.

The not-film’s centerpiece is Panahi’s attempt to bring the opening scene of his as-yet-unproduced screenplay to life, right in his living room. The filmmaker draws up a floor-plan of his protagonist’s living-space with masking tape—narrating his intended camera movements while reciting dialogue from his screenplay—and we begin to see, however abstractly, the artist’s vision take shape before our eyes. Given this increasingly rare opportunity to create, Panahi seems revitalized, pacing back and forth across the space he's created for his mock-film within the boundaries of the space that contains him…and then? “If we could tell a film, then why make a film?” he asks of himself, of his collaborator, of the audience. In order for “This Is Not a Film” to be successful, there has to be an unsatisfying element to watching Panahi’s efforts to stage his screenplay, and that’s not lost on Panahi or Mirtahmasb.

Responding to Panahi's question, Mirtahmasb insists, “I think the main thing is just to document.” Naturally, a documentarian would stress the importance of documenting, but Panahi’s not convinced. Something's missing, and to determine what exactly that is, he turns to his own films, now DVDs conspicuously shelved next to Ryan-Reynolds-in-a-box thriller "Buried." (And it's not difficult to see how Panahi might relate to the story of a trapped man, desperately trying to communicate with the outside world via a dying cell phone.) Chapter-selecting through his 2003 drama “Crimson Gold,” Panahi comes upon a scene in which an amateur performer “acted in such a way that was beyond [my] imagining.” How can he hope to bring such moments of spontaneous invention to this project when he can’t leave his apartment? Without influence from outside this well-appointed prison, Panahi feels his art is disingenuous. A lengthy shot of the filmmaker eating breakfast at his kitchen table reflects the reality of his situation, but what does it say about the people setting off fireworks in the street, signaling to the Iranian government that the spark that ignited the election protests of 2009 hasn’t died?

“This Is Not a Film” presents an answer to the question, a way outside via the sudden arrival of a university student collecting the building’s trash. Panahi accompanies the student out of the apartment and into the elevator, and he begins to tell the filmmaker a story as much a product of Iran’s policies and customs as Panahi’s films are, the kind of personal narrative that might've even inspired a film itself in other circumstances. The simple act of keeping the camera on provides a way out and perhaps a way forward. Yet this effort (valiant as it may be) can only go so far, and an arresting final shot suggests so much remains unrecorded when an oppressive regime stands between an artist and his life’s work.

Review by:
Alex Engquist