I’m fascinated by the idea of an Iranian Death of a Salesman adaptation. In the United States, we think nothing of co-opting international literature and art … know what we’re gonna do? We’re gonna study One Thousand and One Nights very carefully, then reject the whole thing and make Prince of Persia – it will be very tasteful. Going the other way, ah, now that catches my attention … all that demonizing and bad blood and you’re still willing to put Arthur Miller on an Iranian stage? What’s next? The Crucible? Hamilton? The Book of Mormon? Argo?
Emad (Shahab Hosseini) is not The Salesman, but he plays one on TV, er, stage. He is a school teacher by day, but he and his wife Rana (Taraneh Alidoosti) are currently doing an Iranian Community Theater version of Death of a Salesman. Emad has the lead as the hapless Willy Loman. The movie opens with the two having to evacuate their apartment, collapsing under the strain of construction next door. This kind of thing might seem weird and foreign to Americans, but it won’t once Trump and the Republican congress manage to eliminate all regulation. Desperate to find a new home, they take a lead from a theater friend on a place not quite evacuated in total. Long story short, Rana is in the new apartment alone preparing for a shower and leaves the door open for Emad … and the next scene is Rana in the ER having her head stitched up.
It’s important that you understand the entirety of that last sentence, because that’s all the film gives you. Rana won’t talk about it and we don’t know who attacked her, or even if “attack” is the right word. And this is where the parallel is drawn between husband/avenger/detective/lost soul Emad and the dreamer/loser/lost soul Willy Loman. Just as Willy can’t make things right in his world, neither can Emad in his. All he has is a traumatized wife and nothing to do about it.
And this is the part of The Salesman that frustrates me – as intelligent and introspective the tale, it is well aware of the limitations of this particular medium – in the Death of a Salesman play, the “harlot,” so to speak, tells the audience what little she’s wearing, but this is Iran; she’s on stage in, not quite a burqa, but far closer to a suit of armor than a towel -as the Arthur Miller stage direction would have it- and a fellow actor laughs himself silly about the contrast. Similarly, we cannot, literally, can not get to bottom of what actually happened to Rana.
I am well aware there are cultural taboos here which prevent not only the depiction of the crime but the discussion of the crime as well, but without an explicit knowledge of what went on, it’s kind of hard to find the sympathetic level of indignation and potential vengeance, is it not? I sure as Hell don’t want some John walking in on my wife while she’s in the bathroom, yet can we not all see that said action by itself is far tamer than rape/murder? Did this guy even lay a hand on Rana? He must have if she’s bleeding? Right? Right? But so much emphasis is placed on the crime being that a non-husband had
simply encroached on the partially (?) half (?) non (?) clothed woman, that any other speculation is flat-out dismissed. Is there really no cultural difference in the severity of crime?
Now given the territory, I can almost accept the failure to spell out what exactly went on. Sure, even a fictional character deserves her privacy, no? Thing is, we barely get an idea of what Emad knows about it. All we’ve got is one giant emasculation on two fronts: 1) an unknown man took advantage of his wife in some way and 2) all he can do is guess at what went on because the only two people who know aren’t talking. And this emasculation, not the crime itself, becomes the focal point. I’m sorry, but emasculation is only four-star material if you’re President Tinyhands. The rest of us need a little more. I can accept The Salesman as a bleak journey of self-doubt, but calling it genius or a “best picture” of sorts? Gee, what were your standards? The mere fact that the film centers around the man who endured only mental anguish rather than the woman who absorbed the shame, punishment and post-attack breakdown speaks to a fairly lofty plane of misogyny, does it not?
I wouldn’t necessarily call lovers of The Salesman misogynists, but I think the question is worth exploring.
♪I’m flushed outside my studio
I never thought I’d need a home tomorrow
Need a home tomorrow
With kitchen, bath and parking space
The kind of place where villains can get through
They have access, too
In Iran
I performed in a play
Would be banned
Were it staged the proposed way
Where is my wife today? ♫
PG-13, 125 Minutes
D: Asghar Farhadi
W: Asghar Farhadi
Genre: Crappy fiction mirroring crappy real life
Type of person most likely to enjoy this film: Academy Award voters
Type of person least likely to enjoy this film: Haters of all things Iran
♪ Parody inspired by “I Ran”
