Introduction

“It’s not what you see that is art, art is the gap.”
Marcel Duchamp

In Persian language and culture, even today, the term pardah’nishīn is synonymous with “woman,” reflecting a traditional discourse that historically defined women as being “behind the curtain” and excluded from the public sphere. This term carries connotations of confinement, invisibility, passivity, and silence, reinforcing the cultural and social embedding of femininity within language, beliefs, and traditional expectations. In traditional ethics and social relations, a woman’s role has often been one of passivity and submission, forcing her to remain invisible in the public sphere, limit her presence and interactions, suppress her voice, and avert her gaze. To reinforce this view, the discourse surrounding women’s bodies aimed to obscure their presence, restricting visual contact and social interaction with men. These constraints not only shaped everyday life but also influenced representation, restricting a woman’s image, particularly her moving image, from appearing freely in the public sphere.

However, the advent of cinema in Iran challenged this long-standing tradition. Cinema blurred the boundaries between the private and public spheres, bringing the bodies and images of women into the public eye on the silver screen. The art of cinema brought men and women together, both as actors and spectators, disrupting traditional gender norms. This shift sparked strong opposition, particularly from religious authorities, clerics and traditionalists, who viewed cinema as a tool for gender mixing and a threat to social order.  opposition had lasting effects on narrative structures, filming techniques, representation, and film viewing.¹Farzaneh Milani, Words, Not Swords: Iranian Women Writers and the Freedom of Movement (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 2011), 74. After the 1979 Revolution, censorship became official policy, targeting the portrayal of women’s bodies and intensifying historical opposition in new forms.

Over time, these restrictions contributed to the development of a unique cinematic language, where absence, loss, and silence became integral to the narrative. In other words, when the direct depiction of the female body or her desires was prohibited, skilled filmmakers turned to indirect and metaphorical strategies. The concept of “absence,” for example, transcended a mere limitation and evolved into both a form of expression and a narrative tool. In this context, absence itself becomes meaningful, serving as a form that not only represents loss but also implies an implicit presence, resistance, and signifiance. It conveys the lived experience and embodied consciousness of characters to the audience. As Justin Remes notes, the absence of characters, voices, or visual elements in a work of art is not a void, but an active tool for generating meaning and aesthetic experience.²Justin Remes, Absence in Cinema: The Art of Showing Nothing (New York: Columbia University Press, 2020), 123-124. This framework enables the analysis of scenes, silences, and deliberate absences in Iranian cinema, particularly in works where the female subject is central to the narrative, as explored in this study.

Research Problem and Literature Review

Since the 1979 Revolution, Iranian cinema has navigated the tension between the presence and absence of the body, particularly the female body. Legal restrictions and state censorship on displaying the body have resulted in a culture of silencing and exclusion. These constraints not only shape how women are represented in films but also influence how they are perceived and experienced in society. This situation is deeply rooted in the ideological policies of the Islamic Republic. The imposition of the mandatory hijab and strict control over women’s bodies serve not only as tools of domination and suppression but also as means to reinforce and promote the regime’s ideological visual symbols. As a result, the female body has become a paradox of invisibility, existing in a constant state between being and non-being, perceptibility and imperceptibility, presence and absence.

Since the early 20th century, cinema has served as a powerful political and social tool. It has played a crucial role in shaping political systems, often serving as a space for intervention by those in power, due to its ability to influence both individual and collective imaginations. As Zahra Khosroshahi asserts, for the new political system in Iran, censorship in cinema was not merely a moral action; it reflected the regime’s deep fear of the power of imagery and its potential impact.³Zahra Khosroshahi, “‘I Am Them and They Are Me’: The Transnational Body as Collective in Iranian Women’s Cinema,” Transnational Screens 14, no. 2 (2023): 91. In this context, the female body has become the focal point of these policies, carrying ideological implications both in cinematic representation and in the public sphere. As Khosroshahi cites from Eric Egan, the project of Islamizing cinema advanced through the control of the female body, turning Iran’s “geo-body” into a gendered image that not only legitimized the regime’s symbolic order domestically but also became a political asset in projecting the Islamic Republic’s symbol onto the international stage.⁴Zahra Khosroshahi, “‘I Am Them and They Are Me’: The Transnational Body as Collective in Iranian Women’s Cinema,” Transnational Screens 14, no. 2 (2023): 90.

Although the Iranian state’s restrictions on cinema—particularly regarding the representation of women—have had a negative impact, filmmakers like Rakhshān Banī-I‛timād have creatively found ways to bypass these limitations. Rather than erasing or silencing the female body, they have turned these restrictions into opportunities to deepen meaning, expand storytelling, and resist erasure.

In recent years, many scholars have analyzed cultural and social representations in Iranian cinema, including Banī-I‛timād’s work. Some focus on historical and descriptive frameworks, others on technical and aesthetic aspects, while some combine both approaches. For example, Elnaz Nasehi in her article “Ambivalence of Hostility and Modification: Patriarchy’s Ideological Negotiation with Women, Modernity and Cinema in Iran,”⁵Elnaz Nasehi, “Ambivalence of Hostility and Modification: Patriarchy’s Ideological Negotiation with Women, Modernity and Cinema in Iran,” International Journal of Advanced Research (IJAR) 8 (October 2020): 542-552. focuses on the female body’s role in relation to Pahlavī modernity and post-revolutionary Islamism, showing the body as a battleground for ideological conflict.

Najmeh Moradiyan Rizi in her article “Iranian Women, Iranian Cinema: Negotiating with Ideology and Tradition”⁶Najmeh Moradiyan Rizi, “Iranian Women, Iranian Cinema: Negotiating with Ideology and Tradition,” Journal of Religion & Film 19, no. 1 (2015), https://digitalcommons.unomaha.edu/jrf/vol19/iss1/35. focuses on the social and sexual transformations of women in contemporary Iran and their portrayal in post-revolutionary cinema, especially over the past decade. Moradiyan Rizi adopts a macro-sociological approach, viewing cinema as a reflection of societal changes, and focuses on how women in this new generation have challenged traditional boundaries.

Zahra Khosroshahi in her article “‘I Am Them and They Are Me’: The Transnational Body as Collective in Iranian Women’s Cinema” examines how two female Iranian filmmakers, Rakhshān Banī-I‛timād and Māniyā Akbarī, use the female body to transcend national meanings, transforming it into a platform for critique, reconsideration, and intersectional feminism. The study aims to demonstrate that both filmmakers redefine the female body beyond traditional limitations, thus shaping a collective and intersectional feminism.

Hamid Taheri in his article “Censoring Iranian Cinema: Normalization of the ‘Modest’ Woman”⁷Hamid Taheri, “Censoring Iranian Cinema: Normalization of the ‘Modest’ Woman,” Feminist Media Studies 24, no. 8 (2024): 1938–1951. analyzes the image of women in Iranian cinema, arguing that the “modest” portrayal of Iranian women has become normalized, despite not fully reflecting the reality of women in society. This normalization has occurred not only through governmental censorship but also through international film festivals, which have played a key role in reinforcing it. In his study, Taheri highlights the deficiencies of Iranian cinema and encourages the audience to adopt a more critical perspective on the global power structures that shape it.

While many studies have examined how the female body is portrayed in Iranian cinema in response to censorship laws, fewer have focused on how the audience personally experiences these portrayals. This experience, which cannot be fully understood through historical or ideological analysis alone, should instead be explored through sensory perception and the cinematic experience.

This article differs from related studies in several ways. A central aspect of this research is its redefinition of the concept of the body—not merely as an object of representation, but as a site of resistance. From this perspective, gestures, movements, silences, and even moments when the body is absent carry hidden meanings that often go against the dominant narrative. Resistance in this context is understood as a complex, multi-layered phenomenon, a dynamic force intertwined with social and cultural contexts, carrying profound implications. Resistance can emerge even in situations where people are silenced, ignored, or marginalized. In other words, even when bodies appear silenced or erased, they can still find ways to resist and challenge the dominant order.

Another key feature of this article is its focus on the lived experience of the spectator in relation to their encounter with the film. The analysis extends beyond the mere representation of characters’ bodies, exploring how elements such as narrative, movement, light, framing, and interactions with objects— even in the physical absence of the body—activate the tactile and sensory engagement of the viewer.

Finally, another distinguishing aspect of this research is its integrative theoretical framework, which is based on a tripartite theoretical connection:

• Maurice Merleau-Ponty’s theory of corporeality, which introduces the body as the site of sensory perception.
• Julia Kristeva’s concept of the “semiotic/symbolic,” which facilitates signifiance.
• Jennifer Barker’s theory of cinematic tactile experience, which focuses on the sensory and bodily experience of the spectator.

This theoretical combination aims to provide a new interpretation of Banī-I‛timād’s cinema, one that goes beyond purely narrative or representational analyses and explores the relationship between the body, resistance, and the sensory experience of both the spectator and the text. Thus, this article demonstrates how the body, within the constraints and mechanisms of censorship, becomes a tool for reinterpreting meaning and cultural resistance through the strategic use of image or narrative absence.

Absence is an intrinsic feature of both functional and literary language. In literary works, poets and writers often use rhetorical devices to deliberately veil certain themes in ambiguity. This veiling can engage readers, reflect the limitations imposed on the author, or arise from the threats posed by dominant cultures or powers. Therefore, the constraints on expression within a semiotic network inevitably push it toward “absence.” However, after the 1979 Revolution, art, particularly cinema, faced limitations, most of which originated from state mechanisms of supervision and censorship, with fewer arising from the cultural and religious context of society.

It is important to note that the absence discussed here refers to the type of absence addressed in contemporary literary, artistic, and cultural studies. For instance, Justin Remes draws on Kazimir Malevich’s work in modern visual art,⁸Kazimir Malevich (1879-1935) was one of the most prominent artists of the 20th century and the founder of the Suprematist movement. His most famous works include Black Square (1915) and White on White (1918). analyzing how Malevich was able to create a meaningful and impactful force through physical or visual absence. The presence of a black or white square, devoid of additional detail, serves to focus the viewer’s attention on the absence itself, highlighting the tension between what is present and what is absent—where meaning is neither inherent nor explicitly provided.⁹Justin Remes, Absence in Cinema: The Art of Showing Nothing (New York: Columbia University Press), 8. In cinema, “absence” refers to the elements, events, or bodies deliberately excluded from the frame, narrative, or visual composition, often serving to emphasize meaning or stimulate interpretive engagement for various artistic or thematic reasons. For example, in Iranian cinema, absence is seen in the erasure of women’s bodies from the screen, the concealment of the violence inflicted upon them, and the suppression of their desires, aspirations, and sexual agency. In poststructuralist and deconstructionist thought, absence does not imply a lack of prominence, dominance, or significance; rather, absence itself generates meaning and becomes a source of significance within semiotic systems.

This article explores how the meaning of a woman’s body can be understood, even when it is not directly shown. How can the body, through mechanisms of erasure, be constructed to acquire a meaningful presence? In other words, how can cinema, through the body, transcend explicit signs to unveil its implicit meaning within the sensory, spatial, and narrative structure of the film? These questions are particularly important in the films of Rakhshān Banī-I‛timād, a director known for exploring the experiences of women, marginalized bodies, and relationships across generations throughout her career. The article also argues that resistance in Banī-I‛timād’s films is not just an external reaction to censorship and political-cultural norms, but also a process of signifiance through corporeality, absence, and everyday narratives.

Methodology of the Research

This study employs a hybrid methodology, integrating scene-based analysis with theoretical interpretation to examine the representation of absence, corporeality, and processes of signifiance in Banī-I‛timād’s cinema. The primary focus is on the film The Blue-Veiled, as its narrative offers a concrete framework for connecting theoretical concepts with the lived experiences of the characters. Within this framework, technical and visual elements are examined in relation to the narrative to emphasize the characters’ corporeality and moments of resistance. The film’s storyline bridges abstract theory and lived experience by depicting everyday life, emotional struggles, social tensions, and acts of resistance in a tangible way that grounds the analysis.

Technical and visual elements, such as mise-en-scène, framing, and lighting, play a crucial complementary role, as these elements directly convey absence, distance, and sensory tensions on the visual and auditory surfaces, portraying the characters’ lived experiences in a concrete and credible way. However, an analysis that focuses solely on technical elements is insufficient; without engagement with the narrative, these elements remain fragmented and detached losing their connection to the characters’ social and psychological context. Moreover, an excessive emphasis on technical elements may result in a mechanical and monotonous analysis. Accordingly, this study adopts a narrative-centered approach, with technical elements referenced primarily to support and enrich the narrative analysis.

Furthermore, to avoid fragmentation and excessive detail, the scene-based analysis of The Blue-Veiled will focus on a few key scenes. However, in the concluding section, the film The May Lady (Bānū-yi Urdībihisht, 1999) will be used as a supplementary example to illustrate the broader scope of Banī-I‛timād’s style in representing the feminine subject. In analyzing The May Lady, the focus will be on providing evidence of the continuity or transformation of the director’s gaze, rather than conducting an in-depth analysis of scene details or narrative. This approach allows us to analyze individual scenes in detail while also looking at Banī-I‛timād’s overall role in Iranian social cinema, without losing theoretical or structural clarity.

Theoretical Framework

1. Corporeality in the Phenomenology of Maurice Merleau-Ponty

This article begins with the aim of exploring the representation of the body in the cinema of Banī-I‛timād. One approach to achieving this understanding is through the phenomenological conception of corporeality, which shapes our perception and interpretation of the world. In Merleau-Ponty’s philosophy, the body is the fundamental mode of being in the world, the site where all perception, seeing, and existence originate. According to Merleau-Ponty, perception is more than the mere sensing of things, such as seeing or touching. It is not a passive process where we simply receive sensory information in isolated fragments. Nor is it the outcome of logical reasoning. Rather, perception is, first and foremost, an embodied experience through which we actively engage with the world, preceding and independent of thought. The central theme of Merleau-Ponty’s philosophy emphasizes the body as the foundational phenomenon through which we experience and engage with the world, prior to and beyond conscious reflection. Merleau-Ponty argues that, before being consciousness, each of us is a body that perceives and shapes the world. Unlike Cartesian views, which treat the body as separate from the subject of perception, Merleau-Ponty shows that the subject of perception is inseparable from corporeality and has no meaning without it: “The body is the vehicle of being in the world, and having a body is, for a living creature, to be intervolved in a definite environment, to identify oneself with certain projects and be continually committed to them.”¹⁰Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Phenomenology of Perception (London: Routledge Classics, 2002), 94.

In this conceptual framework, lived experience is seen as fundamentally connected to the body. Our body is not merely a medium for sensory perception; it is the site where meaning is both created and received. From a phenomenological perspective, a cinematic image is understood not just as a collection of signs, but as an embodied, lived experience.

Merleau-Ponty’s contribution lies in clarifying one of his fundamental interpretations of the body, as he states: “My body is the fabric into which all objects are woven, and it is, at least in relation to the perceived world, the general instrument of my ‘comprehension’.”¹¹Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Phenomenology of Perception (London: Routledge Classics, 2002), 273. He goes on to explain, “It is my body which gives significance not only to the natural object, but also to cultural objects like words […] A word, before becoming the indication of a concept […] is first of all an event which grips my body, and this grip circumscribes the area of significance to which it has reference.”¹²Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Phenomenology of Perception (London: Routledge Classics, 2002), 273-74.

Therefore, this article argues that the body should not be seen merely as content within an image (film), but rather as an integral part of the perceptual and subjective process. From this perspective, we can rethink and experience the body through the narrative and visual constraints of cinema. Sometimes the body is absent from these images, but this absence, combined with image, sound, light, and movement, creates an embodied experience. Banī-I‛timād repeatedly reconstructs and represents this embodied visual texture in the seemingly bodiless images of her films.

This phenomenological view places the body at the core of perception and links it directly to our way of being in the world. It directs our discussion toward a deeper understanding of the body’s role in signifiance, ultimately leading to Julia Kristeva’s theory of signifiance. Her theory suggests that the body is not only the source of perceiving but also the central locus of meaning, experience, and language. The following sections will examine the relationship between the body and meaning within the framework of Kristeva’s linguistic theory, in which the body, through signs, is integrated into the structure of language and signifiance, while its subjective experience extends into the unconscious and emotional realms.

2. Signifiance in Julia Kristeva’s Theory

In Kristeva’s semiotics, signifiance takes center stage, with Kristeva arguing that this concept surpasses the static and formal understanding of signs originally proposed by Ferdinand de Saussure. Kristeva differentiates between established linguistic signification and her own concept of signifiance, emphasizing that language is not merely a tool for transmitting meaning, but also a space where meaning is produced and constantly evolves.¹³Estelle Barrett, Kristeva Reframed: Interpreting Key Thinkers for the Arts, (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011), 57. Thus, in Kristeva’s semiotics, language is understood as a dynamic process of signification, rather than a fixed and separate system.¹⁴Julia Kristeva, Revolution in Poetic Language (New York: Columbia University Press, 1984), 13. Kristeva identifies two sets of meanings or forces involved in the process of signification:

A. The first set of meanings or pre-linguistic, emotional, sensory, instinctual, and feminine forces, which Kristeva calls the semiotic. The semiotic exists within the pre-symbolic domain, tied to the body, the unconscious, music, sound, rhythm, rupture, silence, stuttering, repetition, and non-syntactic forms of expression. Kristeva connects the semiotic to the pre-Oedipal experience, before the subject enters language, defining it as linked to the maternal realm, bodily pleasure, and instinctual drives. The semiotic is not self-sufficient; instead, it exists within language, in contrast to the symbolic realm. In art, particularly in poetry, music, and cinema, the semiotic manifests through unstable forms, corporeality, sound, narrative disruptions, and breaks in space and time. The semiotic is expressed through rhythm, resonance, and emotional pulses, maintaining an inseparable connection to the body.¹⁵Julia Kristeva, Revolution in Poetic Language (New York: Columbia University Press, 1984), 27. The semiotic belongs to the pre-symbolic phase, where, before the subject is established as a speaker within the structure of language, their perception of the world is shaped by the mother’s body, sound, lullabies, and emotional impulses. Kristeva argues that this phase is not merely a remnant of early childhood experience, but also a domain in which the individual can resist and revolt against the rigid logic of the symbolic realm and the dominance of established societal discourses. For this reason, from Kristeva’s perspective, art, poetry, and imagery serve as sites for the emergence of the semiotic, where the body generates alternative meanings through rhythm, silence, rupture, and disruption.

B. The second set of meanings or social, rational, scientific, technical, logical, and masculine forces, which form the symbolic. The symbolic resides in the realms of structure, syntax, meaning, law, patriarchal order (in Lacanian psychoanalytic terms), and language.¹⁶Jacques Lacan, in his definition of child development, speaks of a stage to which the child must inevitably enter, and that is the symbolic order or the realm of language. This realm is metaphorically referred to as the paternal realm because the child must leave the mother’s embrace to enter the realm of language, the very entry that, according to Lacan, confronts the human with loss (manque) forever. Lacan has made the rejection of the mother the sole condition for subjectivity. This is the domain in which the subject, as a speaker endowed with logic and law, engages with the societal stage. However, Kristeva emphasizes that language is not just symbolic or semiotic, but is the result of a constant struggle between the two. According to Kristeva, signifiance cannot occur unless these two sets of meanings or forces are present in the process of signification in language.¹⁷Julia Kristeva, Revolution in Poetic Language (New York: Columbia University Press, 1984), 24. As a result, both art and language, in their ideal form, embody this duality. The distinction between these two forces can provide a theoretical foundation for analyzing the presence or absence of the feminine body in cinema. That is, how the body can generate meaning through sound or rhythm, even in the absence of explicit symbolic signs.

From Kristeva’s perspective, the subject that emerges at the intersection of these two forces is a subject in process. It is neither stable nor fixed, nor self-sufficient; instead, it is constantly in a state of “becoming,” perpetually shaped by both conscious and unconscious forces, and situated within the dynamic interaction between the semiotic and the symbolic.¹⁸Toril Moi, ed. The Kristeva Reader (New York: Columbia University Press, 1986), 216. This subject, which is constructed in the realm of language, is constantly confronted with transformation, crisis, and reconstruction. As Kristeva explains, the subject is in a state of “positioning.” She uses the term “thetic” to describe the “subject in the process of becoming,” where the subject is not fixed but constantly undergoing disruption and reconstitution. According to Kristeva’s theory, the thetic is a moment in which the flow of the semiotic is contained and stabilized by the linguistic structures of the symbolic order; it is the point at which the subject, by “positing” a signifiance in language, performs as a meaningful speaker within the symbolic realm. The thetic is not a sudden or completed event, but rather an ongoing process that unfolds continuously throughout the subject’s linguistic life, forming repeatedly with each meaningful linguistic act. In other words, every time the subject attempts to express an experience, emotion, or image—whether through words, images, or even meaningful silence—the thetic occurs. The thetic represents a threshold, occurring at the boundary between the semiotic and symbolic realms. It is the moment or process in which the tension and transition between these realms unfold—the space where the bodily, emotional, and instinctual signs of the semiotic move toward the structured order of the symbolic, where they are then regulated and stabilized. However, the interesting point is that the primary characteristics of the semiotic are not entirely lost in this process; they persist in certain deeper layers of meaning and expression.¹⁹Julia Kristeva, Revolution in Poetic Language (New York: Columbia University Press, 1984), 48.

Kristeva’s analysis of the interaction between the semiotic and the symbolic demonstrates that meaning is constructed not only at the level of language but also through the body, sound, and emotion. Thus, the cinematic image can function as a medium through which the semiotic emerges. I will draw on a framework that understands cinematic perception as an embodied, rather than purely cognitive, experience in order to situate this theory within the aesthetic and sensory realm of the cinema viewer. By focusing on how the viewer’s sensory experience deepens the relationship between the cinematic image, the body, and perception, Jennifer Barker explores not only how we think about images but also how we experience them at a bodily level, through our senses and bodily responses.

3. Cinematic Image as Sensory Experience: The Embodied Viewer in Jennifer Barker’s Theory

Jennifer Barker, a scholar and professor of cinema studies at Georgia State University, is widely recognized for her influential work The Tactile Eye: Touch and the Cinematic Experience (2009), which provides a phenomenological approach to the cinematic experience. In her book, Barker explores the notion that the cinematic viewer does not simply engage in a passive act of watching; rather, the relationship between the viewer and the film is both embodied and sensory. Barker argues that the film should be seen as another body, one that is not just watched, but also felt, and that in turn affects the viewer. This concept lays the groundwork for a phenomenological and embodied approach to cinema.

In this work, Barker draws explicitly on Merleau-Ponty, especially his conception of the lived body as the primary mediator between the self and the world. She extends this idea to cinema, suggesting that the film functions as another body in such a way that the viewer does not merely observe it but physically engages with it, connects with it, and even undergoes bodily affect. Barker’s approach challenges the notion of film as merely representational; instead, she conceives of it as an embodied, sensory experience in which The viewer’s perception is closely connected to the cinematic image, which evokes a bodily, sensory engagement and has interactive qualities that shape the viewer’s experience.

In her view, film acts as a body, and the viewer becomes more than just an observer, engaging with the film as a sensitive body: body with body. Barker sees the contact between film and viewer not just as physical touch, but as an embodied perceptual experience. For Barker, the body is not merely an object to be touched or to touch, but a sensory field where seeing, hearing, and touching are inseparably intertwined.²⁰Jennifer M. Barker, The Tactile Eye: Touch and the Cinematic experience (University of California Press, 2009), 2-5.

In her book, Barker argues that three sensory layers—the skin, musculature, and viscera—demonstrate how the experience of watching a film unfolds on tactile, motor, and internal levels. She describes the skin as the outer layer of the body, where we first encounter the world and form primary sensory responses. In other words, she views the skin as the closest layer of the sensory experience, where visual elements like brightness, color, light, camera movement, and textures interact directly with the viewer’s body. This contact resembles a visual touch, with light moving gently across the skin.²¹Jennifer M. Barker, The Tactile Eye: Touch and the Cinematic experience (University of California Press, 2009), 34-36.

Barker suggests that the viewer’s body responds in active, internalized ways, which can be observed in muscular reactions such as contractions, movements, or tension during specific scenes. For all viewers, these physical reactions are felt experiences, with the body unconsciously tensing or moving in response to camera work or the intensity of a scene. Thus, the viewer’s experience of a film is not just visual or cognitive, but embodied and deeply internalized.²²Jennifer M. Barker, The Tactile Eye: Touch and the Cinematic experience (University of California Press, 2009), 38.

Finally, at the deepest level, Barker examines the viscera, referring to internal bodily responses that are often subconscious, including goosebumps, gripping the armrest, shortness of breath, heart palpitations, fear, sadness, or even nausea. These experiences are connected to the viscera which Barker identifies as the site through which the film engages the viewer’s unconscious bodily responses. This layer has the greatest psychosomatic impact.²³Jennifer M. Barker, The Tactile Eye: Touch and the Cinematic experience (University of California Press, 2009), 120.

Additionally, Barker’s progression from the body’s surface to its deeper layers can be mapped onto Kristeva’s concept of the semiotic. Meaning is thus experienced not only through language’s symbolic structures, but also pre-linguistically, in the body, through the heartbeat, breath, and viscera, which convey instincts and emotions. Barker’s discussion of the interactions between the viewer’s body and the film’s body aligns with the dynamic processes central to Kristeva’s theory of signifiance. This reflects the tension between the symbolic’s stability and the semiotic’s instability—without it, meaning would not arise.

The Blue-Veiled: A General Overview

“My work consists of two parts: the one presented here plus all that I have not written. And it is precisely this second part that is the most important one.”
Ludwig Wittgenstein

The Blue-Veiled follows the story of a young woman named Nawbar Kurdānī, who works on a tomato farm and in the adjacent tomato paste factory. Unmarried, Nawbar bears the responsibility of looking after her addicted mother, teenage brother, and young sister, making her situation far more difficult than that of other women. She lives on the outskirts of the city, next to a brick kiln. Gradually, the factory owner, Hāj Rasūl Rahmānī, becomes interested in her. A widower for three years, he lives alone in a large house. Fearing their father’s affection for a young woman they call a ghurbatī (vagrant), two of Rasūl’s three married daughters use every trick they can to prevent him from marrying Nawbar.

This romantic relationship reflects deep class conflicts and the struggles of female subjectivity. The film uses minimalistic style, controlled dialogue, and a cold atmosphere to explore Nawbar’s mental and bodily experience as she faces societal pressures. Nawbar is both humble and defiant, yet uncertain, and her body and speech seem “suspended,” reflecting hesitation and tension. Although she cannot act like upper-class women or openly claim her place in society, she is far from passive and demonstrates significant courage and agency. At first, Rasūl’s interest in Nawbar is not based on an equal or balanced relationship. At the beginning of the film, if we view their potential marriage as a continuation of patriarchal authority, we’re not entirely mistaken; yet, in the end, we see a genuine, mutual love between them.

Discussion and Analysis

Dual Representation of Documentary and Fiction in Cinematic Narrative

Before analyzing her work, it’s important to note that Banī-I‛timād pays close attention to details from the real world, blending them with imagination, so that storytelling always includes realistic elements. This approach reflects Banī-I‛timād’s background in documentary filmmaking. According to Maryam Ghorbankarimi:

Banī-I‛timād films depict little vignettes from society, with all its ups and downs, and the people in it trying to cope with and tolerate what life has in store for them. The cinema of Banī-I‛timād offers a realistic portrayal of the people in their familiar environment. She bases her scripts on real people she meets during her research and documentary filmmaking, which is why her characters are often quite tangible, with genuine problems and issues similar to those that people have in real life. The documentary style of her filmmaking helps the characters fit into the environment she portrays them in.²⁴Maryam Ghorbankarimi, A Colourful Presence: The Evolution of Women’s Representation in Iranian Cinema (Cambridge: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2015), 68.

I aim to examine this feature in The Blue-Veiled as an example of Banī-I‛timād’s use of both documentary and narrative cinema, and to interpret it in terms of a semantic structure that connects the symbolic and semiotic orders in Kristeva’s theory.

The film’s documentary-like dimension becomes evident from its very first moments (Figures 1 and 2), in shots of the harsh, dry landscape around the brick kiln, the bustle of women seeking farm work, and the depiction of laborers in the tomato fields. These scenes use social and real elements, placing them in the symbolic realm where language, social law, and patriarchal order operate. This realm connects the film to a network of structural meanings and positions identities within fixed frameworks. In contrast, the film gradually reveals a love story, filled with silence, shame, and bodies that speak without words—clearly belonging to the realm of the semiotic. Shots conveying pronounced emotional and affective expression exemplify, as Kristeva puts it, a body embedded within language, representing a subject in the process of becoming rather than one that is fixed. Thus, according to Kristeva, signifiance emerges as a process arising from the dynamic interplay of language’s heterogeneous dimensions—the structured, rule-governed symbolic and the bodily, affective semiotic. This dual articulation allows the artistic text to convey meanings that the purely communicative or representational function of the language alone cannot express.²⁵Julia Kristeva, Desire in Language: A Semiotic Approach to Literature and Art (New York: Columbia University Press, 1980), 18.

Robert Sāfāriyān also considers The Blue-Veiled’s depiction of two opposing tendencies as one of the fundamental features of Iranian cinema: the first, a social tendency, which, according to Sāfāriyān, engages with the dominant perspectives of the 1960s and 1970s; the second, a more humanistic and cross-class tendency, which offers a different view of human relations and emotions.²⁶Robert Sāfāriyān, “Afsānah-pardāzī bih nām-i ri’ālīsm,” In Bānū-yi Urdībihisht: Naqd va barrasī-i fīlm-hā-yi Rakhshān Banī-I‛timād, ed. Zāvun Qukāsiyān (Nashr-i Sālis, Yūshīj, 1378/1998), 299. The interplay of documentary realism and imaginative emotionalism immerses the viewer in both the narrative and a sensory, embodied experience, echoing Barker’s notion of the film’s tactile effect.

At the Threshold: The First Encounter

The first encounter between Rasūl and Nawbar in the factory courtyard (Figure 3) provides an example of how bodily meaning is created even in the absence of explicit language. What helps analyze this scene is the combination of three factors: (a) the spatial layout of the courtyard in front of Rasūl’s office, (b) visual and editing choices (camera angle, framing, shot length, and editing rhythm), and (c) the scene’s sound design (group conversations, intervening silences, and Nawbar’s dialogue).

Rasūl’s first encounter with Nawbar is an indirect and accidental meeting, made meaningful through silence rather than dialogue. This encounter, which takes place in the opening scenes of the film, is one of the key moments in the narrative, from which Rasūl and Nawbar’s first sensory connection develops. This affective interaction is not explicit; rather, it unfolds implicitly and subtly through glances, sounds, silences, and the physical distance between them.Asghar Āqā, the foreman, selects several female laborers from around the brick kiln and offers them work on the farm. Each woman provides her name, address, and briefly explains her living situation. When it’s Nawbar’s turn, Asghar Āqā doesn’t ask for her address, implying that, as an unmarried woman, she won’t be hired. Contrary to expectations, Nawbar boldly asserts through her gaze, voice, and body that, though unmarried, she is responsible for several dependents.

Marked by both impulse and intensity, Nawbar’s expression belongs to the semiotic realm: a bodily articulation of need, suffering, and psychological pressure, unrelated to the legal and symbolic order. Nawbar subtly demonstrates her resistance, without any grand gesture; through her gaze, posture, tone, and speech rhythm, she challenges the social rules and hierarchical structures of the symbolic order. Her voice in the group, distinguished by its tone and rhythm, conveys her resistance. In a context where the voices of female workers are often silenced—particularly those of unemployed women—Nawbar asserts herself and claims her rights through speech.

This resistance originates in the symbolic domain (employment rules, collective verbal order) and is expressed through speech and silence. The scene’s sound design plays a critical role: the simultaneous presence of other women’s voices, the emphasis on Nawbar’s voice (or the variable balance of volume and softness), and the silence following her words, all reinforce the semiotic force. According to Kristeva, this force precedes the symbolic order and generates meaning at a bodily and rhythmic level.

When Rasūl hears Nawbar’s voice, he looks out the window (Figure 4). A subtle shift in the camera draws him into a world of sounds and bodies that don’t typically belong in his life. The glances exchanged between Nawbar and Rasūl, the pauses, and the rhythm of the cuts between them—combined with the camera’s focus on their body language and facial expressions—work together to deepen the meaning, emphasizing the body and its signs. They highlight how resistance can emerge through the interplay of sound, body, and language.

From Merleau-Ponty’s perspective, this scene depicts a perceptual contact; The relationship between vertical and horizontal space (the office’s height, the courtyard, and the window) interacts with the individual’s perspective (Rasūl’s gaze through the window) in a way that renders the concept of social distance a tangible and lived experience. This shot uses the “frame within a frame” technique, where the window acts as the first frame, and then we get a close-up of Rasūl’s face. The camera moves from behind the window frame to focus on Rasūl’s face, and the brief pause in the cuts makes the viewer not just observe his external position, but also feel his internal experience. The spatial geometry and selective framing transform the act of seeing into an embodied experience, aligning with Merleau-Ponty’s concept of perceptual corporeality, where perception is inseparable from our bodily presence in the world.

Thus, from a higher position, Rasūl looks down at Nawbar’s face. While a top-down perspective typically suggests authority or power, Rasūl’s gaze carries no sense of domination. When he tells Asghar, “Put all eight of them to work,” then pauses with his eyes fixed on Nawbar’s face, it signifies more than just a managerial decision. In this shot, the camera lingers for a few moments on Rasūl’s face, framed in a relatively close-up that deliberately highlights his facial features, the depth and direction of his gaze, all within a carefully chosen camera angle. This framing makes the viewer focus not just on Rasūl’s features, but also on his thoughts and emotions.

Additionally, the tactile dimension noted by Jennifer Barker is clearly expressed in this visual-sound arrangement: The relatively long shots, the delayed cuts, and the focus on the movement of Rasūl’s eyes and facial features all contribute to a visual experience that feels almost “tactile,” as if the viewer’s body is intertwined with the image. Specifically, the fixed camera on Rasūl’s face (the close-up with a delay), coupled with the brief silence following Nawbar’s speech, creates a sense of bodily intertwining between the viewer and the image. The viewer senses that something remains unsaid or that there is something beyond the reach of the symbolic realm. In my interpretation of Jennifer Barker, this gaze can be understood as a tactile gaze—one that, rather than asserting control, is driven by a genuine desire to empathize. It is a gaze filled with empathy, a look that goes beyond just meeting eyes, reaching deeper into perception, emotion, and meaning. The camera and the characters’ eyes seem to move past the surface of the body, reaching inside to capture feelings and perceptions.

For Merleau-Ponty, speech and gesture communicate through the body, where the senses are directly connected and mutually influence one another. The body is a system in which each sense interacts with and shapes the others.²⁷Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Phenomenology of Perception (London: Routledge Classics, 2002), 332. Thus, the camera’s focus on Rasūl’s gaze, paired with a brief pause before the next cut, creates a sense of suspension in the narrative. This suspension provides enough time for cross-sensory communication between the viewer, Nawbar, and Rasūl. Nawbar’s response to Rasūl’s kindness is also non-verbal, shown through a gentle smile and a look of gratitude. When their gazes meet, it’s a moment full of meaning, in the absence of words. Though nothing is spoken, all the bodily and symbolic elements—from anxiety and doubt to desire and devotion—intertwine within the frame, sparking signifiance in the shot.

As the story unfolds, we see Rasūl’s emotions grow and Nawbar’s shared attraction. He arranges a house for Nawbar and her family to help them leave their tough neighborhood. At first, trying to move past this forbidden love, Rasūl arranges a marriage proposal for Nawbar, but she boldly refuses to even meet the suitor. Nawbar has repeatedly rejected her love-stricken, devoted admirer. On the other hand, Rasūl, emotionally isolated and receiving no sympathy from those around him, decides to spend a few days alone without telling anyone.

The Duality of Action and Speech: The Distinction Between Body and Language

After days of wandering and inner turmoil, Rasūl decides to return and visit Nawbar at night. In a medium shot, the camera follows him from the moment he approaches until he reaches Nawbar’s door. The camera is almost at his level, and without any cuts, it gives his movement a smooth, natural flow. The camera moves closer to him from the medium shot, using this angle to show Rasūl’s desperate state and evoke empathy from the viewer. As Rasūl takes hesitant and unsteady steps, the camera’s movement and shot pacing mirror his uncertainty, making the viewer feel as though they are moving alongside him. The dim lighting and the complete darkness behind him reflect the ambiguity of his situation. When Nawbar opens the door to Rasūl, we only see her hand as she takes the bag from him, and the door closes behind her (Figure 5). At this moment, the cutting pace shifts. After a brief pause on the door, the film cuts to the next scene.

The absence of Nawbar’s face and body, replaced by a close-up of her hand, is not merely a visual void; this momentary absence is charged with meaning. The absence of her face and body, together with the simplicity of her action, signals the subject’s absence on a symbolic level while simultaneously suggesting the body’s presence on a semiotic level.Nawbar’s hand becomes an object of communication, a point of intersection between two bodies that are still unable to fully express themselves. Kristeva defines these moments as the threshold between speech and silence, where the body and language intersect and meaning is in the process of “becoming,” the point at which the thetic is born.²⁸Julia Kristeva, Revolution in Poetic Language (New York: Columbia University Press, 1984), 43-44. It is a point where language—here, the image—has not yet fully entered the order of symbolic representation, and through a partial or incomplete expression rooted in emotion and the body, it produces a fluctuating meaning. In other words, the viewer is faced with the manifestation of the thetic in the absence of a face.

The viewer is confronted with the manifestation of the thetic in the absence of Nawbar’s face—a face that could easily convey her emotions, yet its omission opens the way for an experience of contact in absence. Thus, in this scene, the body is absent from the image but present in the viewer’s imagination, signifying a physical absence that opens the door to signifiance. The cautious camera does not erase the subject. Instead, by closely focusing on the hand and avoiding direct depiction, it reshapes the subject, presenting the woman’s presence through an incomplete yet powerful expression of her body. In this case, resistance is not expressed through direct action, but through the absence and erasure of Nawbar’s body, creating a new form of resistance. The absence of the face and body, rather than creating a sense of void for the viewer, opens up the possibility for a different kind of bodily presence. The Nawbar’s hand, as a point of contact, symbolizes the implicit presence of her body and reveals that even in conditions of erasure, the woman’s body can be redefined through signs and sensory details.

Jennifer Barker defines such moments as examples of indirect tactile experience in the image, where the presence of the body is not conveyed through its literal existence within the frame, but through the viewer’s sense of its being.²⁹Jennifer M. Barker, The Tactile Eye: Touch and the Cinematic experience (University of California Press, 2009), 23-25. As mentioned, For Merleau-Ponty, the body of each person is integral to the perception of the “Other.” Thus, the hand that emerges from the door is not merely a representation of a character, but a manifestation of a subjective relationship that operates beyond sight, revealing meaning to both Rasūl and the viewer simultaneously. For Rasūl, it signifies acceptance from Nawbar; for the viewer, in Barker’s terms, it becomes a tactile-visual experience, where—even without physical contact—the sensory presence of Nawbar’s hand is felt perceptually and emotionally.

 

In the next scene (Figure 6), the camera shows both of them in a full shot, next to a dry pool, facing the viewer. Nawbar, barefoot and looking hesitant, is leaning against the wall next to Rasūl. The camera cuts to a slow zoom-in on Rasūl, sitting helplessly on the porch steps, under dim light, speaking to Nawbar in a desperate, tearful tone. The lighting highlights Rasūl’s uncertain state, which is crucial to the story. It depicts the moment when the line between wanting and not wanting, speaking and remaining silent, acceptance and rejection begins to blur. The camera then slowly zooms in on Rasūl’s distressed, desperate face, he speaks with anguish, his words filled with sobs: “Just tell me no… tell me you don’t want me… say it and set me free… my dignity… my honor… I’ll take care of you like my own daughter for as long as I live, maybe even more than them… that’s all I ever meant to do… I just got caught up… I suddenly became trapped… a prisoner…”³⁰The Blue-Veiled, dir. Rakhshān Banī-I‛timād (Iran, 1995), 00:55:05-00:55:34. From Kristeva’s perspective, this is a liminal moment where the “thetic” and the “symbolic” intersect. Nawbar’s body— her occasional, hesitant, and sometimes ashamed glances at Rasūl — bears the shifts of the semiotic order. Here, the viewer observes a struggle between the semiotic order (emotion, desire, silence, hidden sexual inclinations) and the stabilizing structure of the symbolic order. However, the shift in this dynamic occurs from the thetic to the symbolic state.

Then, as the camera focuses on Rasūl, we see him arranging Nawbar’s slippers while urging her to reject and deny his feelings: “Tell me you’re like a father to me… tell me this is immoral… I don’t want you to waste your youth on me.”³¹The Blue-Veiled, dir. Rakhshān Banī-I‛timād (Iran, 1995), 00:55:43-00:55:58. Here, Rasūl enters the symbolic realm, speaking from the position of father, morality, social order, and established rules. However, his body, especially in the act of arranging the slippers and the pain on his face, still belongs to the semiotic realm. It’s a space where the body goes beyond language, where his movements express a kind of desire, tenderness, and longing that contradict his words. In this scene, Rasūl carries a physical tension that he tries to hide with his words. In response, Nawbar pulls her feet back (Figure 7). She doesn’t put on the slippers, offering a mute, defiant reply to Rasūl’s words. It is a response without a firm “yes” or “no,” which Kristeva refers to as the thetic ⸺ a “threshold where meaning is in the process of formation but has yet to be fully realized. Nawbar’s body, with her feet pulled back and her legs tense, silently expresses a longing that words can’t capture. She only says a short sentence, neither rejecting nor fully accepting: “What if I’m willing? Do I still have to say no?”³²The Blue-Veiled, dir. Rakhshān Banī-I‛timād (Iran, 1995), 00:56:10-00:56:14.

Thus, Rasūl seeks to shape his desire through ethical and rational standards, within the symbolic realm of language, social rules, norms, structures, and shared meanings. In other words, when Rasūl urges Nawbar to say ‘no,’ he is, in fact, trying to bring their relationship back into the symbolic, ethical framework. However, from the very beginning of the film, Nawbar has undermined all of Rasūl’s efforts to suppress this love. Nawbar’s response, caught between acceptance and shame, signals a moment when the thetic breaks through, when language, with all its rules, fails to contain psychosomatic mobility. More precisely, this psychosomatic mobility refers to an unstable, dynamic energy arising from the inner struggles of mind and body, which, before it can be shaped into structured language, expresses itself through sensory, emotional, and bodily forms. From the semiotic perspective, the body is not merely a physiological object but a dynamic force shaped by the unconscious, emotions, and desire—a continual flow embodied in the tremor of a voice, the pulsation of muscles, the hesitation in a glance, the pauses in speech, incomplete gestures, and ambiguous responses.

I emphasize the existence of psychosomatic mobility for two reasons. First, the viewer feels the tension of the scene—a space shaped by glances, Rasūl’s silence, and the distance between the two bodies on the dimly lit porch. Second, there’s the emotional tension beneath Nawbar’s calm, ambiguous, yet meaningful response. This response comes from an inner process where desire, shame, and doubt subtly shape her words. Her refusal to wear the slippers becomes a quiet but powerful expression of her mixed longing and a silence full of meaning.

Thus, the emotional tone of the scene and Nawbar’s voice set the stage for the semiotic to emerge. His response is not a clear statement; it shows his feelings and body directly, rather than through words. His voice is steady, yet his response is still an act of disobedience. This kind of resistance does not show as an open confrontation; instead, it appears in the hesitation, ambiguity, and delay of her response. It is neither linguistic nor explicit—it is bodily and emotional, a force that, rather than being fixed within the symbolic order, remains at the threshold of the thetic, leaving meaning uncertain. Therefore, Nawbar resists quietly, refusing to follow the clear and certain rules of language. This form of defiance, shown in silence, uncertain meaning, and bodily gestures, offers an alternative to blind obedience.

Ultimately, from Jennifer Barker’s perspective, this scene creates a tactile-visual experience for the viewer. Nawbar’s voice, her hesitant and ashamed presence, and the dim lighting all work together to involve the viewer’s body in the emotion of the scene. Moreover, from the phenomenological perspective of Merleau-Ponty, the body is not merely an object of observation; it serves as the medium through which we perceive and make sense of the world. In human experience, the “Other” is not merely an object of observation; the “Other” possesses a body that we perceive, sense, touch, and share space with.

From a technical perspective, the shot of arranging the slippers—showing only Nawbar’s feet and the slippers in close-up—is a careful and subtle way of showing the characters’ inner feelings and desires. The camera angle is low, at foot level, an unconventional choice that conveys intimacy. By not showing the faces, the shot makes the body the center of meaning, creating a sensory connection that replaces language.

Embodied Perception through Objects

As the film progresses, the viewer sees Nawbar’s cheerful mood before Rasūl arrives, shown through scenes of her cleaning the yard, washing clothes, and laughing playfully. From Merleau-Ponty’s perspective, the human body is connected to the world, and this connection is not made solely through seeing but also through action. When Nawbar washes clothes, sweeps, or splashes water on the ground, her bodily actions merge her with the surrounding space. Objects are identified in relation to Nawbar’s body; the linen she washes seems to become an extension of her hand. Even the basin, previously empty of water and flowerpots, is now filled with water and surrounded by flowerpots. In other words, objects are not merely tools; they function as perceptual extensions that amplify bodily presence and convey intensity, desire, and vitality within the space.³³Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Phenomenology of Perception (London: Routledge Classics, 2002), 160–162.

In this regard, Justin Remes introduces the term “an uncanny presence of the absent,” referring to a state in which characters or visual elements are absent, yet their presence continues to be felt in the space and the viewer’s experience. In this way, when a character or certain actions are absent, the viewer’s attention shifts to objects, empty spaces, and indirect interactions—elements that carry traces of the character, through which their mediated or shadowy presence is felt.³⁴Justin Remes, Absence in Cinema: The Art of Showing Nothing (New York: Columbia University Press, 2020), 138–139. In my view, this process serves at least three important functions. First, it decentralizes the traditional narrative, so that a character’s presence is not limited to their direct actions but is also conveyed through objects and secondary signs. Second, we experience the character’s body indirectly; even when we don’t see it, its emotions and presence are felt in the space and objects. Third, this process allows the female character to resist being completely erased, keeping her presence alive as a shadowy but strong figure.

According to Jennifer Barker, cinema represents the body to the viewer not only through the gaze but also through a kind of visual touch. In this scene, the movement of objects, such as shaking out wet clothes and hanging them on the clothesline, acts like the film’s “skin,” serving as the viewer’s first tactile experience. Nawbar’s body is also perceived through the skin of these objects. In this scene, instead of Nawbar’s body being the main focus, it is shown through the objects she touches, arranges, and prepares for Rasūl’s arrival. In several later scenes, especially the night Nawbar welcomes Rasūl and prepares a platter of colorful fruits for him, this idea is recreated. The variety of colors and types of fruit that Nawbar prepares and presents to Rasūl creates an unexperienced connection between them, a visual and sensory encounter that serves as a substitute for their direct physical touch. This embodied sign, rooted in the emotional unconscious according to Kristeva, transforms into an intense experience of the body within the language of cinema.

Indirect Touch of the Body

In a scene that marks Nawbar’s wedding night, she is in a long white gown, barefoot, running toward Rasūl across the garden in slow motion. Her bare feet move slowly, giving the scene a poetic, sensual feel, as if time is stretching just to show how deep her desire goes (Figure 8). One body wears shoes, the other is barefoot, symbolizing the intimacy soon to unfold between them. The camera focuses on her bare feet as she moves toward Rasūl.

In this scene, Nawbar’s body transforms into another form; it ceases to be merely an object of the gaze. Instead, the body manifests a joy and fervor that, as Merleau-Ponty asserts, resembles a tactile body inhabiting the world—one that can be felt, touched, or experienced—not a body to be observed, but one to be engaged with. The movement of the feet is not simply perceived as a visual contact; instead, it evokes a sensory, tactile engagement. This is where Banī-I‛timād’s perspective, the language of cinema, and Jennifer Barker’s theory of tactile experience converge. Hamid Naficy also discusses this shot: “This single shot suggests wedding-night lovemaking without breaking modesty rules.”³⁵Hamid Naficy, A Social History of Iranian Cinema. volume 4: The Globalizing Era, 1984–2010 (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2012), 159.

The camera’s creative use of slow-motion shots and its focus on bare feet, particularly during the wedding night, serves as a form of resistance. Nawbar’s body expresses desire and meaning freely, even when social and moral limits are imposed. The flowing water highlights her resistance; each step she takes is met with the movement of water, and despite facing its resistance, her body moves freely and meaningfully.

An important point here is the presence of Sinawbar, Nawbar’s sister. At the beginning of the film, we see that Rasūl allows Nawbar to bring her along to the farm so she won’t be left alone and unattended at home. Sinawbar, unlike the harsh environment of the farm and factory, belongs to the world of home, love, and possibly Nawbar’s past. Her childlike presence can be looked at in two different ways:

First: According to Kristeva’s theory, Sinawbar embodies qualities of the semiotic order, such as physical and emotional dependence on others, and she has yet to move into the more rational, rule-bound world. The way a child speaks isn’t through complete words but rather through body language, emotions, and facial expressions. This form of communication is tied to the early, more instinctual connection to the mother, before the child enters the world of structured language and logic.

Second: Sinawbar is an embodiment of Nawbar’s identity, a symbol of her past innocence, representing a version of Nawbar that has not yet been touched by society’s cruelty. For example, when there’s no news of Rasūl and he’s absent, Sinawbar, who is very attached to him, is shown in the film as sad and waiting. This shot, without words or action, shows Sinawbar sitting on a pile of earth, her worried eyes staring into the distance, her body still but tense. In the absence of words, this shot conveys her deep emotional attachment. Through silence and a fixed gaze into the distance, Sinawbar silently expresses her concern with her body language; this body is active through emotions and a childlike language, expressed through the sensory and visual elements of the film. On the night when Rasūl returns home to her and Nawbar, we see Sinawbar’s head resting on Rasūl’s lap as she listens to the story he tells, unwilling to go to bed and wanting to stay beside him (Figure 9).

This scene, while it could be understood within the traditional family and cultural norms of Iranian society, is actually quite complex. Sinawbar, with her childlike behavior, not only shows her attachment but also uses her body to communicate signifiance. In this moment, Rasūl is no longer just an employer or stranger, but Nawbar’s husband, offering warmth and comfort in their home. It’s as if Sinawbar acts as a bridge; her body expresses not only her own emotions but also Nawbar’s desires. In this context, resistance is about being at the “threshold,” not directly showing Nawbar’s desires, as they are forbidden or censored in the symbolic world. However, these desires are not entirely erased, as they still flow through Sinawbar’s body and her attachment to Rasūl. So, resistance here means staying in a liminal space, where the film hints at Nawbar’s desires without openly revealing them.

Hamid Naficy interprets Sinawbar’s role as “an adult substitute for evading modesty censors [in a scene that] strongly suggests that the daughter is a stand-in for her mother who cannot touch her lover and lay her head on his lap.”³⁶Hamid Naficy, A Social History of Iranian Cinema. volume 4: The Globalizing Era, 1984–2010 (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2012), 159.

Wound as a Language of Protest

At the end of the film, when Rasūl and Nawbar’s relationship is exposed, the entire family is shocked. Meanwhile, as his daughters become increasingly worried and create a scene, Rasūl suffers a heart attack. After Rasūl is taken to the hospital, his daughters try to take action. Ansiyah goes to Nawbar to persuade her to separate from Rasūl, but Nawbar insists she will only agree if Rasūl himself asks for it. After arguing with Nawbar, Ansiyah threatens, insults, and eventually beats her. When Rasūl is discharged from the hospital, he goes straight to Nawbar’s house and sees that she’s been beaten. This scene is one of the most intense moments in the film, showing the struggle between the body, power, and language in a powerful way. What’s interesting is that Banī-I‛timād doesn’t show the actual beating or the person doing it. The audience only sees the aftermath of the violence. By leaving the violent act out, Banī-I‛timād aims to send a strong message. She draws attention to women and urges the audience to recognize the violence that is often hidden in society. The truth is, women suffer even when no one witnesses it.

By withholding the violence, the film creates a gap that allows the viewer to sense the resistance behind it. This scene gives a voice to women from lower social classes, who are often silenced and endure greater hardships than women from other social backgrounds. Nawbar tells Rasūl what happened to her, while the pain from the experience still affects her (Figure 10). Nawbar’s face becomes a symbol of power and, in a way, a form of resistance. When she faces Ansiyah, this resistance becomes more apparent. Despite being humiliated and offered a bribe, Nawbar stands firm in her dignity and says, “If I am to leave, I’ll go tonight, right now, but only if Rasūl himself wants me to.”³⁷The Blue-Veiled, dir. Rakhshān Banī-I‛timād (Iran, 1995), 01:17:08-01:17:16. This bold statement emphasizes the strong, independent role that the film gradually develops for women.

On the other hand, by depicting the aftermath of violence rather than the act itself, the film invites the viewer to imagine and empathize with Nawbar. Withholding the violence intensifies its emotional impact. Banī-I‛timād deliberately refrains from showing the act to prevent the viewer from perceiving the woman solely as a victim. Instead, the viewer is confronted with Nawbar’s wounded face, prompting them to derive signifiance from the absence of the incident itself.

In this scene, the close-up of Nawbar’s wounded face creates an emotional connection: her trembling voice, tear-filled eyes, and pauses between words clearly express the emotions through her body language. The close-up of Nawbar’s face, fragile and trembling with pain, draws the viewer into an emotional connection through her expression and body language. In Merleau-Ponty’s view, a relationship with another can only be formed when one is able to engage with the “speaking subject,” the embodied expression of the other: “What I communicate with primarily is not ‘representations’ or thought, but a speaking subject, with a certain style of being and with the ‘world’ at which he directs his aim.”³⁸Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Phenomenology of Perception (London: Routledge Classics, 2002), 213.

Ultimately, in the final scene of the film (Figure 11), there is a symbolic moment. Nawbar and Rasūl are moving toward each other from opposite sides of the road, but a passing train arrives, preventing them from meeting and blocking their view of one another. This moment serves not only as the dramatic climax of the film but also symbolizes a traditional societal perspective, particularly within the upper class, where the desire for such a union is regarded as taboo. Society continually puts obstacles to this love, manifesting through social, economic, and moral barriers. In this sense, the train symbolizes opposing forces, such as tradition, society, or law, that prevent a romantic relationship from developing outside traditional class boundaries. Nonetheless, the scene allows space for the viewer to imagine and interpret alternative possibilities.

Resistance in this scene can be understood in two ways: First, within the narrative itself, Nawbar and Rasūl’s desire persists despite the obstacle of the train, suggesting that their longing remains intact, even as society attempts to thwart it. Second, on a cinematic level, the film portrays the lovers’ failed attempt at union while simultaneously inviting the viewer to envision alternative outcomes. Thus, the resistance in this scene is not about overcoming obstacles, but about keeping desire alive and maintaining hope for different possibilities, even in the face of failure.

Female Subjectivity and Resistance in The Lady of May

Another example of subjectivity and resistance is the film The May Lady (1998) by Rakhshān Banī-I‛timād. The main character, Furūgh Kiyā, is a documentary filmmaker from a wealthy, well-educated background, who encounters an emotional crisis in middle age. She lives with her 22-year-old son, Mānī, who fears that if his mother remarries, his financial and emotional security will be at risk. Furūgh struggles to balance motherhood with her need for independence, while society and cultural expectations pressure women like her to stick to traditional rules.

An analysis of the film shows that the director intentionally uses the absence of the male character, Dr. Rahbar (her supervisor), as a structural device. He is never physically present, only appearing through phone calls, letters, and poetry recitations. This absence serves as a unique narrative and visual tool for both signifiance and resistance. Far from creating a gap in the story, it shifts the focus to Furūgh’s body and voice, crafting a simultaneous visual-auditory experience that deepens the signifiance. As Merleau-Ponty states, “my body is the seat or rather the very actuality of the phenomenon of expression (Ausdruck), and there the visual and auditory experiences, for example, are pregnant one with the other.”³⁹Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Phenomenology of Perception (London: Routledge Classics, 2002), 273.

Khatereh Sheibani discusses the metaphorical language and form that Banī-I‛timād uses in her storytelling, noting that in The May Lady, the visual poetics is complemented by the verbal poetics of Ahmad Rizā Ahmadī.⁴⁰Ahmad Rizā Ahmadī (1940–2023), an Iranian poet, writer, and playwright, served as the poetic narrator in The May Lady. This fusion hides metaphorical meanings in the text, going beyond the surface narrative to bring out deeper, symbolic interpretations.⁴¹Khatereh Sheibani, “Abbas Kiarostami and the Aesthetics of Ghazal,” in Conflict and Development in Iranian Film, ed. A. Seyed-Gohrab and K. Talattof (Iranian Studies Series; Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2012), 82. In my view, this visual and verbal poetry attains an aesthetic dimension and connects with Kristeva’s concept of the semiotic. The poems, along with the narrative images, create a space where meaning emerges not through direct representation, but through ambiguity, metaphor, and bodily rhythms.

On the other hand, this poetic and metaphorical aspect can also be seen as an act of resistance. In a context where censorship blocks direct expression about gender, body, or desire, the narrative shifts to an implicit, indirect, yet powerful form of communication through the semiotic and poetic atmosphere. Resistance is embedded in the narrative form, where the use of poetry, metaphor, and ambiguity allows the film to subvert the transparency demanded by official discourse, thereby creating an alternative space for marginalized voices and suppressed desires.

Thus, resistance in The May Lady is multi-faceted: first, Furūgh’s corporeality, conveyed through constrained movements, gazes, and the innovative use of the hijab, consistently expresses subjectivity while also serving as a direct protest against societal limitations. Second, signifiance and the symbols of romantic relationships are constructed through the interplay of verbal and visual poetry, allowing the woman’s emotions and desires to be symbolically represented, and thereby engaging the viewer’s sensory and tactile experience. This is achieved through Furūgh’s actions, movements, and interactions, enabling a direct, bodily connection between the viewer and the female subject. The mix of documentary and narrative forms strengthens resistance and signifiance, helping the audience see female resistance to social limits through presence and absence, silence and voice, and symbolic actions. In this way, sensory engagement in The May Lady becomes a key element of signifiance and resistance, conveying the female subject’s experience to the viewer in a bodily, active way.

The third aspect is how women’s identity and social roles are represented, particularly through their relationship with the hijab and other restrictions, which serve as a critique of social and cultural norms. In other words, Furūgh and other women’s actions in facing restrictions and traditions show female agency and resistance. For example, in one scene, Furūgh walks through a doorway at home and reaches to remove her headscarf, but the shot cuts just before she does. In reality, Furūgh does remove it, but not on screen, in the viewer’s imagination. As Norma Claire Moruzzi explains, in this moment, the viewer clearly understands that through the absence of this act, the director signals that in everyday life, Furūgh would remove her headscarf. This visual expression pushes the limits of what is considered acceptable representation in film.⁴²Norma Claire Moruzzi, “Women’s Space/ Cinema Space: Representation of Public and Private in Iranian Films,” Middle East Research and Information Project (Fall 1999): 53.

Furthermore, the construction of this pivotal scene illustrates how Banī-I‛timād strategically employs absence and silence as aesthetic instruments for communication and engagement with the viewer. The incomplete shot of removing the headscarf generates both absence and tactility (physical presence), engaging the viewer on a sensory and symbolic level. The viewer does not witness the act itself but perceives its potential and physicality. Returning to Merleau-Ponty, visual and auditory perception are interconnected; thus, even the absence of a clear image can become a bodily experience. This is precisely what we discussed earlier from Remes, as the aesthetic power of absence; absence as an active force that not only avoids creating a sense of lack but also actively generates meaning. In this sense, the pause and cut in the image demonstrate that resistance is not merely embedded in the narrative content but is also prominently reflected in the film’s form. Through this form, Banī-I‛timād bypasses the boundaries of censorship without overtly transgressing them. This approach directly aligns with the concept of resistance: Using constraints, such as censorship or societal norms, to develop innovative forms of expression and representation. Thus, the form itself becomes a crucial tool, resisting while avoiding direct confrontation.

As a result, it can be argued that The May Lady is not only the story of a woman torn between her maternal role, public identity, and personal desires, but also a metaphorical representation of the director herself: A female filmmaker striving to balance social realities, censorship constraints, and artistic integrity, while avoiding clichés and slogans, transforming the female body into a space for representing resistance and reconstructing subjectivity. These two levels ⸺the narrative and the form⸺ converge, turning the film into a platform for resistance, signifiance, and the viewer’s embodied experience, where absence and silence serve as both elements of meaning and tools of female resistance.⁴³Norma Claire Moruzzi, “Women’s Space/ Cinema Space: Representation of Public and Private in Iranian Films,” Middle East Research and Information Project (Fall 1999): 53.

Conclusion

Rakhshān Banī-I‛timād is widely considered one of the most important and influential female filmmakers in Iran. Over the past four decades, she has created a unique portrayal of women, exploring their bodies, the city, and politics in her films. Her works integrate social narratives addressing family, class, and gender issues, exploring themes of suffering, resistance, breakdown, and the reconstruction of the individual, all while avoiding excessive dramatization or didacticism. Her films not only emphasize social struggles but also employ visual style and language to convey signs of crisis and division, such as the tension between speaking and remaining silent, being present or absent, and exposing the body versus concealing it.

In Iranian social cinema, Banī-I‛timād focuses on the lives of women from both middle and lower classes, tackling problems like poverty, addiction, and war. She intertwines these themes in her films, illustrating how her characters’ bodies, voices, spaces, and narratives reflect their internal emotional and existential struggles. Rather than relying on stereotypes, she transforms the female body into a dynamic expression of resistance, breakdown, and recovery. In her films, the body is not a passive object; instead, it becomes an active site for personal agency and transformation.

Banī-I‛timād’s films integrate form and content in a way that enables the character to reconstruct itself in moments of expressing pain or desire, bridging the gap between words and meaning. This blend of social issues and personal experiences means the bodies of her characters are not reduced to images or stereotypes. Instead, they become places where new meanings and possibilities emerge. In this context, the body takes on a personal dimension that reveals itself in the gaze, voice, silence, and even the failure of the narrative. In this way, the body goes beyond just being a symbol of an idea or a stereotype representing a group. It becomes a space where the character’s personal experiences, suffering, desires, or resistance can be expressed.

Just as there are variations in feminine tone in contemporary Iranian poetry, as seen in the works of Furūgh Farrukhzād and Parvīn Iʿtisāmī, in Iranian cinema, female filmmakers, drawing on their personal experiences and perspectives, offer a distinctive approach to narrating and expressing the feminine subject.⁴⁴Maryam Ghorbankarimi, A Colourful Presence: The Evolution of Women’s Representation in Iranian Cinema (Cambridge: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2015), 52. In her works, Banī-I‛timād, through her feminine tone and perspective, portrays the feminine subject not only on a visual level but also through bodily experience, signifiance, and tactile sensibility. This narrative choice, like the differences in tone in poetry, allows feminine resistance to social and cultural limitations to emerge, giving the viewer a closer understanding of the female character’s lived experience. Through her use of a feminine tone and voice in storytelling, Banī-I‛timād reinforces the representation of women’s perspectives and experiences, placing women’s resistance to societal norms and the creation of signifiance at the core of her films.

The main reasons for this narrative and formal approach in Banī-I‛timād’s work can be explained in the following points. First, she has always sought to tell women’s stories in ways that differ from the male perspective, aiming to provide a fairer view of their concerns and struggles. Second, in her artistic journey, she has learned to rely on bodily perception and pre-linguistic expression, using the senses, impulses, and even silence, to convey women’s lived experiences. Another element is her use of narrative and visual techniques, such as absence, which evoke deeper empathy in the viewer and encourage more active engagement with the film. Finally, through these artistic strategies, Banī-I‛timād, without falling into the trap of sloganizing, connects the personal to the political, offering a thoughtful and rigorous critique of patriarchal structures in Iranian society. Through this approach, she shows how people resist unfair social and cultural power structures.

The film The Blue-Veiled is a prominent example of these factors. The film represents the lives of women from the urban lower class amid psychological, familial, and social crises. Through its attention to corporeality, sound, spatial relations, and the subtle gestures of its characters, the film conveys their lived experiences. In The Blue-Veiled, Banī-I‛timād Carefully and delicately, the film presents the female subject as she faces social and cultural constraints, showing how, through resistance and creativity, she seizes opportunities for new meanings and forms of action even within restrictive conditions.

Furthermore, in Banī-I‛timād’s cinema, the focus on female subjectivity does not entail the elimination or absence of men; rather, it promotes a more nuanced representation of power relations and social structures. Men always occupy a significant role in the narrative; for instance, in The Blue-Veiled, as both employers and romantic partners, and in The May Lady, men are represented as “absent-but-present” figures, whose indirect presence emphasizes the lived experiences of women. By prioritizing women’s experiences and struggles, Banī-I‛timād provides a critical, multifaceted analysis of gender, class, and cultural dynamics of Iranian society. Men in the narrative are not active agents of change or central figures; rather, they serve to maintain or reinforce existing societal beliefs, power structures, and norms, through their actions or social relations. Men thus become part of the structure that shape women’s corporeality, emotions, and resistance. Thus, focusing on women in Banī-I‛timād’s works does not erase men’s presence but redefines their role in relation to women’s experiences and actions.⁴⁵Hamid Naficy, A Social History of Iranian Cinema. volume 4: The Globalizing Era, 1984–2010 (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2012), 162.

My aim now is to integrate Hamid Naficy’s analysis of The May Lady and The Blue-Veiled with the core concepts central to this study. According to Naficy, Banī-I‛timād conveys affectionate physical contact, such as Furūgh drying Mānī’s hair with a towel or gently stroking him under a blanket, by using objects as mediators. This type of contact not only exposes the restrictions of censorship but also transforms them into a semiotic tool. Naficy states in this regard:

“A comparison of The Blue Veiled and The May Lady demonstrates the plasticity of the hermeneutics of male-female physical contact. It appears that physical contact in situations of violence is permissible, but not in moments of tenderness. In the former film, Nobar beats up her brother by slapping and punching him, while in the latter film, Foruq expresses her concern and love for her son (Mani Kasraian) by touching him only indirectly, through mediating cloths […] These gestures of physical expression may seem innocent and small, but they are significant and signifying in the context of modesty rules that prohibit public heterosexual physical contact.”⁴⁶Hamid Naficy, A Social History of Iranian Cinema. volume 4: The Globalizing Era, 1984–2010 (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2012), 162.

Thus, Furūgh has agency not only in the narrative but also in its formal construction; through elements such as her voice, body, and the constraints imposed upon her, she shapes the staging, framing, rhythm, and editing, collectively attaining a critical level of representation. Her representation aligns with the aesthetic potency of absence, as previously explored by Justin Remes: rather than signifying a void, absence and silence emerge as vital sources of sensory engagement and tactile experience for the audience.

Through intricate and sophisticated narrative and visual strategies, Banī-I‛timād expose the existence of forbidden desire and constrained corporeality in cinema, even in the face of physical absence. The body is represented not as a direct visual object, but as an absent, semiotic component of both the narrative and the image. These absent bodies, through gestures, body language, verbal impulses, hesitant glances that often avoid direct eye contact, silence, and positioning, construct profound emotional and social meanings.

Finally, in reference to the film Mainline (Khūn-bāzī, 2006), I return to one of the study’s key defining points: the emphasis on the viewer’s embodied perception while watching a film. As noted by Jennifer Barker, the viewer is not merely a passive observer, but an embodied, active subject engaged with each scene. Analysis of The Blue-Veiled and references to The May Lady demonstrate that Banī-I‛timād’s cinema achieves this bodily connection between film and audience through various techniques. In Mainline, one technique is the use of handheld cinematography, with slight shakes from the cinematographer’s breathing, and the floating movement of the camera. This enhances the sense of presence, allowing the viewer to directly share the character’s tangible experience.⁴⁷Maryam Ghorbankarimi, A Colourful Presence: The Evolution of Women’s Representation in Iranian Cinema (Cambridge: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2015), 69. The viewer shifts from being a passive observer to an active participant in the scene. This tactile connection with the image creates an experience that goes beyond just watching, allowing the viewer to feel present in the scene.

Therefore, this study focuses on the audience’s embodied perception: the film experience is not just about seeing and hearing, but also involves the viewer’s body in the narrative. This embodied experience brings realism to the viewer, exposing the audience to the realities of Iranian life via tangible scenes and situations such as daily life, legal and social restrictions, poverty, and war. At the same time, observing the body, gaze, silence, and symbolic interactions of the characters allows the viewer to feel the pressures, restrictions, and emotions. In this manner, the viewer engages with the characters’ mental and emotional experiences exclusively through the film’s tangible, embodied engagement.