A Reexamination of Asghar Farhadi’s Filmmaking Style in His Own Words: A Cinema Full of Doubt, Choice, and Humanity

One of Turkey’s most prestigious cinematic events offered a rare opportunity for film enthusiasts: a special masterclass with acclaimed filmmaker and two-time Oscar winner Asghar Farhadi.
This event became a space for deep reflection and exchange, where Farhadi candidly shared his creative journey, the artistic challenges of filmmaking, and his human-centered vision of cinema. Part of the session was held as a Q&A.

In the following, we offer a comprehensive overview of all the key points he raised during this conversation.

The Beginning of Asghar Farhadi’s Filmmaking: A Spark from Childhood Imagination

What I say about myself and the films I’ve made may only help you better understand their language and accent. But if someone wants to become a filmmaker, my words might not be of much use.

The first time I watched a film as a child, I was very young. I entered the cinema halfway through the screening and only caught the last half-hour. I didn’t see the first hour at all. When I left the theater, I kept wondering what had happened in that unseen part.
I believe that was where cinema began for me—at the same time as watching a film, the idea of filmmaking began. I had a story with an ending, but I didn’t know its beginning, so I started imagining it. That process has continued ever since. In everything I do, I start from a fragment of someone’s life and imagine what came before it.

The Foundation of Farhadi’s Filmmaking: Humanity at the Core

Today, I want to talk about a defining quality I’ve tried to maintain in all my films. If we were to find one thing all the world’s films have in common, what would it be?
Even in fantasy films, where no humans appear and the characters are animals or entirely imaginary beings, the core remains human. All films are ultimately about people.

What differentiates films is how they portray this human element—how the filmmaker chooses to position themselves in relation to the characters.
One thing I’ve focused on—and plan to insist on even more—is maintaining equal distance from all my characters. I don’t divide them into groups like men vs. women or good vs. bad.
In my films, I try to stay equally close—or equally distant—from each character. That allows the audience to do the same: to choose for themselves which character to follow, without being pushed in a certain direction.

In traditional cinema, before the viewer even decides who they sympathize with, the director has already made that decision for them—predefined the hero and the one who fails.
But in my work, I try not to do that. Take A Separation, for example. Audiences can’t unanimously say whether they support the man or the woman. Some say, “The man is right, I followed him.” Others say, “No, the woman is right.”
These are open-ended stories. There’s no clash between good and evil. Even in Greek tragedies, good and evil are clearly defined. But in modern tragedy, it’s often a conflict between two goods. You don’t know whether to be happy or sad about who wins, because either way, someone you care about loses.

This moral impartiality is something I try to offer to cinema.

A filmmaker’s job isn’t to impose an idea, ideology, or doctrine on the audience. It’s to carefully present a situation and let viewers draw their own conclusions. I believe this is a unifying thread in all my works.

I choose this method because I want viewers to feel the characters are close to their own lives. My characters are Iranian, and maybe to someone in France, the U.S., or even Turkey, they seem unfamiliar.
But the real question is: Can people from different places feel that these characters’ struggles reflect their own realities? I believe they can. That’s why my characters often feel relatable beyond cultural borders.

That’s the only thing I can confidently say about my own work, and I promise to continue this approach in my future films.

 

Moral Neutrality in Asghar Farhadi’s Filmmaking

By distance, I mean both emotional and moral distance. That is, as writers, we may emotionally favor a certain character in our story, and as a result, we give them more opportunities in the narrative and in the film to defend themselves—because we want the audience to like them just as we do. On the other hand, characters we don't like as writers receive fewer chances, and the audience, for this very reason, ends up disliking them. We don't let them defend themselves. In the example I just gave, the filmmaker is not maintaining an equal and fair distance from the characters. He is standing closer to the positive or heroic characters and is distant from the negative or villainous ones.

I believe all characters in a film should be given the opportunity to explain the reasons behind their actions. By doing this—giving every character a chance to express why they behave the way they do—there will no longer be any “bad” characters in the film or story.

 

Characterization in Farhadi’s Work: A Courtroom for the Characters

In the filmmaking process, I believe the most important part is actually the writing process. It is during writing that I essentially direct the film, and the most important aspect of writing again comes down to character development. While writing, I constantly ask myself: Is this act of writing a courtroom for the characters? Do they have enough opportunity in this courtroom to speak? Am I, as the judge writing this story, being fair to all of them?

This is a very difficult task: ensuring that all characters are on equal footing and that no one becomes the sole hero standing against a villain. The challenge lies in achieving this through very ordinary and everyday behaviors. For example, in A Separation, the actions of the characters are not strange or unheard of—others do the same things in real life. The events that happen are actually the result of very small, seemingly insignificant behaviors. This is what makes the writing process long and difficult.

 

Asghar Farhadi’s View on the Boundary Between Good and Evil in Characters

No, sometimes while writing I do take sides with a character, but I try to tell myself not to do that. I stay alert so that it doesn’t happen. One of the reasons we can’t easily define the boundary between good and evil in these characters and stories is the very question: By what scale, by what standard, can we judge good from bad? Is it civil law? Is it conscience? Is it religion? What tells us this behavior is right and that one is wrong?

Sometimes civil law says a behavior is wrong, but our conscience says it is right. So my question when it comes to films is: How can we make this division between good and bad? Many films split people into good and bad categories, but I could easily remake those same films and switch the roles—turn the “bad” characters into beloved ones and the “good” ones into disliked ones.

 

Farhadi’s Approach to Endings: The Screenplay as a Clothesline

Throughout the writing process, I’m always thinking about the ending. From the very beginning of writing, I imagine an ending—but the next day, when I continue writing, that ending might change. For me, the screenplay is like a clothesline: one end is nailed to one wall—the beginning—and the other end to the opposite wall—the end of the screenplay. The scenes are like clothes I hang on this line. If I don’t have the ending, if that second end isn’t fixed, I can’t hang the clothes.

But the ending keeps changing throughout the writing process, and new endings keep coming to mind.

 

Camera Position and the Director’s Perspective in Farhadi’s Cinema

So what is the director’s position in relation to the characters? Let me give an example: Imagine you’re coming to attend this class and we want to show your arrival and how you sit down. There are three possibilities:

First case: We arrive before you. The hall is empty. We wait, and you each come in one by one and sit down.
Second case: The camera is in the middle of the line with you, and enters the hall at the same time as you.
Third case: All of you come in first, and only at the very end does the camera enter.

My films resemble the second case. In the first, the director appears to be ahead of the characters, knowing more than they do. In the third, the director seems to be lagging behind, knowing less than the characters. But in this middle ground, the filmmaker pretends to be just as curious and informed as the characters. This is only an example, but in all stages of directing, I constantly remind myself: You do not know more than the characters in the story.

This makes the film feel closer to real life. In real life, when we enter a situation, we don’t know everything beforehand. We gain information as we go.

The difficulty with this approach is that, at times, you can no longer “create” a story. If you see everything at the same time as the characters, storytelling becomes much harder. I used a word that may not fully come through in translation: I, as the filmmaker, pretend that I’m moving forward alongside the characters, simultaneously.

To create drama and narrative, there must always be a mystery—something we haven’t seen, something hidden—that we’re trying to uncover. For example, in my film The Past, a woman is in a coma, and we don’t know whether it was due to suicide, an accident, or depression. That’s the mystery. Or in About Elly, a girl named Elly goes to the sea, and we don’t know whether she drowned or disappeared somewhere else. We never see that moment. I deliberately hide parts of the events that have already happened or are happening—but I try to do so in a way that the audience doesn’t notice. I always try to make the audience feel like they’re discovering everything alongside me.

In fact, the people in my films are always caught in unintended situations—they didn’t choose to be in them. These situations resemble a crossroads. To get out, they must choose one of two paths. For example, a woman may find herself at a crossroads: to improve her family’s situation and escape poverty, she must abandon her beliefs. Sometimes it’s an emotional dilemma. In A Separation, the father must choose between caring for his elderly father or his young daughter.

This forces us, as the audience, to ask ourselves: What would I do if I were at that crossroads?

Now, let me ask you: For those of you who’ve seen A Separation, if you were in that man’s place, would you stay and take care of your father? Who among you would do that? Who would take their daughter and leave? It seems that the audience doesn’t view the character in a single, unified way. And what about those who are undecided—who can’t choose between staying for their father or leaving with their daughter? I think most people fall into that group. Most of my characters are like that—full of hesitation. There’s a woman who isn’t sure whether to go back to her ex-husband or stay with the new man she’s chosen for her future. These stories are all about the characters’ doubts and dilemmas.

 

Asghar Farhadi and the Concept of Doubt in His Characters

When I see the doubt that exists within the characters, I myself have no opinion on which path they should choose at those crossroads. Let me give you an example: at the end of A Separation, many people ask me whether the girl chooses her father or her mother. They think I know something more than the audience and that I’m hiding it. But I’m just like them—I don’t know what she decides. Sometimes I think it’s the mother, sometimes I think it’s the father. To me, it’s not about choosing between father or mother, but between two ways of life. If it were simply a choice between parents, I would know the answer and I would’ve included it in the film. But I don’t know whether the next generation, in that society, will choose the father’s way or the mother’s. This is a question I myself have, which I pose to the audience through the film. The viewer might reach an answer over time, as they reflect on it.

In The Past, I also don’t know what kind of connection was truly made between the past and the future. This is another question I ask myself: What stance should we have toward our own past and future? It’s not that I’ve reached a definitive theory and kept it hidden from the audience.

Asghar Farhadi’s Greatest Philosophical and Human Question

It’s true that I come from that specific geography, but I am filled with questions about the world. And the most important question in my life—now and always—is how I can distinguish right from wrong, truth from falsehood. What does good or bad even mean? This is my biggest question. It doesn’t matter where you come from—this is humanity’s biggest question.

Those who follow a specific belief system—religion or ideology—are often told by that system what is right and what is wrong. That gives them a kind of lasting peace; their paths are pre-determined. But if someone wants to decide for themselves which path to take, their journey becomes much more difficult.

Political Cinema According to Asghar Farhadi

I believe a political film is one that, when you watch it, doesn’t feel political. You don’t realize it's political until later, when you start thinking about it. Any film that portrays a society is necessarily political. But there are some films that directly declare a manifesto and openly support one political idea while opposing another. My films aren’t of that kind. But when you portray a society’s social reality truthfully, the viewer will inevitably understand some aspects of that society’s politics.

In my country—just like yours—there is an unspoken war between two social classes. You can see this in A Separation. That’s a political perspective, without me claiming that one class is superior to the other.

The Role of the Unconscious in Farhadi’s Filmmaking

All the conversations we have, maybe 5 to 10 percent of them reflect what a filmmaker actually does. Ninety percent comes from a place I’m not consciously aware of. Inside each of us is a kind of bank, and we don’t even know what treasures are stored there—but we access it. The unconscious, like dreaming, helps us write, direct, and even decide where to place the camera.

Whenever I write, I try to ensure that my conscious knowledge doesn’t interfere—my techniques, my awareness. Contrary to what some people say about certain directors being all-knowing, almost god-like in crafting stories, a filmmaker is actually filled with the phrase “I don’t know.” Constantly asking: should the camera go here or there? Should this performance be like this or like that? And the only answer is to refer to your unconscious. That’s what I do—I rely heavily on mine.

Actor Rehearsals and Co-Creation of Characters in Farhadi’s Films

We rehearsed for three months before filming—just like in my previous films. Like theater rehearsals. We didn’t rehearse the actual scenes from the film. Instead, we designed and worked on scenes that aren’t even in the final movie.

When I write, I write in detail and give the actors a complete script. At first, actors often feel uncomfortable, thinking the character is already fully formed and they’re just supposed to perform it. But in rehearsals, I tell them: let’s set aside this script and build the character from scratch together.

Over time, after months of work, the actor begins to feel the character is their own—not something the writer handed to them. Many actors even feel like they wrote the dialogue themselves and form a deeper attachment to the role.

The dialogue in the final film is mostly what was written in the script. Details may change, but since the dialogue is like a chain with links, changing one link affects the whole chain. In rehearsals, if the actor changes a line, I revise the script accordingly. But once we’re on set, we shoot from the final script—no more changes.

Asghar Farhadi’s View on Messages in Film

Messages belong to the telegraph office—not to cinema. In my films, yes, characters don’t judge, and neither do I. But that itself is not a message telling you not to judge. That’s a misinterpretation.

We constantly judge in life. Even choosing which chair to sit on, or which question to ask—you’re judging, comparing. So why, when people watch my films, do they say “Farhadi says don’t judge”?

Here’s what I think: these films make you feel how hard judging truly is. You realize how easily you used to judge before—and now you hesitate. That’s not a moral message. It’s a psychological impact the film has on you.

The Ideal Viewer in Asghar Farhadi’s Eyes

The first viewer of my film is always myself. I don’t think about how others will feel when they watch it. I imagine how I will feel watching it. I’m not thinking about the audience in that moment. It’s not disrespectful—it’s being honest with myself.

Asghar Farhadi’s Social Engagements

A filmmaker’s duty is to make films. If a filmmaker doesn’t engage in activism beyond their work, that’s not a fault. But if they choose to use their position to help others, that’s admirable.

In my case, when I feel I can help ease someone’s pain or suffering, I do it. But I try not to make it public. Sometimes it becomes public, and I think in those cases it can be more impactful. But this is my personal choice—I don’t expect others to do the same.

Films That Influenced Farhadi’s Creative Mind

All the great films I’ve seen probably influenced me without me realizing it. But I was especially affected in my teenage years by Eastern films—Japanese films in particular. For example, Kurosawa’s Rashomon definitely had a big impact. In Rashomon, too, one event is told from multiple perspectives.

Asghar Farhadi’s Distinct Style

I will continue with this style. By that I mean: when the film ends, it only begins in the viewer’s mind.

While watching my films, you experience them emotionally. But once it ends, you step out of that emotional space and begin to reflect intellectually. You start asking questions. The biggest one: If I were in the character’s shoes, what would I have done?

That’s the kind of cinema I will continue to make.

Initial Ideas for Asghar Farhadi’s Films: Starting with a Mental Image

I always begin writing with a mental image—like a photo in my mind. This often comes from a memory someone shared with me. For A Separation, I had this image of an elderly man with Alzheimer’s being washed in a bathroom by a young man. That image stayed with me for years. I kept asking myself: Why is this young man bathing the old man? Why are they alone? Where is everyone else?

These questions eventually formed the story.

Sometimes the image doesn’t even make it into the film. For About Elly, I pictured a man standing wet by the sea at night, staring into the water. I asked myself: Why is he wet? Did someone drown? And from that came the story.

Why Women Have a More Prominent Role in Asghar Farhadi’s Cinema

I think all men love women more than they love men—though that’s a joke! I try not to let that affect my work. One reason it may seem like I side with women is because they’re often more active in my films.

To me, women represent the future—they can give birth. Men, on the other hand, are more connected to the past, to tradition, to the land. In A Separation, the man wants to stay with his father—he clings to tradition. The woman wants to move forward with her daughter—toward the future.

Audiences often want to move forward too, which may be why they connect more with the women in my films.

But I never divide my characters into male and female. That division itself is insulting. A character is a human being—what they do stems from that, not from their gender.

It’s the same in The Past. The female lead, played by Bérénice Bejo, is pregnant—looking toward the future. The man, Ahmad, who has come from Iran, is stuck in the past. That woman, who sheds a single tear at the end, seems to be saying: “I am alive, I want to go on.” It’s a desire to move forward and embrace the future.

The things I say about my films aren’t absolute truths. This kind of cinema doesn’t lend itself to fixed interpretations. A viewer might draw conclusions totally different from mine. Once a film is made, the filmmaker steps aside—their opinion no longer holds weight.

Asghar Farhadi on Iranian Cinema

You can’t sum up Iranian cinema in a sentence or two. Maybe you know the past 10 or 20 years of it—but it began long before the revolution, and many great films were made that the world still doesn’t know.

Around 100 films are made each year. Many are commercial, crowd-pleasers. But a few remain with you after the credits roll. What distinguishes these films is how close their characters are to real life, to real people in the world. That, to me, is the defining feature of Iranian cinema.

On Forough Farrokhzad

Forough was a poet with two striking aspects: her poetry, which was dark, bitter, and beautiful—and her private life, which remains a mystery to Iranians. That’s why people still talk about her.

Farhadi on Turkish Cinema

I’m familiar with Turkish cinema, especially the older works. I admire Yılmaz Güney—his films were known in Iran and widely respected by Iranian filmmakers.

Among the contemporary directors whose work has gained international attention, I’ve watched the films of my good friend Nuri Bilge Ceylan.