«Your hands can’t grasp my imagination», Asgari addresses Iranian authorities in his latest feature-length documentary, as they try to silence yet another of the country’s prominent filmmakers. It’s a quietly powerful response to the backlash he faced after his 2023 film «Terrestrial Verses» was shown at Cannes Film Festival. This previous feature film revolves around different characters’ reactions as authorities interfere with their personal lives. Apparently, this was enough for Iran’s government to confiscate the director’s personal belongings (including his passport) and impose an eight-month travel ban upon his return to Iran. But rather than letting himself be victimized, Asgari let the forced isolation become a source of inspiration, strength and clarity. Working alongside co-writer Ali Shams, he crafted a poetic and sophisticated film about human connection and political beliefs. Mostly set in the director’s high-rise apartment and shot in black and white, he tries to revive accounts of his childhood, his dreams, and of his beloved, once-green home city. Now, an ominous acidic cloud looms over Tehran and threatens to consume the city and its inhabitants. The director’s wish to fly above it, expresses a deep yearning for (artistic) freedom under political restraints – a pursuit Asgari and his cinematographer have accomplished with effortless grace.
Following the screening of the film at «Visions du Réel» 2025, we were able to sit down with director Ali Asgari and discuss the film and its creation.
How were you able to realize this film despite the restrictions you faced at the time?
Ali Asgari: I made this film because of the restrictions. When I returned from the Cannes Film Festival in 2023, security stopped me at the airport. They confiscated my laptop, my phone, my passport. I was put under house arrest for two months. It felt strange – being so used to social media and constant connection, then suddenly being completely isolated. I had to ask myself: what’s the best way to survive like this? I thought a lot about my childhood, my family, my mother, my dreams, my imaginations. Sure, it was a forced situation, but at the same time it was very inspiring.
I felt that my mind was getting cleaner from all the outside noise that we’re confronted with every day, leaving so much room for memories. I started to write down the things that came to my mind. Metaphorically, it felt like my house had become a prison. Yes, I was allowed to leave my house, but at that time, my previous film was released in different countries and I could not go there; not even talk about it because I didn’t have a phone or laptop. I felt that the people who had imposed this on me not only made my house a jail, but they also turned my country into a prison.
Did you write the whole voice-over during the isolation?
No, after the two months, I started working with a co-writer, Ali Shams, a very good friend of mine. He’s a poet and writer. As we both had a very similar problem, we felt we had to work together. His passport had had also been confiscated by the government and he had been travel banned for a year. We completed my notes, exchanged some ideas and tried to visualize them. Our goal was to connect cinema and poetry.
When did you start filming? Was it a reenactment?
Some parts are a reenactment not just of what happened during those two months, but also what happened after that. Even though they returned my phone and my laptop after two months, they kept my passport for another six. The first 30 minutes of the film were shot during that time. When I was free to travel again, we shot the rest, some parts in Italy and some parts again in Iran. We filmed with a documentary approach, in short bursts and long pauses. Unlike fiction films where you shoot continuously, for a fixed period, we filmed for three or four days at a time, then took breaks as long as two months so I could find more inspiration. In total, there were 11 or 12 shooting days across nearly a year.
In times like these – what power does imagination hold?
I’ve always been a very imaginative person. But especially now, imagination is essential. Even if you’re in jail, your mind can go beyond these walls. It’s an important metaphor for cultivating hope. Our lives are being controlled, not only in Iran, but around the world. The general feeling isn’t that hopeful. But keeping this imagination will help you break free and fly. I use this metaphor because flying is something that everybody can relate to. It also highlights that, at the time, I didn’t feel like a victim at all. I was almost feeling free and hopeful for the future, for life. That’s also why I used more poetic narration and bright images.
Was doing an essay film – rather than a linear narrative – a way for you to channel this more imaginative and free-spirited state of mind?
Yes. My previous films were very narrative, full of stories. But for this one, I decided not to use that kind of storytelling because I didn’t want to show repetitive scenes that people already know. I wanted to express the hopeful side of the situation that I saw and therefore, I decided it would be an essay film. Whenever I make a film, I try not to victimize myself or my characters and I aim to create hope in most of my work.
Did you know from the beginning that it would be shot in black and white?
Yes, this was essential for the mood of the film. Firstly, because there are so many grays in the movie… the grayness of the city, of the sky, the sickness. I didn’t want to show all this ugliness in colors. Secondly, the film is about imagination and dreams. I wanted to enhance this dreamlike atmosphere. And I’ve always been very interested in the film «8½» by Federico Fellini which is also shot in black and white. I studied in Italy and I wanted to pay homage to this important inspiration.
The animated cloud is an interesting element. What is your take on merging reality and fictional elements not only in the narrative but also in documentary films?
That animation in the film was more metaphorical for the dooming situation. But it’s also a reality: If you come to Tehran, especially in winter, the city is enclosed by a huge cloud of pollution which causes a lot of diseases and problems.
In one part of the film, you say «I must ascend through the acidic cloud to the sky» – what will you see when you rise above this acidic cloud?
Again, the cloud was more metaphorically important. It stands for a system that is lurking above this city and this country. A system that is controlling, that causes suffering. Flying above the acidic cloud is a metaphor for resistance, for a hopeful life. It’s also a metaphor for my childhood, for the dreams I had. Childhood memories are so much brighter. As children, we are hopeful for the future but then when we grow up, and we see that the future is not what we expected, we long to return. For me, the best moments in life happen when I’m connected to that time.
In another part of the film, you say you’d rather be a bird. What kind of bird?
I’m not sure it exists in Western culture, but we have a bird called «Bulbul». It’s very special, with a unique voice. They lay eight or nine eggs, but only one in fifty can sing and the rest just mumble. Among those rare ones, only one in a thousand becomes a nightingale, which sings a different song every time. So in in all their life they never sing the same song. I admire that bird very much because, they’re so rare, they fly very well, they sing very well and they have a very special life.
That is beautiful. During the film and before, when I read books by Iranian authors, I had this thought that I will never get the full sense of the original language because Persian sounds so poetic to me. Who did you entrust with translating the voice-over to English?
It was very difficult. A friend who has lived in America for many years, tried to do it. Those who speak Persian know that the voiceover has a poetic aspiration. I’m still not happy with the translation, but it’s very hard to translate literature in general, especially poems. You create something from words and when you translate those words, they transform into something entirely different. You might gain some understanding about what the poet is trying to say, but you can’t feel the exact joy that a native speaker is experiencing. For instance, Rumi’s poems – I understand why Europeans can’t connect that much.
I remember you sharing the Tati word «beparestan», to fly, in the film. Is it an exact translation, or does it engulf more than that?
No, that word literally means «flying». Tati is a very old language that’s getting out of use. It’s what my mother speaks to me and it carries a deep sense of nostalgia. I wanted to include it in the film because minority languages and cultures in Iran are being erased. I’m now trying to make an entire film in Tati, as my mother and many relatives still don’t speak Persian. It’s rare to see such a language in film, but it needs to happen.
Not only the voice-over, but the whole soundscape of the film is very interesting. You’ve merged metallic noises, baroque music, Iranian music, contemplative electronical music, etc. How did you create it?
When making this film, I didn’t expect anything, because it’s a difficult film for the audience – it’s very slow and about a person they don’t know at all. I told my producer Milad that it might just be for us and we would archive it later. So, I wanted to be as free as possible in everything. For the sound too, I decided to be unlimited, to use music that I listen to in my private life. The sounds are a key element of the film because there is only the image and the voice-over. It helps to create the mood, to get inside the characters’ mind, and conveys this feeling of dreaming and imagination.
Now that the film has been shared with the world, can you talk about what your goal is with the film? Who is it for?
I wanted to create something personal about my mother and me, as we have a very close connection. That’s why there’s a long scene focused on her and the feeling of her hands. It’s a deeply personal film, and when making it, I didn’t worry about distribution or festivals. The urge to make it was just so strong. However, after showing it to friends, they became very emotional and felt it would resonate with many people from all over the world because it touches on universal themes like language, motherhood, sisterhood, home and nostalgia. This led me to pursue distribution. I never expected the film to be seen as a pure documentary since it’s partly a reenactment. But adding my sisters’ scene and other elements shifted it toward a documentary film essay. Milad had a connection with the International Documentary Film Festival Amsterdam (IDFA), the biggest documentary film festival and despite thinking the film might be too personal for it, they selected it for competition. From that moment, I realized the film could reach a broader audience. It went on to have a great festival record.
Where do you find the strength to keep making films, even though you face so much reprisal?
As I told you, I wanted it to be a testimony to my family, my mother and my city. In the film, I speak about the things I love. The strength comes from there. I tried to be as honest as possible in the film – which was very difficult… to show myself, my family, many secrets of my life. But once I saw the film at the IDFA, I was very pleased to have made it.
«Higher Than Acidic Clouds» premiered at the International Documentary Film Festival Amsterdam (IDFA) in November 2024. Ali Asgari was born in 1982 in Tehran. He studied film in his home city Tehran and Rome. Over his career, he has realized 14 short films as well as 4 feature-length movies, both fiction and documentary. One of his most important sources of inspiration is poetry.
17. Mai 2025