Certainly a case can be made for the State Department policy that requires citizens of certain non-American-loving nations to be fingerprinted when entering the U.S. But Panahi had been to this country twice before -- including a visit in March, when he was being honored in Washington, D.C. -- and both times he had been granted a dispensation from what he considered to be a humiliating practice.
The irony of the whole embarrassing affair is that The Circle, which draws attention to contemporary Iran's retrograde treatment of women, has been banned in its own country. No one there can see it because the powers that be don't approve of the film's politics.
The Circle is an extraordinary film from a born filmmaker, and it's a pity Panahi couldn't be here in person to accept all the applause and accolades his powerhouse of a film so richly deserves. It depicts the plight of women in a fundamentalist Islamic society, addressing its subject not metaphorically or symbolically but head-on.
The movie opens to the sounds of a woman in labor. In the adjoining waiting room, the woman's mother learns that her daughter has just given birth to a baby girl, although the ultrasound had indicated the child would be a boy. Unable to face her daughter's in-laws, who surely will demand a divorce, the distraught grandmother flees the hospital.
Outside she passes a group of young women at a phone booth. The camera shifts its attention to them as, one by one, their stories unfold. It is a style and structure reminiscent of Max Ophuls's La Ronde, in which the narrative passes from one character to the next like a baton in a relay race. We meet a guileless young woman who longs to return to her village, an unmarried woman desperate for an abortion, a well-married woman who has abandoned family and friends lest her husband learn of her past, and a woman who feels that the only way to provide for her child is to desert her in the hopes she will be adopted by someone better able to provide for her.
In the end, of course, the stories are essentially the same, for no matter what the specific predicament, all the women are trapped in the same stifling environment. Each cannot leave her home unless draped in a chador, is not permitted to smoke in public, needs identification papers or police authorization to be in public alone, and is subject to arrest if caught traveling in a car with an unrelated man -- on the theory that the woman must be a prostitute.
As if the individual stories weren't strong enough on their own, The Circle has a documentary quality that adds to its immense power. Shot predominantly outdoors with a hand-held camera, it consists of wide angles and lengthy takes. The actors, all but two of whom are nonprofessionals, are sensational. Fereshteh Sadr Orafai, who played the mother in The White Balloon and here plays Pari, and first-time actress Maryiam Parvin Almani as Arezou are particularly memorable, registering hope, despair, and desperation with absolute conviction and naturalism.
It's hard to believe this is only Panahi's third feature as a director (he was an assistant director on Abbas Kiarostami's Through the Olive Trees), because he constructs his films like a master at the height of his career. This is particularly true of The Circle, which carries an emotional and artistic weight beyond even his first two features. Like so many Iranian films, The White Balloon and The Mirror relied on child protagonists, a decision that served to placate the government but also softened the films' messages. The Circle is a bold move. Leaving allegory behind, Panahi focuses on adults -- which, of course, is precisely the reason the film has been banned in Iran.