Iranian director Mahnaz Mohammadi has presented her drama Roya [+lire aussi :
critique
interview : Mahnaz Mohammadi
fiche film] at this year's Berlinale, in the Panorama section. She portrays a woman who has done time in prison, a story that relates to the director's own experience. We spoke to the filmmaker about her approach to depicting her main character, and about her artistic choices concerning the sound design and visual elements.

Cineuropa: Around six years after Son-Mother [+lire aussi :
bande-annonce
fiche film], you’re now presenting Roya as your second fiction feature. Where would you say you stand at this point in your filmmaking career?
Mahnaz Mohammadi: Actually, I’ve never really thought, “I’m a filmmaker” or “I’m a writer”. But intentionally – or maybe unintentionally – my brain never stops creating images. I constantly see pictures, and I try to understand their origin, the cause of them and why they come to me. I never imagined preparing one project after another. I always promise myself: “Mahnaz, for two or three years, stop, don’t work.” But immediately, I realise that stories are popping up in my brain by themselves. I just grab shreds of them and write them down. For this reason, I’m working day and night, non-stop. I have to discover the project through the images, understand them, and then transform them.

In Roya, the prison experience lies at the centre of the film. Is this one of those ideas that stayed with you over time and continued to worm its way into your mind? How did your own experience of imprisonment shape the way you approached this story?
Ever since I can remember, any subject that moves me has started with the feeling that something is wrong. For example, in my documentary Women Without Shadow, I felt there was something deeply wrong, and I needed to understand what it was. For a year, I went back again and again to the women’s shelter. One day, I saw a man entering the shelter, and the energy among the women changed immediately. To understand it, I went with a camera. Now, when I look at my films, I see traces of Women Without Shadow everywhere.

After my time in prison, I experienced isolation. Then, during the COVID-19 lockdown, isolation came back again. Each time, something changed. I keep asking: “What was the beginning?” I’m always searching for meaning that I can relate to, not meaning I create artificially.

The father and daughter here have a special relationship. What was the most important factor for you in depicting it?
After looking at a mother-son relationship in my previous feature, I was interested in a father-daughter one. The father feels comfortable with his daughter because she’s the only one who doesn’t judge him. They are on the same level; they have complete mutual understanding.

How did you develop the character of Roya? What were the most important elements for her?
The main questions for me were: “Why is she doing this? Why does she resist?” The answer once again led me back to Women Without Shadow. One of the nurses there was named Roya. She was educated and capable of finding another job, but she chose to work with silenced women. She told me: “Here, I feel better. They need a voice.” That woman is the core of Roya’s character. In Iran, so many people are silenced. If Roya survives, the message is that you can still tell your story, even if you have to invent a new language.

You use sound in a very particular way.
At the beginning of the film, we hear voices before we see images. Fear is conveyed through sound. You can’t explain fear; you have to feel it. Everything that is inflicted on her mind during the torture stays with her until the end of the movie. The structure imitates unconsciousness: the images and sounds don’t always match up. There is flickering – like memory, like trauma.

The flickering lights are indeed a strong visual element. What do you associate with them?
In prison, on the 29th night, during my hallucinations, I wrote some lines. That text later became part of Roya. There is a sentence I use at the end of the film as a kind of signature. The flickering represents moments when you “lose” time – when “now” becomes overwhelming. Under oppression, details become amplified.

Roya's flat is partly underground. Why did you choose such a space?
It’s simple: after being in prison, I never lived above ground. Being underground feels like a form of protection. Many of these places have two doors – when I see two doors, I feel safer. Your body remembers. The Mahnaz who went to prison is not the Mahnaz who came out. A friend once told me: “Be careful – you still carry the prison around in your mind.” That helped me become aware and to try to change course. These choices come organically from life experience. Your body is not the same body after such an experience – maybe that’s the link to the grave.