Japanese Adler

 A few months ago, a small and simple book somehow made its way into my bedroom, almost by accident and without being sought out. I began reading it half-heartedly, certain I wouldn’t finish it, yet within days it became the centerpiece of every conversation I had with friends and colleagues. You may never read this book, and honestly, since I don’t even like its title, I won’t mention it here—just so you won’t form any preconceived notions about its content.

What follows is the perspective of an Iranian mind on a Japanese author’s interpretation of the philosophy and psychology of Alfred Adler, the Austrian thinker. Even if you never read the book, I hope you’ll at least follow me to the end of this piece and think with me about its ideas and this lifestyle-change philosophy that Adler promotes.

The book opens with a startling line: “You are unhappy because you chose to be unhappy. At some point, you decided that this bad feeling was actually good for you.” It then argues that each of us, through our worldview and the lifestyle shaped by it, has consciously or unconsciously designed our own personality and behavior. Our worldview is like a pair of glasses glued to our eyes—it colors our emotions and reactions to life’s challenges so completely that we don’t even realize we can take them off just as easily as removing a broken pair of glasses.

Our lifestyle reveals much about our worldview, and vice versa. If we want vitality, we must change our lifestyle—which follows from our worldview. The book also frees us from another heavy chain: the belief that childhood experiences, our parents’ actions, painful memories, or past toxic environments are the reason for our current misery. According to Adler, what makes us unhappy is not the past, but our lack of courage to face today’s challenges—our lack of courage to be happy.

This cowardice grows out of irresponsibility and infects our relationships. We avoid pursuing happiness because we fear emotional harm. We don’t trust people because we dread betrayal, so we see the world as a dangerous place and others as greedy, deceitful beings who might pull the rug from under us at any moment.

Adler’s answer to such fear is to accept the possibility of being hurt and to find the courage to face the pain that comes with human relationships. A friend might be offended, we might get fired, or a toxic relationship might collapse. Yet with courage, we believe we can survive all of these. As a result, we open ourselves to deeper friendships, better jobs, or the warmth of a loving relationship after the autumn of a cold one.

Another fear is the fear of loss—the tendency to cling to an unsatisfying life simply because we’re afraid to change it. Over time, this leads us to lose faith in ourselves, to believe we’re unlovable, and to justify the mistreatment we receive from others because we see no value in ourselves.

Adlerian therapy suggests that instead of sitting in a capsule of loneliness and watching others’ relationships and successes from afar, we should step into the arena, show ourselves, and be optimistic about humanity. Even if we’ve been taken advantage of many times, we should still believe that people are worth our time and friendship. We must not give up believing in human goodness.

Beyond all this, Adler offers two more principles to transform a lonely, troubled person into a dynamic, proud individual: self-reliance and usefulness. We must trust in our own constructive abilities and be in harmony with others, serving and benefiting them. The people we once saw through the lens of suspicion now become our comrades. Imagine walking down the street and seeing everyone as a friend, not a potential threat.

The hardest lesson, however, is perseverance—and accepting that others may resist our new lifestyle. They may think we’re naïve or even push us out of their circle. Adler insists that we should never seek others’ approval. We shouldn’t show off to gain attention or set ourselves on fire to please a boss. Anything beyond our sphere of control—including changing someone else’s mind—is useless. We have authority only over our own choices and responsibilities. Even if we force someone into action, their mind will remain beyond our grasp.

We must, therefore, learn to maintain a healthy distance from the freedoms and choices of those around us—even in our closest relationships. Here the author introduces Adler’s idea of separating responsibilities: everyone has their own tasks, and we should be aware of and respect the boundaries between ours and others’. The greatest difficulties in human relationships, he claims, arise from mixing these tasks or interfering due to lack of trust.

The book advises that we always know our responsibilities and those of others, and trust them to handle theirs while we fulfill ours as best we can. For example, if our child’s task is to study, we shouldn’t hover over them like a guard, constantly reminding them. The child is responsible for their own homework; our trust will create a better relationship. This trust is a long-term investment, which—if it works—results in a deep and warm bond.

Adler also emphasizes that we should never expect a reward for fulfilling our own responsibilities. Everyone follows their own path to growth, and if they fulfill their duties, they will preserve their sense of independence and usefulness. Of course, paying attention to our personal goals should not be confused with surrendering to fleeting desires. In Adler’s terms, freedom means resisting life’s temptations and obstacles in pursuit of our aims.

The book repeats that most of the emotional weight we feel each morning comes from unhealthy relationships. If we set our goals based on others—wanting a certain social status or appearance only to impress them—without those goals truly belonging to us, they will ultimately be meaningless. But if our main effort is to have the courage to be ourselves, to develop skills that bring us self-sufficiency, to know our responsibilities, and to feel that we are useful to others and to something larger than ourselves, then we are walking the path of personal growth.

By walking such a path, we gain enough inner confidence not to seek rewards for “being ourselves.” We become self-reliant, and the opinions of others lose their power over us. We must step away from worrying about what others think and rely on ourselves: “I am the only one who can change.” Freedom is where we act actively in relationships instead of waiting for others’ permission. With the courage of independence and self-sufficiency, we avoid power struggles—because such games place the cards of our life in someone else’s hands, making them—knowingly or unknowingly—responsible for our happiness and life’s meaning. Why should we hand over that authority?

To build a healthy lifestyle and grow as individuals, we must distinguish self-reliance from narcissism. We are not the center of the world; we are a dynamic part of a much larger whole, with duties and responsibilities toward it. Others are our companions, not servants for our selfish desires. Everyone must willingly and actively commit to the community. But mere membership means nothing—true belonging comes from genuine participation. When we are in a group, we should ask: “What benefit do I bring to these people?” rather than “What have they done for me?” This commitment and contribution create a sense of usefulness, and from it, a sense of belonging begins to grow.

Why is belonging to groups, big or small, so essential for our mental health? If, beyond school, university, or work, we have no other group we belong to, and we immerse ourselves only in study or career—seeking the approval of professors, colleagues, or bosses—we are placing our happiness in someone else’s hands. This builds a fragile home for the bird of happiness. University ends; companies downsize in the first economic crisis—and then, despite degrees or prestigious positions, we find ourselves suddenly alone.

If, however, alongside work and study we engage in other activities and move in multiple circles, life’s ups and downs won’t shake us so completely. The book recommends building several social bases throughout life so that when one is lost, our emotional and social capital isn’t entirely destroyed.

Finally, the book reminds us that life is not a prelude or a rehearsal; this moment is the main stage. It says life is more like a dance than a race—the goal is not to win or to defeat others, but to enjoy the party of the present.

In the end, this little book respects the reader’s freedom and says: “One can point to the spring of life, but no one can force another to drink.” Its core message is: “If I change, the world will change.” In other words, only I can change the world for myself; no one else will do it for me. After reading the book, I sent it to many friends and listened to a several-hour seminar on Adler. Months later, and after exploring other psychological theories, I still believe that Adler’s simple and straightforward framework is one of the most practical ways to escape loneliness, cynicism, selfishness, and envy—and to move toward progress.

I’ll end with a sentence I heard in that seminar: “Adler would tell depressed people: go make someone else feel better. When you make someone else feel better, you automatically feel better yourself.”

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On My Language and Its Many Names

 In these years of living abroad, I’ve often been asked: Is your language “Farsi” or “Persian”? Which word is correct?

This question usually comes from Americans who, thankfully, know that Iran is not an Arabic-speaking country, and who realize that even though “Iran” and “Iraq” look similar in English, they are not the same place. But even this simple choice between “Farsi” and “Persian” reopens the old chest of pain I inherited from my father — an old wound that ties the name of my language, and my identity, to history and politics.

How can one speak of the language of Iran without naming Khorasan?

How can we call Khorasan the heart of Iran, yet say nothing of Balkh, Khujand, Bukhara, and Tus? Each of these cities has a brilliant place in the history of our literature, but today only Tous remains within the political borders of modern Iran.

Balkh is in Afghanistan (separated from the Iranian cultural sphere in 1857 with the Treaty of Paris), Khujand is in Tajikistan (which, in 1868, came under the control of the Russian Empire), and Bukhara is in Uzbekistan (also annexed by Russia in 1868).

A friend’s simple question about the correct name for my unfamiliar language pours salt on a centuries-old wound — a reminder of how people of the same culture and language were split apart, each placed under the flag of a new country where schoolchildren are taught that their ancestral language is “foreign” and that Iran is an outsider.

I’ve often tried to show people a map, to rush my words forward in hopes of finding someone who shares this old pain. But so far, not one person — Iranian or non-Iranian — has cared about the Stalinist and British scribbles that carved up the map of Asia. Iranians still call Afghans “foreigners,” and in Afghanistan one still hears the slogan “Death to Iran.” When I meet an Uzbek man named Rostam, he often has no idea about the Shahnameh or the origin of his own name.

Since childhood, the borders of “Greater Khorasan” have been much larger in my mind than those of Iran and its neighbors. Ancient books found in all these lands are written in Persian (or Farsi, or Dari, or Tajik).

Take Nizami Ganjavi, one of the towering pillars of our culture and language: we learn his poetry in school, yet when we locate his home on today’s map, we must accept that modern Azerbaijan is a Turkic-speaking country and no longer part of Iran. Or consider Hafez, who in a love poem offers “Samarkand and Bukhara” for the mole on his beloved’s cheek — an image showing that a poet in southern Iran saw his homeland stretching deep into Central Asia. Today, that land is called Uzbekistan, and I’ve heard that in Samarkand, Persian is now spoken in only a few homes.

The people of these broken-apart countries are scattered and focused on survival; few still worry about their language or history. Tajikistan, locked among mountains, has been bound by the 1989 Soviet law that made the Cyrillic alphabet mandatory, weakening its link to the classical Persian texts. Afghanistan has burned in decades of civil war, while Pashtun politicians — whether calling the language Persian or Dari — have worked to limit or erase it. Uzbekistan, under the banner of development, quietly erases the Persian-speaking past.

In this essay, I mainly want to ask: should my language be called “Farsi” or “Persian”?

The answer is not simple — it depends on where you’re from and how you read history. First of all, Persian is originally the language of the people of Khorasan. That may surprise an Iranian reader, since today Khorasan is just a border region in eastern Iran. But to me, Khorasan has always been the beating heart of this culture.

Look at a map of modern Iran: Isfahan and Yazd lie almost in the center of the country. If Persian truly belonged only to “Iranians” — or to what separatists call the “Fars ethnic group” — then the villages and small towns in this central heart should speak standard Persian. But they don’t. Visit the towns around Isfahan, or even my grandfather’s birthplace, Naein, and you’ll find that neither locals nor government clerks speak modern standard Persian. Understanding a single sentence in the Na’ini dialect — likely a relic of an older, now-forgotten language — is almost impossible for someone like me, who learned only Iran’s official standard language.

By contrast, in old villages of Khorasan, the people speak exactly that standard Persian. This shows that the Persian we know today developed somewhere in Central Asia — a place that is no longer even politically part of Iran — and moved westward, becoming the official and literary language.

Today, an Iranian can claim ownership of this language no more than someone from Afghanistan, Tajikistan, or Uzbekistan can. But as I said earlier, in the last century most of these countries have chosen not the highway of shared language and culture, but a different, narrow road — one where new nation-states grow apart, perhaps for more control, perhaps following the old rule: “Divide and rule.”

If someone in Afghanistan or Uzbekistan says this language should not be called “Persian,” and accuses Iran of “rewriting” its history and literature, such a statement only makes sense if we accept the modern borders of the last century as eternal truth. Otherwise, the history of the language is far older — and far wider — than these borders.

So let us, for a moment, forget the names of these countries and look at Greater Khorasan as a single cultural region — the birthplace of a language that we, from Tehran to Dushanbe, from Herat to Samarkand, have all inherited. But should we call it “Persian”? “Pars” is the name of a province in Iran, and yet my father, grandfather, and I have always called our language “Parsi” or “Farsi.” In Afghanistan, it is called “Dari,” and in Tajikistan “Tajik.” All three names point to the same root, even if each carries its own political and historical weight.

Perhaps we can say that Persian — or Dari — today is a shared creation of the eastern and western halves of the Iranian cultural world, and it belongs to no single country, because its influence on the history and lives of all those who have forgotten it — or wish to forget it — still remains.

Long before today’s political borders, this language traveled freely between the Ghaznavid and Seljuk courts in the east and the poets of Fars and Isfahan in the west. That an Iranian, Afghan, Tajik, or even Uzbek might see it as part of their identity is a historical fact — just as forgetting it anywhere is a shared loss for all of us.

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Book Review: Semi-Memoir

Semi-Memoir by Ali Behzadi

In the pursuit of my examination of Iran's history, I read Ali Behzadi's book; Semi-Memoir: The Oral History of Pahlavi. This author was a long-time political journalist and the founder of Siah-o-Sefid (means Black and White) magazine published from 1953 to 1974. 
In this three-volume tome compiled from oral history, Behzadi introduces Pahlavi's political figures and intellectuals whom he personally met during his long career. This book contains short biographies of these people and how Behzadi gets to know them. Then he talks about how they helped or hindered independent journalism in Iran.
When reading this book, we are seeing Iran through the writer's eyes and through his emotions, with anecdotes from his personal life. This added flavor makes this book highly effective. Behzadi didn't write the book at the time the interactions happened, he wrote it when he grew old. The Siah-o-Sefid magazine was shut down for many years and most of the figures portrayed in the book had already died, some having been executed or had escaped from Iran. 
Behzadi reexamined those days with the wisdom of old age. The narrative is not linear, time jumps and characters reemerge in one another's storylines. The skillful writing honed from his long journalism career engages readers by revealing information little by little and unexpected conclusions to stories.

What did I learn from this book about Pahlavi's era?

After Mohammad Reza Shah was overthrown, Iran experienced a revolution, eight years of war with Iraq, and Iran's isolation from world-wide sanctions against the country. Over these years, the people start growing nostalgic for the previous regime and the dead king. I grew up pitied by elderly people in Iran that I had never seen the Pahlavi's era advancements and its affluence. Reading Semi-Memoir reinforced those sentiments. Year by year, the king gained control and with increased power, he became hard and bitter towards independent writers and thinkers. The Pahlavi regime was corrupted and its Kings, political figures, and the royal families did as they pleased.
In the Pahlavi regime, Mohammad Reza Shah was the only opinion that mattered. He made decisions without consultation and without reference to the constitution. At this time, Iran suffered from weak and wicked men in the political scene, who would not stand up to the Shah. Even a prime minister of the regime called himself the "house-born slave of the Shah”. Mohammad Reza Shah was aware of the corruption in his regime and he might have even approved, as he did not prosecute for indiscretions.

Life Stories that I enjoyed the most

Khandaniha's Cover

Hands down the biography of Ali Asghar Amirani was my favorite read in Semi-Memoir. He was a self-made man that lifted himself up from absolute poverty to become one of the most influential journalists of Iran with his magazine Khandaniha. Amirani’s original job was to sell horse racing tickets. He thought it would be more successful if combined with carefully selected stories and articles. Khandaniha means the “most interesting to read”, and each issue was a collection of articles from different magazines sold with the horse racing tickets! Amirani was one of the most interesting characters that I got to know by reading this book.
My next favorite was the biography of Mohammad Mosaddegh, Iranian's national hero and prime minister from 1951 until 1953. It was unique because of its emphasis on his personality and his youth before he became the influential figure known to history. Similar to the story of Amirani, the writer shows Mosaddegh’s great character as a result of his distinct habits and his ambition. It was interesting to me to find out Mosaddegh was a highly emotional man who sometimes cried and had fainted in the middle of hot political debates. 
The third story that touched me was the story of Dr. Hossein Fatemi, a talented journalist, and Mohammad Mosaddegh's right-hand man. His biography was highly emotional and sad. After Mohammad Mosaddegh was overthrown, Mohmmad Reza Shah captured, jailed, and executed Dr. Fatemi.

Patched Pants by Rasoul Parvizi

Next, I liked what I learned from Rasoul Parvizi's life. Many years ago, I read one of his comedic short stories from his book, Patched Pants, so it was enjoyable to learn more about him in this book. He was a well-known talented leftist writer. Then over the years he stopped writing and got closer to the regime and the people in power. He eventually became Senator. His biography is like a literary protagonist’s journey from hero to villain. This shift of dissolving into the regime and contradicting whatever they used to stand for is a recurring life theme for many of the people in the book, from Ali Dashti to Manouchehr Eghbal, the Prime Minister of Iran from 1957 to 1960.

Last words

One volume of Semi-Memoir allows the reader to dive into many biographies and life stories that inspire and alarm. Inspiration comes from the success stories. Alarm comes from the dreadful destiny of most of the figures of the book. This book shows that fame and success come but at a price. For many of the characters, this false success quickly changed. The pursuit of power ended up in self-imposed exile, like the Shah himself, or dying and being forgotten forever. 

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Listening to My Father: Fragments of Faith, Memory

My father sits cross-legged on the carpet, his usual spot, as if it’s his throne. On the table, there’s nothing but his glasses and a worn notebook, its pages crowded with scribbled thoughts and half-finished poetry. He leans back, his gaze traveling up to the ceiling, as though his next thought is hidden in its shadows.

“I am Bahram Gur,” he says suddenly, breaking the silence. “And lice won’t let me sleep.”

I glance at him, confused by the abruptness. “What?”

“It’s from the first Persian poem,” he explains, a sly grin appearing. “Two thousand years ago, a Sasanian prince wrote it as a lament. Lice plagued him so much he couldn’t sleep. It’s earthy, raw, our history at its most human.”

He chuckles, then shakes his head. “Back then, cow urine was perfume. They’d even wash their hands with it.”

I laugh, unsure where he’s leading. His gaze sharpens as he turns toward me.

“Did you know your grandfather never let anything define him? Not religion, not nationalism. He searched for truth but never let it own him. He always stayed open.”

He adjusts his position, his tone softening as he dives into a story. “When I was a boy, your grandfather was strict about discipline. Every morning, before the sun was up, he’d wake me. From six to seven, I had to sit with the grown-ups, listening to lessons on Islamic jurisprudence. By the time school started, my mind was already buzzing with legal texts.”

I raise an eyebrow. “And you were just a kid?”

He smiles faintly. “It wasn’t just that. After school, the adults would gather again in the evenings to record the day’s events and argue about the rulings from the Sharia court. I had no choice but to sit quietly and absorb everything. Those moments taught me discipline and sharpened my thinking.”

He pauses, then his expression shifts to something softer. “But it wasn’t all discipline. Your grandfather had a way of making life simple. Every few weeks, we’d pack into the car and drive out to Nain or the nearby villages. We’d stop on the way to eat bread and yogurt—whatever we could carry. Once, he bought a dozen fresh eggs and insisted they were from that very morning. Your mother doubted it, of course, but the man swore on everything he had that they were fresh.”

I laugh. “And were they?”

“Does it matter? It was the simplicity of it. Life was about trusting small joys.” He leans back, his voice tinged with nostalgia. “He never clung to religion or the nation. He believed in what worked. That’s how he lived. Practical, yet principled.”

He sighs, shifting in his seat. “The day wasn’t just about study and chores, though. Evenings were different. Women in the village had their own gatherings. There was a woman named Roghieh who made Ash soup every summer. Nothing fancy—just herbs and a bit of flour. People would know it was ready by six o’clock and come together to eat and talk. It’s funny how something so small could bring people close.”

I nod, picturing the scene, and he continues. “Men improvised, too. They’d sit on steps, in squares, or anywhere shaded. There was no planned space for socializing, but we made it work. That’s what village life was—adapting to what we had.”

His expression darkens slightly. “But cities were different. In Nain, everyone knew each other, and connections came naturally. In Isfahan, people moved so fast, and nobody cared who you were. I remember how the people in Nain treated us, even when we had to leave. They always said, ‘The Imams’ house will never be empty.’ But when we got to the city, we were just another family. No one even looked at us twice.”

I pause, sensing the weight of his words. “And there was this case… I’ve never forgotten it. A woman remarried, thinking her husband was dead. But he came back. Under the law, she had to return to him, even if she’d had five husbands since. But there was a catch: the man had to prove he was the original husband.”

I frown. “How would he do that?”

“He pleaded in our dialect, ‘Qasim, Qasimo!’ It means, ‘I am Qasim!’ but with a flair unique to Nain, like adding ‘the’ in English. Still, he couldn’t prove it. He left defeated. Justice was different then—not necessarily better, just different.”

I ask, “What about traditions like Chaharshanbe Suri? Were they the same back then?”

He shakes his head. “Not at all. The Zoroastrian roots were strong. People would throw coins in jars or light fires on rooftops to ward off evil. It wasn’t about fireworks; it was about community. Even your grandfather believed in its symbolism—eating greens in the last days of the year to stay healthy or pouring water to cleanse the house.”

I pause, considering his stories. “What about the water shortages in Nain? Didn’t it used to be better?”

He sighs again, this time deeply. “It was. The qanats brought water to everyone. Rainfall was predictable, and the springs overflowed. Now, they’re drying up. Even places like Azerbaijan, which were never short of water, are struggling. They say rainfall has dropped 20%, but I’d say it’s closer to 90%. Your grandfather kept meticulous notes on rainfall—every week, every year. Once, he recorded 150 hours of rain in a year. Can you imagine that now?”

I shake my head, feeling the weight of his words. He changes the subject, his voice firmer now. “Did you know Will Durant called Islam one of the harshest religions?”

I hesitate. “What do you think about that?”

He leans forward. “The Quran was revealed for its time. Arabs lived in chaos—constant wars over a goat or a well. Fear and structure were necessary. But if you look closer, the Quran isn’t about brutality—it’s about reflection. It asks, ‘Do you think? Do you understand?’ That’s its miracle—its push for progress.”

He gestures toward his notebook. “Even verses about women were revolutionary. Arabs used to bury their daughters alive out of shame. The Quran compared women to gardens, precious and nurturing. It encouraged kindness and respect in ways those people had never seen.”

I nod, sensing the depth of his conviction. “Would you want your grandson to be Muslim?”

He looks at me, thoughtful. “If religion matters to him, then yes. I’d want him to have a faith that grounds him. Christianity and Judaism served their times, but Islam is timeless. It’s forward-looking, not bound to a single place or people.”

“But,” he adds, “faith isn’t about blind belief. It’s about structure, hope, and accountability. If he finds that elsewhere, then so be it.”

He looks at me, his voice steady. “You’re not my tool, you know. You’re my legacy. You’re supposed to go further than I did.”

The room falls silent. He picks up his notebook, flipping through its pages, seeking refuge in its rhythm. As I watch him, I realize this isn’t just a history lesson. It’s a gift—a map to navigate the chaos of today, drawn with lessons from the past.

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Film Review: Paradise: Love

Paradise: Love is the first and best installment of the Paradise trilogy directed by Austrian filmmaker Ulrich Seidl. The other two parts of the trilogy, Paradise: Faith and Paradise: Hope, were released in 2012 and 2013, respectively. All three films focus on female characters who are connected by familial relationships—for instance, the protagonist of the final film, Paradise: Hope, is the daughter of the main character in Paradise: Love.

In this trilogy, and especially in the first part, the filmmaker offers a precise yet deeply emotional depiction of the loneliness and disorientation of modern humans in today's society. In Love, we follow a middle-aged woman who travels to Kenya a week before her birthday. Throughout the film, we witness her childlike, desperate attempts to find a shred of affection as she wanders around a foreign country with a mix of cruelty and naivety.

Conceptually and aesthetically, this film shares much in common with the portraits painted by Lucian Freud. The late artist once said of his paintings: "I paint people not to show what they look like but to reveal how they exist." Perhaps we should delve deeper into the connection between Freud's paintings, which highlight the isolation of unbalanced, fragmented bodies, and Paradise: Love. How does modern human existence manifest today? When Freud's paintings come to life, the result is a film that conveys the same message in a remote atmosphere, set in the heart of an unfamiliar Kenya, directly impacting the minds and hearts of its audience.

One prominent feature of contemporary Austrian cinema is its unflinching view of human nature. Seidl's films are no exception, but unlike the biting critiques of his compatriot Michael Haneke, Seidl uses a more approachable method. His criticism feels more like a heartfelt conversation, making it easier for viewers to connect with his work.

In interior shots, the camera pays close attention to architectural spaces, offering vivid and striking visuals that enhance the viewer's experience. The filmmaker uses this technique to showcase his interest in realistic spaces, from the suffocating kitchens of Europe to the hotel bathrooms in Kenya. Since most of the film's early scenes are shot with a fixed camera, viewers become visually accustomed to this style. However, when the perspective shifts to handheld shots, they are suddenly thrust into the protagonist's unsettled, lonely experience in an unfamiliar Kenya. This shift mirrors her confusion and disorientation, compelling viewers to observe their surroundings with heightened awareness.

The film's breathtaking visual compositions of Kenya transform the country into a dreamlike paradise, even though it is one of the world's most economically, medically, and educationally disadvantaged regions. This surreal beauty contrasts sharply with the bitter ethical and human issues that Kenya faces in reality. Yet, through this approach, the director softens the harshness of these truths, allowing even the most sensitive and impatient viewers to connect with the film and enjoy it.

Seidl's neutral storytelling allows viewers to step into the characters' shoes and interpret the moral implications from their own perspectives. This is one of the most remarkable aspects of his direction—telling a moral story without becoming entangled in morality itself, which significantly enhances the film's narrative power. Humans exploit one another, but identifying the true victim and determining the ethical perspective from which to view this is left entirely to the audience.

As a filmmaker, Seidl consistently uses reality as his main inspiration. He incorporates the ordinary into his work, treating everyday life as a crucial part of his films, much like in his previous works. From bustling streets to ceiling fans and curtains, his camera captures it all. His use of non-professional actors, often individuals with real-life experiences similar to their characters, transforms his films into a fusion of reality and fiction. These actors appear to be reliving their lives, this time for the memory of an unfamiliar, primarily European audience.

As a result, Seidl's films often resemble documentaries, which is unsurprising given his background in documentary filmmaking. His films lack scripted dialogue, allowing non-professional actors to speak in their own voices based on the situation and their lived experiences. Throughout the film, viewers frequently question what is real and what is imagined—a line they can never truly distinguish, as many elements of the film are undeniably authentic.

These elements combine to create the impression of a semi-documentary work—a story that has been told countless times but is presented anew with refined taste, leaving a lasting impact and provoking thought.

The director's source of inspiration remains constant: reality. By focusing on the European middle class—a largely overlooked segment that constitutes a significant portion of the continent's population—Seidl conveys his historical pessimism toward humanity, particularly his native Austria. Through his portrayal of contemporary society and its moral shortcomings, Seidl seeks to jolt viewers into reflection, using truths that everyone knows but few are willing to confront.

In conclusion, Paradise: Love is a well-crafted film that subtly critiques human and ethical themes without falling into the trap of didacticism or clumsy moralizing. It captivates the viewer, keeping them engaged until the very last moment.

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Film Review: The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby

One story, two different interpretations, and finally three films; under the main title The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby with the subtitles Her, Him, and Them. This fragmented storytelling, presented from the contrasting perspectives of the man and woman in the story, is intriguing enough to compel us to watch a film that seems to take a unique approach within its genre.

First, it’s worth noting that this film marks Ned Benson’s debut as a feature director—a bold project he spent seven years developing. His first work, resulting in three interconnected films, is commendable. Benson proves that the romantic genre still has fresh ideas to offer, reaffirming that cinema has not yet exhausted its stories or revealed all its tricks.

The story revolves around a married couple who lose their child, each dealing with this devastating event in their own way. Gradually, their differing methods of coping with shared pain cause friction in their romantic relationship, eventually alienating them from each other. This is the premise of The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby. Interestingly, the title refers to a Beatles song from the 1960s album Revolver, written by Paul McCartney. The song, a poignant reflection on loneliness, lends its thematic weight to the film, turning it into an exploration of solitude or even a testament to the idea that people heal in their loneliness.

Most romantic films follow a predictable trajectory: initial acquaintance, budding attraction, fiery romance, a conflict or misunderstanding that disrupts their dreamlike relationship, and finally, reconciliation. However, this film fundamentally diverges from that formula. It begins with tragedy—a backdrop to subsequent misfortunes—depicting a love that has faded. The woman desperately clings to their connection, while the man seemingly copes better with their crises.

In addition to the distinct cinematography of shared scenes from the couple’s two perspectives, the films highlight subtle differences in each rendition. Notably, the use of “I love you” varies, as does the nuanced way each character views the other, shaped by the audience’s prior exposure to the alternate version. The Him segment starts with an upbeat tone, while Her begins with an intense and unsettling vibe, emphasizing the contrast between the two films. There’s no absolute truth here, leaving the audience unable to judge who is to blame for the couple’s discord. Instead, we witness each character’s subjective perception of the other’s behavior, while the core issue remains ambiguous.

The films’ opening titles also mirror this dichotomy through contrasting colors: red for the woman, evoking passion and nostalgia but immersed in present darkness, and blue for the man, representing a subdued love and memories subtly referenced throughout the story.

As both writer and director, Benson achieves a poetic exploration of pain, dividing the story into two parts for a more detailed confrontation with their emotional turmoil. The singular focus on their emotional disconnect sustains a three-hour-and-twenty-minute narrative across two perspectives, delving into the irrationality of their actions and searching for deeper meaning. The films can be viewed in any order, and even non-sequentially, keeping viewers curious about alternate viewpoints. For instance, a letter written by the man that enrages the woman in Her prompts curiosity about its contents, which Him eventually reveals.

The film portrays the couple, devastated by the loss of their child, as lost children themselves, seeking solace in the embrace of their parents. Both characters form meaningful connections in their solitude—whether through the male protagonist’s friends in Him or the younger sister’s emotional bond with the female lead in Her. These relationships add warmth to the narrative. Him emphasizes friendship, with extended scenes in a restaurant where the protagonist runs a small business, while Her highlights the sister’s presence, leaving a deep emotional impact.

Although the film begins with despair and disillusionment, it subtly conveys hope. In Him, the man seeks stability by relocating and improving his financial situation, while in Her, the woman returns to university, revisiting happy memories as part of her healing process.

However, while Her and Him offer intriguing dual perspectives, Them—a condensed version combining elements of both—feels lackluster. Its standard narrative, likely influenced by studio decisions, diminishes the unique impact of the first two films, becoming repetitive and less emotionally resonant if viewers have already seen the other versions.

In conclusion, The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby is worth watching, featuring standout performances by James McAvoy and Jessica Chastain. The film never loses its momentum, masterfully portraying the characters’ emotional struggles and triumphs. Benson’s debut leaves audiences satisfied, heralding the arrival of a thoughtful and talented filmmaker in world cinema.

*Previously Published in Emtemad National Newspaper

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Film Review: Boyhood

Boyhood condenses the most memorable parts of life into 165 minutes—short fragments of the simplest moments that most viewers have likely experienced themselves. The impact of the film lies in its direct engagement with life in its most natural form, guiding the audience through a simple yet profound journey. With its emphasis on the relentless passage of time, the film becomes an elegy for fleeting moments and human bewilderment in the face of temporary decisions. The unpretentious portrayal of life—those moments in their entirety—invites viewers to relive their own past, reflect on the years gone by, or even worry about them.

Director Richard Linklater began this extraordinary project twelve years ago, a concept that seemed almost impossible to execute even after its initial realization. Watching Boyhood, with its simplicity and subtlety, is a tribute to a filmmaker who has previously proven his ability to turn simple stories into complex, deeply human narratives. Yet, with this film, Linklater elevates that skill to an entirely new level. The portrayal of a boy’s growth serves as an exhilarating prelude to exploring more profound human concepts that the film subtly invites viewers to contemplate.

The boy in this story comes across as an ordinary, passive figure, often dodging strong stances in his dialogues. This approach ensures that the filmmaker doesn’t lean toward any specific lifestyle or ideology. Boyhood presents a universally relatable story, even for an Iranian audience whose experiences in a different geographical context might differ. The film allows anyone to connect with its underlying theme of simply “living,” unearthing commonalities beneath the surface of American life.

Moreover, the film’s narrative is so understated that it almost disappears, focusing instead on everyday scenarios like sibling quarrels, a boy mourning the loss of his hair, or a family weekend. These events feel like pages from a visual diary of a life, but Linklater’s artistry lies in transforming such a straightforward depiction of life into an emotional and familiar experience. He makes the life of a boy, a stranger, matter to the audience. Linklater’s commitment to his vision over the years ensures a cohesive and seamless outcome. Ultimately, this daring cinematic endeavor is presented to viewers as a well-crafted masterpiece.

The film is particularly noteworthy for its documentary-style depiction of time’s passage and its undeniable impact on the human spirit and body. All the characters visibly age, and knowing that the wrinkles on their faces are not the result of makeup or computer effects, the audience confronts the bitter reality of aging. Among the characters, the mother (played by Patricia Arquette) stands out. Her life stages form the backbone of the film’s narrative, painting a complete picture of a fully-lived human life. This is especially evident in a key dialogue where the son confesses to his father that, despite her life achievements and survival through crises, his mother remains as confused as he is.

A unique feature of this twelve-year filmmaking journey is its documentary-like capture of moments that, years later, would seem unimaginable to have existed in the first place. In this sense, Boyhood takes on an ethnographic approach, documenting the psychological and social changes within a limited timeframe. American society is portrayed during the expansion of mass media and the rise of Barack Obama. These background developments subtly occur beneath the surface of the characters’ daily lives, adding authenticity to their experiences and helping viewers recall their own feelings from those years.

Ultimately, Boyhood is a meditation on the human experience of living. Growing up, experiencing first loves, and eventually gaining independence—all are pieces of the complex puzzle of life, brought to the screen in a nearly three-hour film. Because viewers don’t expect extraordinary events from ordinary people in an ordinary life, the film creates space for reflection and thought. In the end, it reminds us that perhaps the most remarkable event of all is life itself, with all its seemingly trivial details.

Boyhood, a selection of the American Critics’ Association, earned six Oscar nominations and won two Golden Globes. It establishes a revolutionary perspective and genre in cinema, undeniably ranking as one of the best films of the year. Missing this film means missing a rare cinematic experience and undervaluing the tireless efforts of its dedicated creators.

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Film Review: Winter Sleep

This year’s 196-minute winter journey is a strange and magnificent voyage into the heart of Cappadocia, in central Anatolia—a unique experience emerging from its Turkish origins but promising a universal encounter through its focus on shared human themes. In this way, Winter Sleep becomes one of the most captivating and memorable films we’ve ever seen.

Nuri Bilge Ceylan had already set expectations high with his impactful and poetic film Once Upon a Time in Anatolia, which carried a Tarkovsky-esque sense of wandering and introspection within nature. However, in an unexpected twist, Winter Sleep completely severs that emotional connection to his previous work, inviting viewers to embark on a new adventure with a different rhythm. Despite the thematic differences between the two films, the director’s regular cinematographer, Gökhan Tiryaki, takes full advantage of Cappadocia’s visual potential, enriching every moment with the captivating natural landscapes of the region. The film’s beauty, however, is not limited to its breathtaking outdoor scenes. Tiryaki skillfully captures the delicate features and emotional depth of the actors in the indoor sequences, ensuring that viewers are equally drawn to both environments.

Any artistic work that stirs emotions and provokes thought is inherently poetic, and Winter Sleep is no exception. However, unlike Ceylan’s previous film, the poetry in Winter Sleep is deeply internal and subtle. The new work places immense focus on its characters, to the extent that every scene derives its meaning from their presence or absence. The rich character development, along with the invitation to step into their moments of solitude, private gatherings, and one-on-one conversations, draws the viewer closer to the narrative’s atmosphere. It feels as though the viewer is a special guest at the Aydınlar Hotel, free to wander wherever they please.

Aydın (played by Haluk Bilginer), the wintery protagonist of this story, is a slightly exaggerated archetype of the modernist intellectual. He isolates himself in his study, cutting himself off from everyday happenings, in an effort to transform the status quo. His young wife, Nihal (played by Melisa Sözen), claims he hates everything, even though Aydın portrays himself as a concerned and committed observer of his surroundings through his regular column in a local magazine. This duality perfectly embodies the modern man—a strange combination of love for humanity in general and personal disdain for individual people. While his compassion for the public is admirable, his aversion to real people is equally stark. This is evident in moments such as his reluctance to get involved in the quarrel between İsmail and the angry father of a boy who broke Aydın’s car window or his detached reaction to the letter from a struggling teacher in a remote village seeking help.

All the other characters in the film suffer from their own forms of loneliness. Aydın’s wife, his friend, and even his divorced sister (played by Demet Akbağ) each carve out a small corner for themselves, passing time in isolation. Whenever they are forced to interact, their calm conversations often end in disaster. Aydın’s solitude is portrayed more prominently and intensely than that of the others. He lives in a house where he is regularly subjected to his wife’s coldness and resentment. His sister, whom he believed to be his only supporter, accuses him of meddling in areas beyond his expertise. Aydın’s loneliness is further illustrated through stunning visuals, with expansive landscapes often framing him as a solitary figure.

Winter Sleep offers a raw and critical perspective on the lives of the affluent while examining the motivations behind their supposed humanitarian actions. Nihal, whose idealism contrasts with Aydın’s cynicism, confines her efforts to charity groups. Yet, when she steps into the real world of "ordinary people," such as during her visit to the boy’s family, she retreats shaken and defeated. Aydın’s own altruism, such as his decision to read the teacher’s letter aloud in the presence of his wife and friend, appears more about showing off his power and winning his wife’s approval than genuine concern. Similarly, Aydın’s delight at his sister’s positive remarks about his articles reveals his need for recognition and praise, even in his self-imposed isolation. This is another hallmark of the intellectual archetype the film explores—someone who, despite their disconnection and seclusion, retains an intrinsic desire for human connection and love.

In the film’s closing moments, we hear what could either be a letter Aydın has written to his wife or an internal monologue. He confesses his need for another person and even offers to serve Nihal to overcome his loneliness. In the final scene, Aydın finds solace by beginning his long-awaited work on the history of theater—a project he has researched for years. His redemption, once again, is depicted through intellectual pursuit.

Winter Sleep, the latest masterpiece by Nuri Bilge Ceylan and winner of this year’s Palme d’Or at the Cannes Film Festival, is both an artistic tribute and a dignified critique of the self-imposed, often destructive solitude of intellectuals. These are individuals who, despite dedicating their lives to cultural advancement, find themselves trapped in snowbound minds and yearning souls.

*Previously Published in Emtemad National Newspaper

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Film Review: House of fools

A Poetic Tale of Madness and Humanity

House of Fools (2002), directed by Andrei Konchalovsky, is based on a true story. Set during the Chechen-Russian conflict, the film depicts a mental asylum abandoned by its staff and taken over by its patients. This is only the beginning of the story. Beyond the carefree lunatics roaming the asylum, the film carries a strong anti-war undertone, reminiscent of the acclaimed Underground, though less intense in its messaging.

The film opens poetically, hinting at a dreamlike and meaningful journey. For instance, the opening scene begins at dawn with train tracks in the dim light, while the sound of the Islamic call to prayer blends with the cries of wild animals in the night. This creates a multitude of interpretations in the viewer’s mind.

We are then introduced to the main character—a young woman in her twenties, both mad and artistic. Through her imaginative lens, the world is more vibrant and colorful. This idea is reinforced by the visual contrast in the film: most scenes are shrouded in dim light and dominated by shadows. However, when we enter her world of fantasies, golden light and bright white backdrops rescue the scenes from their gloom, accompanied by music that enriches her dreamlike reality.

Interestingly, at least three of the asylum’s residents are portrayed as creative or even literate individuals. These characters briefly take charge of the asylum and lead a form of revolution. The film gradually delves into more humanistic and comedic themes, offering bold perspectives on the nature of war. The characters—whether mad or sane—are all struggling to grapple with new realities or escape their pasts. They are well-developed and become memorable, endearing figures to the audience.

Among them, the young woman stands out as the symbol of goodness and the director’s ideals. In the heart of a senseless war, where even the soldiers seem unaware of why they are killing and fighting, she shines as a beacon of humanity. Her kindness and vision elevate hope above reality, portraying it as a superior and transformative force.

In conclusion, House of Fools communicates in a straightforward and accessible manner, making it an easy yet enriching watch. Despite its simplicity, the film is adorned with artistic storytelling and layered with historical and humanistic flavors, appealing to a broad audience and leaving a lasting impression.

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