This year's Cannes Film Festival was notable for the presence of an empty seat on the jurors' bench. The seat should have been filled by The White Balloon director Ja'far Panahi. The reason for his absence? He was serving time in Iran's Evin jail for 'making a film against the regime' in the aftermath of last June's disputed election. And he is only one of several filmmakers imprisoned around the world because of their work.
Despite official protests that Panahi's arrest was not political - the rather nebulous statement given was that he "is accused of some crimes" - Amnesty International have released a statement demanding his release and their cries have been echoed by leading figures in the industry. "All of us are for freedom of expression. We fight for that every day and in our lives," said Tim Burton, president of the Cannes jury.
Panahi is set to attend a bail hearing tomorrow and is hoping to be released until a formal court hearing later this year. He has been on hunger strike for six days in protest at his arrest, but according to reports he is now in good spirits. However, Iran has a particularly bad track record for locking up filmmakers. Mohammad Nourizad, another filmmaker associated with the post-election protests, is currently serving a three-and-a-half-year sentence, and Mohammed Ali Shirzadi has been in detention since January. Others have chosen exile.
There are many ways a filmmaker can run afoul of the Iranian regime. Panahi's troubles began when he challenged official policies on gender segregation with Offside, a film about a group of girls who dress as boys in order to watch football matches. Meanwhile, lesbian filmmaker Kiana Firouz is fighting deportation to Iran after working with director Goudarzi Nejad on the sexually explicit Cul De Sac.
Although President Mahmoud Ahmedinejad has denied that there are any gay people in Iran, there are severe penalties in place for homosexuality. If she is sent back, Firouz, currently studying film in London, could face 100 lashes or even death by hanging. Unable to be interviewed by Eye For Film whilst her asylum application is in process, Firouz directed us to a previous interview she has given on the subject. "I feel like I’ve been told I have only a few days to live,” she told an anonymous Iranian reporter at GlobalPost. "I’m completing all my unfinished projects. I just don’t know what will happen in the future." She says she agreed to take part in the project because it is important for "the voice of lesbians in Iran to be heard."
"The UK Border Agency only enforces the return of individuals where we and the independent courts are satisfied they are not in need of protection," said a UK Border Agency spokesman. Although the previous government argued on several occasions that gay people were not at risk because they could opt to hide their sexuality, the Conservatives' pre-election manifesto pledged to "change the rules so that gay people fleeing persecution were granted asylum."
Should Firouz receive asylum when she made an active choice to proclaim her sexuality through her work? Should Panahi expect leniency when he is openly critical of the regime? Most filmmakers answer this with a resounding yes, because it is the only way to guarantee that challenging work can be made, and art of all kinds has a vital role to play in helping us question the status quo.
"As film-makers and photographers, we interpret our experiences of the world and show them to others and that is something that transcends boundaries of race, gender, sexuality, geography, whatever. Often we make films and images that are about our experiences because nobody else is, and if we don't, who will?" said Sarah E Kominsky of Dead Duck Productions. Herself a queer-identified photographer and filmmaker, she identifies strongly with Firouz's plight. "When I read about Kiana, all I could think was that she was nine days younger than me. We're still kids. And my country wasn't doing everything that it could to stop her from being killed. It took a while to begin to process it on any other level than that very basic one. This is not just an issue for the lgbtq community - if you are a human being and you don't care about this, why don't you care about this?"
As you might expect, documentary makers operating in tightly controlled areas face particular risks. In 2007 German filmmakers Florian Opitz and Andy Lehmann were arrested in Nigeria and threatened with a 14 year sentence for breaking the country's Official Secrets Act by filming a oil pipeline, though they were later quietly released into the care of German embassy staff. The following year, American Andrew Berends was detained for undertaking similar work in an area of the country were fighting is ongoing. The Nigerian security services argued that they took the action "for his own safety".
In China, Dhondup Wangchen is serving a six-year sentence for subversion for making Leaving Fear Behind, a documentary about Tibetan attitudes to the Dalai Lama. "My husband is not a criminal, he just tried to show the truth," protested his wife, Lhamo Tso, who is particularly concerned because he has Hepatitis B and his health may be at risk. Wangchen's friend Jigme Gyatso was arrested at the same time and reports being tortured, though he has since been released on probation.
Amnesty International notes that the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights includes a guarantee of freedom of expression through media and the arts. Iran is a signatory to the convention and China has signed but not ratified it. In many parts of the world, filmmaking remains politically contentious and a dangerous business, but those who take risks with it insist that it is essential to expanding people's horizons and opening their eyes to new ways of viewing the world.
