Mania Akbari: Aristotle, by observing and analyzing humans, defined humans as rational animals, recognizing two dimensions: thought and body. Friedrich Nietzsche is one of the few philosophers in the Western philosophical tradition who used animal metaphors and allegories to convey his profound purposes and goals. It’s important to note that Nietzsche’s use of this style wasn’t merely to embellish his work or to boast. Still, rather, it reflected a deep and masterful perspective on the concept of animality and the animalistic nature of humans. However, Nietzsche understood human animality differently from Aristotle’s definition of humans as rational animals. Nietzsche presents a novel perspective, where the concept of animality in its biological sense forms a bridge between humans and the natural world. Through this concept, Nietzsche attempts to redefine humanity and return it to its original meaning—re-naturalizing the values that belong to humanity. In your film Animal, we encounter a human with the head of an animal—a bull—which recalls the “Minotaur,” the creature in Greek mythology with the body of a human and the head of a bull, born from the union of the wife of Minos, king of the island of Crete, with a white bull. This story symbolizes humanity’s age-old greed and desire to grasp the illuminated sides of opposites while suppressing their darker aspects. The Minotaur represents the lust and instinctual, animalistic drives of humans that emerge as impulses—the dark, unknown part of the psyche. These impulses tear apart the mask of the “virtuous” human and reveal the ignorance of their own “shadow.” When these masks fall, the unrecognized and undeveloped desires and instincts of humans create a society of ferocious Minotaurs, released from the labyrinths of repression and driven by their long-standing hunger and greed. The film Animal portrays the myth of a human with the head of an animal, where salvation lies in a human becoming an animal and an animal becoming human. Yet, ultimately, this interpretation is destroyed by a human. The Animal is a human who, to cross a border covered by a fence without being harmed, must become an animal. In this border, the humans are not safe from other humans, so for the sake of survival, they transform into animals. After escaping the danger and reaching the forest, the human is then killed by a hunter. In any case, neither human nor animal is ever safe from humans. At the moment when the human-animal in the film Animal is killed by a human, I was reminded of the conversation between Nigel Warburton and Peter Singer about animals, where Singer said: “I just want to emphasize the fact that by doing this, we are imposing unnecessary suffering on animals. That alone is enough to show that what we are doing is wrong, because we are not doing it to save human lives, but merely because we like to eat certain kinds of food.” In the film Animal, a boundary is crossed between a human who wants to become an animal and an animal who wants to become human, warning us of humanity’s violence against living beings and all sentient creatures. Could you elaborate a little on these concepts?

Bahman Ark

Bahman Ark: At the beginning of the film, we show a man hiding inside a tree to camouflage himself. In reality, the entire atmosphere of the film is about seeking refuge in nature to escape the human condition, to the point where, like the Minotaur, he becomes a creature in limbo. There was a time when the fusion of humans and animals symbolized power and the gods. But in our film, this symbol represents a deficiency and an uncertainty between animal instincts and being human. We are in a struggle. On one hand, we want to be free and unbound, but on the other hand, we define boundaries and limitations for ourselves. At one point in the film, after gaining freedom, the character urinates while standing up, as if he has returned to his primal instincts and feels a sense of liberation. That’s the moment when he merges with nature and runs wildly until he is hunted down. I think modern humans are constantly trapped between their human virtues and their instincts, like the Minotaur. They are lost, much like Enkidu, the friend of Gilgamesh, who learned culture from him but couldn’t bear being separated from nature.

Bahram Ark: I think if a human wants to be free, there must be some form of constraint. Years ago, I read a book by Erich Fromm called Escape from Freedom. The essence of his argument was that humans today believe they have become more free, but they have distanced themselves from true freedom. In the past, under the feudal system, a person knew what the master wanted, what they, as servants, were supposed to do, and what the master would do in return. Now, the situation is different. Humans think they are free, but they are trapped by all sorts of hegemonies and systems of power. In reality, you could say we are trapped in a false sense of freedom. We claim to be free, but in a way, we’ve moved beyond that. To me, Animal evokes this notion of escape from freedom. The character cannot escape the border as a human because, as a human, he is under the control of another, stronger human. So, he must revert to his animal nature. In doing so, he steps outside the realm of humanity and is no longer under human control. But even then, he is caught by a hunter, as if freedom is always slipping away. Interestingly, we initially didn’t plan for the character to be hunted by a human in Animal. We originally intended for a leopard to catch him within the realm of animals, as prey. We thought this would have made the film take a bigger step forward. A border is not something drawn from the outside. The border is inherent in our essence. Whatever you are, you can’t escape from it because your essence traps you. Even if you become an animal, you are still confined within a different system, bound by a different framework. Because you exist, you are imprisoned.

Hesam Yousefi: The short film Animal presents itself within the thriller genre, with layers of absurdism embedded within it. Through its clever use of sound design, it also leans into the realms of horror and suspense. In the film, we encounter both an external human space and an internal human space. The internal space gradually transforms from dream and fantasy into reality, a reality that imprisons itself within an animal’s skin. In a way, the human frees themselves from their own inner self, yet still finds themselves trapped in nature, leading to a form of nihilism. In other words, even if a person frees themselves from their inner imprisonment as an individual and from the external imprisonment as a social or collective human within society or the environment, they remain eternally imprisoned by nature. The film’s atmosphere is shaped by both the imagery and sound, which together craft the inner and outer worlds of the character, conveying them intelligently to the audience. Could you tell us a bit about the idea behind the screenplay, its development, and the film’s atmosphere? How significant were the hidden meanings and concepts in the film for you?

Bahman Ark: The idea for the film came about very simply. We were waiting for a guard to let us into an area, but the guard wouldn’t allow us in. At that moment, a cat slipped through the bars and went inside. I said, “Well, we’re not even as lucky as a cat.” That’s when we thought this would be an interesting concept to turn into a film, and we expanded the story from there. However, it took a few months to write the story. I should mention that, in terms of form, we were looking for a new visual style that would give the film a stream-of-consciousness feel. But we didn’t want it to be confusing. As directors, we tried to concretize all the concepts that had an inner significance for the character in the mise-en-scène and execution. We were clear about what the film was about: we were discussing a freedom that can never truly be attained.

Bahram Ark: The film is about a metamorphosis. The central idea told us that the more we could illustrate the way of becoming animalistic, the longer we could keep the light of the film burning. The audience needed to follow this process of transformation because Animal is about his inevitable metamorphosis to escape. Therefore, our priority was to show and explore how this transformation occurs. The film’s soundtrack, based on this animalistic theme, led us toward shamanic sounds. In shamanism, there is a fundamental emphasis on returning to nature and returning to one’s roots. This counterpoint to humanity contributed to our film’s culture, which is why the film begins with our character hiding within a tree. These shamanic sounds are woven into the film from this point. In terms of creating atmosphere, we wanted to make the work timeless and placeless, which guided our set and lighting design.

Mania Akbari

Mania Akbari: Now, regarding the brilliant film Skin, let’s first address the film’s subject, which is directly about magic, sorcery, and witchcraft. Magic should be understood as a collection of methods, beliefs, and actions used by a specific group to control natural circumstances in order to achieve particular goals (which can be either good or bad). The word “magic” in Persian means sorcery and witchcraft, derived from the term (Jadugar) in Middle Persian. According to the writings of Henrik Samuel Nyberg, a Swedish orientalist and Iranologist, this word appears in Persian as (Uatuk), with its ancient form being (Yatuka). The first part of this term is used in the Avesta as (Yatu), meaning sorcery and magic. In the Avesta, this word is attributed to a group of evil spirits and demons that are perpetually at war against the deities and forces of good. However, it’s important to note that what is used in Western languages to mean magic and witchcraft is derived from the Greek word “mageia” or “magic,” which in turn comes from the term “Magi,” referring to the tribe of Medes who were responsible for ritual affairs during the Median era and thereafter. This term has also found its way into Arabic as (Majus). The roots of belief in magic and witchcraft in Iran can be traced back to the indigenous tribes inhabiting the region. Archaeological findings in ancient Iranian mounds illuminate that these peoples undoubtedly practiced magic. The belief in deities with magical powers that could take various forms, as seen among the Elamites, and the use of amulets and talismans with different shapes or symbols to ward off the evil eye all indicate this belief in magic and sorcery among these people. In the eyes of ancient Iranians, magic and magicians were seen as servants of evil, and sorcery was considered one of the gravest sins. This is why, in the Pahlavi narratives, which are remnants from the Sasanian period and include the prescriptions of a group of priests, the second sin that warrants death after murder is sorcery. Although there was a belief that magicians were servants of evil, at times, their presence was utilized for healing ailments. For instance, a person named “Satrag,” who was the most skilled healer, was a magician familiar with herbal remedies and treated patients. The practical application and differentiation between magic and sorcery are not clearly defined across various societies and nations. In many cultures worldwide, including Iran, people typically do not differentiate between the acts of a sorcerer and a magician; they often regard both practices as almost the same, using sorcery, magic, and sometimes enchantment for specific purposes. Meanwhile, in certain societies and during specific historical periods, people and some writers have distinguished between sorcery and magic based on the method of operation, social and cultural contexts, and their modes of influence. How did you come to explore such a controversial and historical subject, and how did you become acquainted with the concepts of magic and witchcraft? Even though the film is based on local folklore, why did the topic of “magic” and this local legend become significant to you?

Bahman Ark: Initially, we had a story that was more poetic. The narrative revolves around a man who takes a bag to a bag maker for repair. The bag maker recognizes the bag as one he had previously gifted to his former lover and realizes it belonged to someone he once loved. The bag maker writes a letter and places it inside the lining of the bag, and after repairing it, he gives it back to the man, which rekindles an old relationship between him and his former lover. That was the initial story we had. However, perhaps Behnam and I were looking for more adventure than simply creating a realistic poetic film. It’s likely why we asked ourselves, what if the letter found in that bag is a magic spell of separation? With this question, magic suddenly enveloped our film. At that time, Behnam was immersed in the paintings of Mohammad Siyah Qalam, a famous artist known for his whimsical art. The idea of an artist beginning to illustrate supernatural beings and seeing and depicting things was intriguing to us. When you draw something that doesn’t exist and give it substance, it is full of contradictions—an understanding that isn’t truly knowledge. This understanding, being solely the life experience of the artist, cannot be generalized; it cannot serve as a template for the masses. The point where that artist stands at the end of the seventh century and reaches this supernatural illustration is peculiar. In a way, it can be said to be madness. Well, the combination of that initial part of my conversation regarding the letter that turned into a spell of separation with the technique of illustration led us to draw magic into Skin. Our next question was how can we present this magic? How can we create a realistic film where magic is a part of that reality? Like One Hundred Years of Solitude or the books of Carlos Castaneda about Don Juan that we had read in our youth—those captivating stories that you believed in while also questioning their possibility. It was after this that local legends were added to our idea. We said this is the way: our own oral legends, those we grew up with. They are inherent in us, both original and part of our unconscious. In Azerbaijan, we have a character named “Dede Qorqud,” someone who would take his instrument and narrate ancient legends through music. He is a mythical figure who tells moral tales. Stories like “Deli Dumrul,” who fights with Azrael but is ultimately defeated. His tales are full of ethical lessons. This tradition of Dede Qorqud has given rise to “Ashiqs.” The “Ashiqs” are individuals who still play instruments in Azerbaijan and serve as the oral narrators of our ancient literature. Imagine what could be more beautiful than someone constantly singing and narrating moral stories with their instrument. Each “Ashiq” who is older knows more of the poetry and this oral literature. An “Ashiq” doesn’t tell you to wait in plain language; instead, they recite a poem and tell a story that recommends patience. We grew up with these legends. The folk literature, being popular and often moralizing and slogan-like, has received less attention in screenwriting. In this regard, we made significant efforts for the film to function within the framework of a screenplay while also resembling our oral literature. We wanted it to echo the tales of our grandmothers, sharing the same feelings that those stories evoked in us with our audience. Skin operates more in the realm of realistic magic; it aims to be authentic while also transcending mere reality.

Bahram Ark: The reason is that I have become tired of reality. I am always searching for the fantastical. The magic and enchantment have been forgotten in Iranian cinema. I am looking for a way to be imaginative. I think Bahram has provided complete explanations.

Hesam Yousefi: The film “Poost” captivates the audience with its poetic and philosophical atmosphere, adorned with beautiful Azerbaijani music. The images clearly follow a specific narrative. The film’s story intelligently weaves through human beliefs and the determinism of nature. Humans seek to control the constraints imposed by nature through magic based on their beliefs. Anger, curses, love, hatred, health, happiness, misery, and even nature itself are all part of this. While magic is a religious and metaphysical phenomenon, it acts in contradiction to religion and has been rejected and banned by Abrahamic religions. In Europe, during the peak of the church’s power, witches were burned alive in public spaces and labeled as extraterrestrial and demonic beings. In the Middle East, witches did not have a good reputation among the people and the religious. You made the film “Poost” in the geographical context of Iran, where a religious government rules. What are the processes and difficulties of making such a film in a religious society under the control of a religious regime? What challenges and obstacles did you face in the production of the film? Additionally, another striking aspect is the choice of language in the film, which utilizes the Azerbaijani language. In Iran, many languages and ethnicities have been marginalized, banned, or oppressed. Persian is the only language that holds complete dominance in Iranian cinema. When filmmakers attempt to use another language, it’s typically limited to a few dialogues and is then continued in a forced and jarring manner in accented Persian. How did you decide to make the film entirely in Azerbaijani in such a context? What challenges and obstacles did you encounter? What artistic or social impact does making a film in one’s native language have in different geographical regions of Iran?

Bahman Ark: Well, there were several instances where they denied us permission. We worked hard to prove to them that this film represents a ritualistic narrative. They disagreed with us at first, but eventually, they agreed to let the work proceed. When we finally obtained the permit, it felt like a miracle. Making the film in Turkish was essential for making the film’s atmosphere believable. Since we lived in that culture and our story was set within it, we didn’t want to translate ourselves. However, we had to use actors who were familiar with the Turkish language, which created a challenge. Part of the audience who prefers not to read subtitles or wants to see famous actors may be deterred from watching the film. Although “Skin” has been seen, it still remains somewhat obscure.

Bahram Ark

Bahram Ark: Regarding the language of the film, I must say that for years, filmmakers from the periphery in Iran have been thinking about making films in their mother tongue. You cannot ignore the geography in which you have lived in your film. For years now, we have witnessed the production of Turkish films in Tabriz, and insisting on this matter is, in a way, a form of protest. It’s a protest against the idea that you can stifle the multicultural nature of Iran with a single official language. Kurds, Arabs, Turks, and others each want to express their culture. The insistence on making films in the mother tongue is a struggle against this one-sided prevailing thought. Language is the essence of culture. By neglecting it, you essentially kill it. Our film was indeed made in Turkish and was publicly screened. However, there are still those who have grievances about this issue.

Mania Akbari: How did you advance the common path of storytelling? In a way, the film’s form, rhythm, imagery, sound, music, and singing are so intertwined that it is impossible to remove any moment, point, place, or thread. These intertwined connections present us with a complete and dynamic form that results in a solid and distinct film overall. Did you write the story first and then create the visuals and settings based on it, or did the story and imagery develop simultaneously, where one couldn’t exist without the other? Personally, sometimes I create a story for a specific image, and I find it captivating when the image drives the story forward—where the alluring image appears first, and then a sound overlays it. How was the primary structure of your film developed? Did you have an image in mind that you envisioned and wanted to realize in the film, ultimately manifesting that image? Did the visual aspect of the film take shape before the narrative connections?

Bahman Arak: Some images only manifest in cinema. These images leave a mark in the viewer’s mind. If a film can create its own memory, then it has accomplished its goal. For example, I had images in my mind of a jinn wedding combined with the weddings of village people, which I heard as a child in mysterious stories. Or the image of a sinister creature released from the roots of a tree, playing music in the snow, with the marks of its hooves left on the snow. To achieve this composition, you must align the other parts of the film with it, which allows the film’s visual narrative to find itself and form to emerge. I must say that the shamanic and Mongolian sounds, combined with the music of Azerbaijani aşıq (bards), stemmed from this idea because I thought a creature from the underworld might need to speak like shamans do. Hence, these beings took on a shamanic identity and were included in the film’s music. We had a fog or mist in all the images because we wanted an ambiguity and mystique between the camera and the characters. It’s as if you’re placing a veil over the viewer’s eyes, and from behind this veil, you depict those signs. Additionally, the paintings of Mohammad Siyah Qalam significantly influenced many of the symbols and coloring in the film. Siyah Qalam was an Iranian painter whose works were mostly rooted in wonder painting, and we drew inspiration from his motifs to create an Iranian atmosphere, with some of his artworks even installed on the walls of the teahouse in the film. The shape of the instrument held by the singing jinn was also inspired by these paintings.

Bahram Arak: Having a visual perspective on the film has always been our priority in making the work. We don’t just advance the story based on the narrative; we try to bring the story to a point where a visual event occurs. By “visual event” in Skin , I mean things like the dance of the jinn, the jinn playing an instrument, or even the use of mirrors—one belonging to evil and the other to good. These are points we aim to achieve in the story to spark the motivations for creating unique images, which are often driven by madness. We’re not particularly fond of dialogue; we prefer to convey feelings through images. For instance, we show Ara’s feelings by picking up and smelling Maral’s shoes instead of through conversation. In the early stages of filmmaking, we struggled with the use of music in the film. We were even looking for resources like recordings to justify its presence. Perhaps because our beloved filmmaker, Mr. Kiarostami, had influenced us; his perspective imposed this requirement on us. But one day while walking down the street, I suddenly felt that music was flowing in my mind, and I was observing my surroundings with that musical ambiance. From that day on, my perspective on using music changed because I realized we experience it frequently in life. There are moments when we have even seen images in slow motion. Certain moments of our existence contain all these elements, but it is important to ensure that the music has a dramatic impact. In Skin , we used shamanic sounds because we wrote the film with those sounds in mind; without them, the film would not have been written at all. So, in a way, it has embedded itself within the film’s essence and structure.

Hesam Yousefi

Hesam Yousefi: One of the strengths of the film “Skin”  is its intelligent use of imagery, symbols, and meanings rooted in the history and culture of Azerbaijan. The scenes shot in real, untouched locations of this region not only help create a unique and visually stunning atmosphere but also enhance the sense of realism and authenticity in the story. This natural environment aids the audience in connecting better with the narrative and characters, leading to a deeper understanding of the culture and life of the people in Azerbaijan. Moreover, the film is rich with symbols and meanings, including identity, change, traditional and supernatural beliefs, fear, danger, history and roots, life and purity, self-awareness, truth, the unknown, persistence, death, life, and countless other meanings. Could you please explain why the film “Skin”  pursues such profound and meaningful themes and how it utilizes symbolism to convey these meanings to the audience? How should the audience interpret these meanings? In addition, what position does “Skin” hold in the realm of meaningful and poetic cinema? At the same time, “Skin” is one of the prominent works of independent cinema in the geography of Iran. What role has “Skin” played in advancing and strengthening independent cinema in Iran, and what challenges has it faced?

​​Bahram Ark: When we first watched the rough cut of “Skin”  , we were so dissatisfied that we wished for an earthquake to destroy the footage so that no one would ever see the film. We thought our work was done. However, once we restructured the editing and added the music and sounds, the film took on a different shape that was more satisfying. But the rough cut had truly terrified us to the point that whenever we showed the film to someone, we felt a deep sense of fear. Experiencing such a feeling comes with a terrifying worry that your work might not succeed. Our concerns were not entirely unfounded. During the making of Skin, filming came to a complete halt at one point, and it seemed we wouldn’t continue. We went to a few people within twenty minutes of what we had shot to gather enough money to continue filming. In the end, Ali Eimani from our production company, Ark Film, took on the additional costs. We changed the crew and resumed filming a few months later after resolving financial issues. We also repaired some of the sets that had been slightly damaged. As the season of the film had changed, we tried to ensure that the continuity was maintained. I even remember at times having to glue fallen leaves back onto the trees or shovel heavy snow from the ground to match the continuity with the first part of the shooting. Each day, there was a possibility that filming could stop again, and this fear and effort accompanied us from the beginning to the end of the film. I share this to emphasize that making an independent film in one’s mother tongue, which offers a new narrative and visual experience in Iranian cinema, is very difficult and sometimes impossible. Perhaps the filmmaker’s determination and effort alone are not enough; one must also be lucky for the film to reach completion and screening. I don’t even know if this filmmaking path will continue for me and Bahman, or if we will want to have such an experience again. We are part of a phenomenon known as “Azerbaijani Cinema,” which seeks to produce films with culture and the Turkish language independently, and several films have been produced this way, like Mr. Yusefi Nejad’s film Khane (The House). However, how long this can continue is known only to God. We are still at the beginning of a path whose end we do not know. In Skin, we wanted to be a bit rebellious. Rebellious in the language—why must it necessarily be Persian? Rebellious in the narrative form—why must it always be social? Rebellious in the notion of needing stars to make a film? Rebellious against the centrism of cinema, which dictates that films must be made in Tehran, which led us to insist on filming in Tabriz and Esko. When Mr. Misbah, the producer, told us we could make the film in Tehran with several times the budget and famous actors, we preferred to make it in Tabriz for much less cost because we believed this film could not be authentically made without being immersed in that geography and language, and even featuring local actors. I’m glad that Mr. Misbah supported us, and now Skin is part of our body of work. I am proud of its creation and hope that we can continue to be a little rebellious in cinema again.

Bahman Ark: The story of “Skin” is fundamentally about the choice between the heart and the intellect. It represents the selection of forgotten traditions over oblivion, and masculinity over deception. It emphasizes pure love instead of love intertwined with magic and enchantment. All of these choices follow a singular principle: the choice of good over evil. This concept shapes our approach to juxtaposing the forces of evil against the symbols of good, ensuring coherence in the concept while preventing the film from being one-dimensional. Perhaps “Skin” tells a very simple story of a lover who seeks to win back their beloved through prayer. However, we aimed to imbue this simple tale with deeper meanings through form. Additionally, when symbols become intertextual and possess symbolic meanings beyond the film’s world, they resonate with contemporary humanity. This allows symbols to function both within the narrative and in the broader cultural consciousness of the audience. Nevertheless, these symbols must carry dramatic weight; otherwise, the film risks merely parading a collection of cultural signs without substance.