Iman’s path seems divinely blessed: he’s beenappointed as an investigator in the Revolutionary Court—a structure that prosecutes people for attempting to overthrow the government. At first, signing death sentences without reviewing cases feels unprofessional, but there’s no other way to secure a three-bedroom apartment and advance toward becoming a judge. The position also demands living in constant tension, a pistol always within reach: amidst mass protests in Tehran, a database containing personal information of regime agents has been leaked.

In “The Seed of the Sacred Fig,” the inner life of a single family mirrors the sociopolitical turmoil of the country in which it exists—a nation plagued with paranoia, violence, and injustice. Najmeh, Iman’s wife, strives to maintain domestic life, preserving rather than nurturing traditional ways. But for whom? Both their daughters, Sana and Rezvan, familiar with the “other world” through social media, resist imposed values. “I know the truth because I live in this country and I have eyes,” 21-year-old Sana tells her father during dinner.

The narrative’s slow-burning tension ignites with the disappearance of the pistol, which Iman routinely places in the bedside table each night. Who among the familiar faces has become the catalyst for rebellion, driving the film into thriller territory with interrogations, chases, and raw domestic violence? Confronted with catastrophe, three women—mother and daughters—forge new unity and transition from passivity to various forms of disobedience.

The making of “The Seed of the Sacred Fig” alsostands as an act of disobedience. Rasoulof created it in secret, violating censorship during a brief two-month window between his release from prison—where he served time for his previous work—and another impending trial. Hisrefusal to withdraw the film from Cannes’ competition triggered the regime’s full wrath: an eight-year sentence, property confiscation, and public flogging. Yet, with forged papers, Rasoulof managed to escape the country; his film and act of resistance earned him a fifteen-minute standing ovation at the Cannes premiere.“I have never witnessed an audience applaud repeatedly during a screening,” Rasoulof reflected, having appeared on the red carpet carrying photographs of Missa Zareh and Soheila Golestani—actors forbidden from leaving Iran. The applause, notably, first swelled at Iman’s untoward Quranic quotation, then thundered even longer at Sana’s defiant “no” to her father’s challenge: “I have served this regime for twenty years; don’t you think I understand the situation better?”

Universal human yearnings—for security and liberty—pulse as strongly in Iran as anywhere else. Children there share the same fundamental need for parental love and understanding. By centering his narrative on youth, Rasoulofsuggests that society needs to rebuild itself on more rational foundations, while the old order must wither. The new generation—seeds of imminent transformation—has already sent itsaerial roots into the edifice of authority.

Rasoulof’s approach inverts the provocative motifs found in absurdist classics like Ferreri’s “Dillinger is Dead” and Khotinenko’s “Makarov,” where artists become owners of a gun—a symbol of power. Which poses the greater threat: a poet armed with a weapon, or a regime loyalist stripped of one? Such questions, it is to be hoped, shall remain confined to rhetoric’s domain. As for the visual modesty of “The Seed of the Sacred Fig,” it reads not as limitation, but as conscious design. Such cinema transcends traditional aesthetic judgment; it need not dazzle with invention—it simply needs to exist.