از طرفِ
شهریار حنیفه

They say the Persian narrative resembles a city—one of those cities with low ramparts/walls, where one can look inside from the outside, and gaze outside from within. It has a gateway: the Daramad (prelude), much like traditional Persian music. An entrance, and a path that leads to the main thoroughfare, the central city square: the bazaar, the souk [1].
And from there, everything begins; you pick a direction and set off. Passageway upon passageway. Interwoven and labyrinthine. You become acquainted with the alleys and lanes, rooftops and corridors… you meet people of every kind, simple and sincere. Everyone has a story to tell. Stories have a beginning and an end, subtle nuances (gosheh), and ironies—just like the city itself, layer upon layer, all worthy of consideration. Even if you walk up to the furthest window of the most distant house in the city and sit to listen to the most isolated person, you will find that they, too, have a story worth hearing. The city is a Shahr-e Farang (a peep-show box). As you circle around it and peer through all the lenses/viewholes, you eventually return to the starting point—yet you are no longer who you were at the beginning; you have heard a story, encountered people and worlds, and learned lessons.
Ali Hatami’s debut feature, Hasan the Bald (Hasan Kachel), can be seen as a brilliant manifestation of this storytelling tradition. Though not without its caveats (it never quite delivers a firm, definitive conclusion as to why remaining idle at home is bad), it stands as a worthy effort to authentically introduce this narrative tradition to the medium of cinema, remaining compelling for a wide audience.
Hasan the Bald is the story of a child. Although Hasani’s physical stature resembles that of a young man—and he even marries at the end of the film—his behavior and mindset remain childlike, disconnected from the adult world. This can perhaps be viewed as the film’s central catalyst and subtext.
When Bibi casts him out of the house, it is the sound of children singing the Amoo Zanjeer-baf (Uncle Chain-Maker) nursery rhyme that causes him to turn away from home, shift his gaze, and… launch the story under the pretext of playing with children. Just like the scene where he gets hold of the Demon’s soul-glass (Shisheh-ye Omr) and is so overjoyed that he begins running, laughing, and playing alongside the children…
The filmmaker’s critical stance—a critique of society—hinges on this very contrast: the malice of others takes shape in direct opposition to Hasani’s childlike—and pure—nature, allowing his words to strike a deeper chord: truth comes from the mouth of babes.
Grasping the vileness of the character Tavoos Khanom (a familiar and recurring archetype in Iranian cinema) would be far harder—and at times even incomprehensible—in a film with a different theme or setting. It is Hasani’s childlike modesty and his sense of alienation within the woman’s domain that manage to make the audience feel unsettled alongside him. This is further heightened by Hatami’s precise atmospheric design: the deliberate use of red hues (carpets, decorative fabrics, attire, a basin of apples…), alongside the luminous, reflective shine of the room and the women’s garments.
The secondary stories narrated within Hasan the Bald similarly articulate the filmmaker’s intended social critique through the construction of this dual dynamic: Hasani juxtaposed against the poet-merchant (or merchant-poet) and the intriguing cinematography of this sequence (a static shot facing a theatrical backdrop, emphasizing the artificiality and phoniness of the Sheikh-ol-Sho’ara / Chief of Poets); Hasani juxtaposed against Hosein the Bald (Hosein Kachel) and his mockery in the public bathhouse (the bathhouse was a clever choice: Hasani is not mocked by merely one person; the bathhouse is filled with echoes of laughter bouncing off the khazineh [hot pool], hashti [vestibule], sar-bineh [robing room], mian-dar [intermediate passage], and garm-khaneh [hot room]—there is no shortage of people who find Hasani’s friendly intentions laughable); Hasani juxtaposed against the Pahlavan (traditional wrestler-hero) and his perhaps futile pursuits of strength-testing and staging performances (while we sit watching these spectacles, the camera remains mostly positioned outside the arena ring (gowd), amidst the spectators’ stands); and various other examples…
On the other hand, Hasani’s utter naivety and lack of worldliness serve as the very catalyst for the audience’s laughter. Whether in short, fleeting comedic beats—for instance, early in the film, Hasani is mesmerized by the bazaar and the shopkeepers, observing everything with childlike fascination, during which he hears a phrase for the first time: “Plum fruit-leather, peach fruit-leather” (Lavashek-e aloo, bargeh-ye heloo), and later uses this idiom/taunt in an appropriate moment, eliciting our laughter through his sheer imitation—or in larger, plot-driving comedic arcs: Hasani’s exasperatingly repeated returns to the hamzad (doppelgänger/spirit)—driven by his childlike belief in it—which serve as the primary engine for new subplots and further laughter.
Apart from the comedy, a significant portion of the film’s atmospheric setting relies heavily on Hasani’s lack of worldliness and the enchanting, wide-eyed wonder he exhibits toward everything. It is not a far-fetched premise to suggest that Hasani’s imagination perceives the bazaar vendors as dancing and singing; the musical format is, in fact, his subjective viewpoint on their words and gestures. Likewise, it is his eerie, unsettling fantasy that causes the gate of the garden where Chehel Gis (the Forty-Braided Girl) is imprisoned to appear monumental, its earthenware walls endless, topped by yet another invisible, impenetrable wall—and causes him to hear terrifying sounds underground, see water flowing in reverse, and witness objects moving on their own.
In truth, the film views the world as fantasy from within its own primary perspective—that of its protagonist. By returning to the dreamlike state we all experienced in childhood, it calls into question the documented, verifiable logic of history and reality, surrendering its own existence to our imagination: Don’t you remember that weddings in the past felt more like still photographs (a single frame, a single memory) than motion pictures? Don’t you remember how difficult it was to reach the things we loved? Don’t you remember that shadows on the wall were enormous, and nights were filled with demons, jinns, and az-ma-behtarān (“those better than us”)?
This goes far beyond merely repeating simplistic buzzwords like “nostalgic” or “possessing identity.” This is the step-by-step thematic construction of another world—at once familiar, yet alien—replete with visual and acoustic codes that warrant analysis from multiple angles.
Let us pay attention to the music; for instance, at one point in the film, it is sung:
“Oh my beloved / Oh my physician / Who told you to take a bite of my apple? / Money flies from your pocket into mine…”
A folk lyric, and perhaps considered vulgar by some. Yet music scholars can easily discern (upon watching the film) that this piece is performed in the Dastgah Esfahan mode, set within the atmosphere and gosheh of Jamah-daran [2]—quintessentially Persian. Or in another instance:
“The samovar bubbles / Making the sound of a nightingale / I want to brew the tea / Make the teapot flavorful…”
This piece is likewise performed in Dastgah Shur, within the Afshari mode [3].
The poetry and music in Hasan the Bald are not mere song-singing. One could cite prominent musicals from Iranian cinema (from the mid-1980s to the mid-1990s) featuring livelier, catchier rhythms and lyrics with stronger ties to the screenplay; yet none were ever remotely as authentic, instructive, or creative (blending classical traditions with Iranian rengs) as this. Ali Hatami’s musical is not flawless; at times it is even laughable:
“Alas, alas, the master is checkmated!” (the entire Chinese barber sequence is skippable and redundant);
“So you weren’t a demon yourself? You were an innocent ewe? A docile ewe? A black-eyed ewe?” (a forced adherence to poetic meter, uttering whatever comes to hand).
However, weak examples are exceptionally rare, and the poetry overall stands well above average (delivered through authentic Iranian vocal styling). They simply required more sustained, persistent effort [4] to fully mature across time… Place the proposal (khastegari) sequences in Hasan the Bald and Baba Shamal side-by-side to better appreciate how this ritual gradually grew sweeter over time: how, in the second film, the viewer feels much more like an actual observer sitting in a humorous proposal ceremony, accompanied by richer and more varied poetry, reflecting how the filmmaker’s memory of this setting matured over time…
This sense of culmination, and the filmmaker’s overall approach throughout his career, makes Ali Hatami—in the eyes of this author—someone who guided us through a forgotten world and continuously added to it over the years; he taught, learned, and reminded. For Ali Hatami, the past was discovered further from film to film, and perhaps his repeated return to it was driven by this very act of re-discovery (as seen in the aforementioned proposal scene)—a discovery that does not necessarily mean delivering deeper or more impactful statements, nor is there any reason to impose such rigid expectations on exploratory art! The discovery of the past can simply be the rediscovery of a flower vase previously hidden behind a larger one, or recalling a fragment of a forgotten song.
I have never understood the rigid, repetitive reactions (both positive and negative) toward his cinema: Did he address his era or not? Did he critique history or not? Did he tell the truth or not?
There has always been a set of old, unyielding assertions—positive views asserting that for this or that reason he did do and say these things, while opposing views use those exact same assertions to conclude that no, he didn’t!
Perhaps the matter is far simpler than all this! Ali Hatami simply enjoyed telling an old story more than telling a modern one; perhaps he held a personal memory tied to that story; perhaps it reminded him of a loved one… as simple as that.
He used words as dialogue because he had heard and read them more often, and found greater delight in reciting them; he hung a painting on the wall simply because he loved it more. Don’t we ourselves wear our favorite clothes when we want to take a photograph? Must our choice to wear blue or red necessarily be interpreted as allegiance to a specific sports team? Certainly not. Any person of taste decorates and harmonizes their surroundings with what they love, without any complex ulterior motive.
Unless, in the midst of all this, a certain perspective deems the use of our favorite elements as ugly and distasteful (“junk” / “trash” [5]), or in the best-case scenario: unnecessary! Asserting that society needs something else—whatever is on its own agenda—and asking: “What could an attachment to this era possibly mean?” [5]
Of course, this perspective is also worth examining—profoundly so—but not when we speak of cinema as an aesthetic experience [6] and wish to view this art from a historical and investigative standpoint, analyzing it theoretically. It is precisely here that socio-political biases throw up obstacles, making it difficult to even access or procure many historical works made over the years in this geography. Hasan the Bald is part of our historical memory; it reminds us of how stories used to be told. Hasan the Bald is a reminder of Naqqali (traditional dramatic storytelling) and coffeehouse storytelling. When Chehel Gis (the Forty-Braided Girl) is mentioned and a painted curtain appears, with the poetry continuing as the narrator gestures toward it; or when, mid-narration, Hasani remembers his father and begins offering advice, lamenting how the earth brings coldness—these are all forms rooted in the Naqqali tradition of this land. Observe how Hasani’s events and experiences are divided into three equal 30-minute segments (for the Naqqal: narrating each segment over a single night), and the smaller events within each segment last an equal length—7 or 8 minutes—allowing time for the audience to rest and the storyteller to drink tea [7].
Or consider the oral storytelling format passed down through mothers and grandmothers: any rational mind mid-film might ask why the trading of lifespan shares (dongs) [8] between Hasani and the hamzad progresses so incrementally, and why Hasani only thought of asking the hamzad for the Demon’s soul-glass at the very end! He could have asked for it at the start and avoided all that trouble! But when we examine the history of such storytelling (bedtime stories for children)—or more simply, put ourselves in the shoes of parents—we realize the sole reason is that if he had asked for the soul-glass right at the beginning, the story would have ended too quickly and the child wouldn’t be asleep yet!
The failure to analyze this historical—and simultaneously personal—perspective has inflicted, and continues to inflict, unbelievable damage on our art and culture. Holding commemorations for Ali Hatami and bestowing virtuous titles upon him will not solve these problems, nor will it undo the damage. The issue is one of education and understanding—returning to cinema and its history, examining and dissecting it with precision; not erasing it, or, if it proves too sensitive, merely allowing the titles of such films to be casually mentioned in panels and speeches: “Hasan the Bald: the first musical in the history of Iranian cinema; nothing more; period!”

Footnotes:
[1] Souk also carries the meaning of direction (soo), having orientation.
[2] A prominent example of a similar vocal performance: the ballad “Be Esfahan Ro” (Go to Isfahan) by Jalaaleddin Taj Isfahani, 1954.
[3] A prominent example of a similar vocal performance: the ballad “Heravaye” by Shahram Nazeri, live performance from “Another Concert / Paris, 1989”.
[4] Let us not forget that Hasan the Bald is the first musical film in the history of Iranian cinema.
[5] Quoted from Seyyed Morteza Avini’s film review; titled “Devotion to the Qajar Era.”
[6] James Baldwin (the Black American author who addressed racial issues in his writing) once made a striking remark that has remained in my memory: “My quarrel with the English language was that it did not reflect any of my experience… But now I see the matter quite differently… Perhaps the language was not mine because I had never attempted to use it, only learned to imitate it.”
[7] The noteworthy similarities and differences among these three parts are also worth examining; for instance, the character of Hasan in the first part—being more naive and inexperienced—remains silent throughout, merely observing people, and after gaining experience in the second part, becomes quiet once again in the third part (this time out of maturity).
[8] Dong (دُنگ): A distinctly Iranian concept and unit of proportional measure (traditionally one-sixth of a property or whole).