52 Films by Women Vol 10. 3. ROYA (Director: Mahnaz Mohammadi)
Drawn from her experience of incarceration, having
fallen foul of the Iranian regime like so many writers, directors
and critical thinkers in recent times, writer-director Mahnaz Mohammadi’s film Roya exerts a firm grip on its audience’s sympathy. For a long stretch, point-of-view
camera shots represent ‘guest 2648’, detained teacher, Roya (Turkish actress Melisa
Sözen) as she is intentionally disorientated, assaulted, berated and invited to
make a confession, that she incited a spate of scarf burning at the institution
where she works. We learn that her sister, Samira (Maryam Palizban) has died
following complaints to an agent. Unlike Samira, Roya has a public profile; it
is inferred that a confession from her means something.
Roya is a silent
figure, first shown tracing marks on the wall of her tiny cell as the light
goes on and off – Mohammadi adds a background sound to increase the sense of
oppression. Scratches indicate time passed. There is writing on a metal strip (not
translated for non-Arabic readers). A slip is shoved through a feeding hatch at
the base of the cell door. ‘Post it back when you are ready to confess,’ a
female voice tells her. Roya can hear the cries from other female prisoners.
‘Please may I see my baby? It’s been ten days. I need to feed her. My breasts
are hurting. I have signed the document.’ When the cell door opens, Roya is
directed to look down so that she is not able to identify her captors or extract
empathy from them. She is told to strip – to remove even her underwear – before
being re-clothed and conveyed to another room, continually directed to look
down so we see her feet in blue plastic sandals; Roya is at least permitted
socks. En route, she falls and is helped to her feet, being instructed to keep
moving. She arrives in a room and is spun round. Photographs and documents are
thrown on the floor, including, as we later discover, a fabricated death
certificate for her father. Roya – still represented by the camera peeping
through cloth, her gown included in our view – falls and is kicked. Then we see
a procession of men – at least five – leave. One man remains, her interrogator,
who takes a call from his wife. His family is having a party. ‘Cut the cake,’
he tells her. ‘I’ll be home later.’ His access to private family life contrasts
strongly with Roya’s. He berates her for enquiring about how she could end her
ailing father’s life. What sort of person does that?
Roya is taken to a
doctor (Bacho Meburishvili) who surprises her – and us – by peeling a tangerine
and offering it to her, placing a finger to his lips and miming the act of eating.
The doctor fills a syringe and injects it into a feeding device. We don’t see
liquid passing through the tube. However, we surmise that it offers some relief
to Roya.
Though we hear her
yells of pain, at no point does Roya enter into a dialogue with her captors. However,
she is discharged for a short period to attend her sister’s funeral. A tracking
device is affixed to her ankle and set to a distance of 500 miles; it is 372
miles to the hospital. Only after she leaves the prison do we see her face,
having recovered some sense of herself as a person. Her features are grave, reflecting
her recent trauma.
Pictured: A period of reflection for Roya (Melisa Sözen) in Iranian writer-director Mahnaz Mohammadi's film, 'Roya'. Still courtesy of Totem Films / PakFilm.
Making her way to
the funeral, Roya joins a group of mourners, who are forced to surrender their mobile
phones; no pictures may be taken. Roya is re-united with her father (Hamid Reza
Djavdan) who complains that everyone ignores him when she – Roya – is not
around. Her father has dementia and is barely aware of what is happening. We
reflect that it makes him oddly untouchable by the authorities, a figure of no concern.
It is only when Roya
unlocks a door with a long key and enters her accommodation which, like her
cell, has a flickering light, that the drama becomes less compelling. There is
a figure outside her window who walks in circles. We initially interpret this
figure to be a [male] guard. Later, the film suggests that it is a
representation of Roya herself, pacing in her cell, engaging in activity to
prevent herself falling into despondency. Roya lights a gas ring and places an
electric kettle on it; we expect the kettle to burn and for a fire to start.
However, this doesn’t happen; Mohammedi returns to the image of the kettle, using
it to symbolise impending danger. Roya is given a computer, though the screen
is broken. She is advised to attach it to a video projector. She reviews
footage. There is a flashback to Roya taking photographs of mistreated women
and children; one woman has acid burns. A child has their arm in plaster. Roya
appears to be documenting human rights abuses; the injuries seem real, as if
Mohammadi had included actual victims in her film. Her answerphone is full. Roya
plays back some of the messages, including from ‘pointy shoe’ man, who also
appeared at the funeral. ‘You have two days left,’ he informs her, referring to
the deadline to make her confession.
Roya visits her
father and prepares an injection for him in a similar way to the one prepared
for her by the prison doctor. There is a
curious scene in which Roya wanders through her home in a state of partial
undress, shown from a distance, so only a general sense of her nakedness is
perceived. By the time she appears in the foreground, she is covered by an
unbuttoned shirt.
The finale of the
film replays the opening, adding a scene in which Roya paces round her cell,
rather like the figure outside her window. We see her being mistreated by guards.
Once more there is an interruption as the interrogator takes a personal call;
the ringing of his mobile phone is incongruous. Would he really want to be
contacted while intimidating a prisoner?
‘The burning of headscarves is like burning the Koran,’ Roya is told. The
audience, though, knows the difference. The stage is set for Roya’s confession.
In a coda, she is transferred to a psychiatric ward and given a pill. Appearing
to swallow, she shows a staff member her empty mouth. When the staff member
leaves, Roya shows us her tongue, revealing the pill, which drops from her
mouth, a final act of defiance.
A caption describes
the flickering light in Section 2A of Iran’s Evin Prison, which is intended not
to be noticed. A light that flickers on is hopeful half the time.
The film’s Berlinale premiere has a caveat. As a
non-accredited reviewer, I tried to purchase tickets on Wednesday 18 February,
three days before the screening when the public was invited to do so. The
screening at the Colosseum Cinema was advertised as sold out. I could only
purchase tickets ten hours before the screening itself. On attending, I
perceived that the auditorium was only one-fifth full. It was as if an effort
was made to suppress audiences seeing and voting for the movie, competing as it
did for a public prize. This year’s Berlinale Jury President, Wim Wenders,
claimed that cinema was apolitical – a hollow and unsubstantiated statement. It
appeared that films with explicit political content were being disavowed. If
true, this is a worrying sign.
Reviewed at Berlinale 2026, Colossium Cinema, Schönhauser Allee, Berlin, Saturday 21 February 2026, 10:15 am screening
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