22 Mehr; A Calendar of Longing for Mehrjui and Taghvaei

Dariush Mehrjui died on 22 Mehr 1402 and Nasser Taghvaei on 22 Mehr 1404. That these two filmmakers' names fall on the same day of the calendar takes on a meaning beyond historical coincidence, especially for lovers of Iranian cinema.

Ambassador Arjan; Amir Sadra Siam- Some dates in the calendar cross the border of numbers and days and become a sign of collective memory. The days that remember is not only the mourning of loss, but also a reflection on what we lose when people leave.

Mehr 22, recalling the names of Dariush Mehrjooi and Naser Taqvai, is of the same kind of dates. Two filmmakers from the golden generation of the new wave of Iranian cinema, each of them in a different way, turned the language of images into a tool for understanding society, people and the contradictions of living in Iran.

Of course, this symmetry does not mean the simultaneity of two losses, but the result of the repetition of a day in two different years. Dariush Mehrjoui passed away on 22 Mehr 1402 and Nasser Taqwai on 22 Mehr 1404. (The first in the form of a heinous murder with his wife). However, the juxtaposition of the names of these two filmmakers on the same day of the calendar, especially for Iranian cinema lovers, has a meaning beyond historical coincidence. It is as if the calendar has brought together two seasons of mourning in Iranian cinema at one point. This collaboration is an opportunity to think about the fate of cinema, which owes an important part of its identity to the look and courage of these two artists.

Dariush Mehrjoui cannot be defined by only a few lasting films or his temporary successes in the history of Iranian cinema. His importance was in his ability to connect cinema with philosophical, social and psychological questions.

From "Cow", which became a turning point in the formation of modern Iranian cinema with a deep look at traditional relationships, poverty and identity crisis, to "Hamon", which depicted the confusion of the Iranian intellectual in the face of love, faith, philosophy and urban life, Mehrjooi always sought to discover the gap between man and the world in which he lives. He could reach the existential crises of modern man from a remote village and draw out the hidden contradictions of society from a seemingly ordinary life.

In Mehrjooi's world, the characters are often surrounded by questions for which there is no clear answer. They are neither perfect heroes nor mere victims; People caught in the gap between wish and reality, tradition and modernity, reason and emotion. This multifaceted view made his works far away from simplistic narratives. Mehrjooi trusted the audience and called him to participate in discovering the meaning of the work; A feature that is doubly important today, at a time when cinema is more than ever under the pressure of consumption speed, commercial formulas and instant narratives.

Nasser Taqvai, however, used another path to enter the depths of Iranian life. If Mehrjooi often explores the troubled mind and inner crisis of man, Taqvai looked at the relations of power, climate, language and social relations with rare precision. In "Aramesh in the presence of others", "Sadegh Karde" and "Nakhoda Khursheed", he showed how to reach a world beyond local borders from the heart of native situations and characters arising from specific geography. In Taqwai cinema, the south of Iran is not just the background of the story; Climate, language, silence, warmth and human relationships all play a role in the formation of drama.

"Captain of the Sun", inspired by Ernest Hemingway's novel "To have and not to have", is a brilliant example of the ability of piety to recreate literature in the form of cinema; A film in which being native is not an obstacle to universality, but rather its source. Instead of explaining the world of his characters, Taqvai allowed them to reveal themselves through their behavior, pauses, looks, and thoughtful conversations. He was loyal to the details and knew that cinematic truth is often hidden not in shouts, but in silences and unsaid.

The most important commonality of these two filmmakers is their complicated relationship with the possibility of making films in Iran. Taqvai, despite his established position, left behind a workbook smaller than his talent and ability. His long years away from filmmaking was a bitter document of the gap between the capacities of Iranian cinema and the possibility of realizing them. Mehrjooi also faced artistic ups and downs and production difficulties in the last years of his career. The fate of these two is not the only story of the loss of two artists; The narration is about the opportunities that Iranian cinema could not take full advantage of.

The empty place of these two in today's cinema is not explained simply by the absence of big names or the repetition of their visual and narrative style. What deepens their loss is the diminution of a kind of artistic independence and trust in human complexity. A cinema represented by Mehrjooi and piety allowed the filmmaker to create his own world, reach a modern experience from the heart of Iranian culture and literature, and search for his own language instead of following ready-made versions.

Today, in a situation where the fragile economy of production, audit restrictions and the dominance of consumable models on a part of cinema limit the scope for experimentation, remembering these two artists has a meaning beyond commemorating the past. The issue is not that today's filmmakers should be mehrjoo or pious, the issue is whether Iranian cinema still has the possibility of cultivating voices that are not afraid of imitation, do not give simple answers to the audience, and allow silence, doubt and ambiguity to reach the truth of their characters?

Mehr 22, with two years between these two losses, brings us back to the same question. How is it possible that a movie that has such a legacy sometimes seems unable to find new horizons for itself? Maybe this is the symbolic meaning of this symmetry; Two names that have left our life calendar in two different years, but still meet each other in our cinematic memory and call us to rethink about the past and future of Iranian cinema.

They won't make any more movies, but their works will still allow a conversation with the times. Perhaps the true tribute to these two is not in repeating their names, nor in the constant longing for the past, but in providing conditions where today's filmmakers can explore their world without fear of exclusion and limitation. The calendar has connected the day of their departure; We are the ones who should not allow the gap between those two dates and today to become an irreparable gap between Iranian cinema and its lost possibilities.