On Cinema of Denial — A Conversation with Mobarez Javanmard
Q — You describe your work as “controlled surrealism.” What exactly is being controlled and what would happen if that control were removed?
A —Controlled surrealism is not an aesthetic choice it’s a method. I control rhythm and the viewer’s access to meaning.The film is not allowed to explain itself. If that control is removed, it becomes descriptive and loses its pressure.In STILL: A Version, the recurring phone vibration builds expectation, but the expected action is withheld. The moment is denied, not resolved.This control protects both the viewer and the meaning, which would collapse if fully exposed. Constraint, in this context, is the structure of the work.
Q — In your concept of “Cinema of Denial,” what is being denied and who or what enforces that denial?
A —In my work, denial begins wherever the film risks becoming explanatory. Anything that pushes the film toward explanation can be denied information, access, even truth.This isn’t a stylistic choice. It comes from the structure of the film and from reality itself. Some things can’t be shown directly without being reduced or turned into something false.The human mind didn’t evolve for constant exposure. It evolved for survival. In that sense, denial is already part of how we process reality.Sometimes denial means withholding. Sometimes it means constructing another layer. In The Dance of the Rabbits, I deliberately presented something historically untrue as if it were true. That was intentional.In STILL: A Version, I deny looking itself. We close our eyes on purpose.If that denial is removed, the film becomes explanatory and once that happens, it’s no longer my cinema.Denial both protects and restricts the work. That tension is part of the form.The viewer is not outside this. There are no victims or heroes here the viewer is inside the denial.
Q — Your films minimize dialogue and rely on duration and repetition.Are you removing language because it fails or because it exposes too much?
A —I’m not against language. I’m against how language is used in cinema.Language tends to simplify meaning. It turns complex experiences into something readable and immediate. That’s not what I’m interested in. I’m not trying to deliver information I’m trying to create an experience.There are things that cannot be translated into words. In The Dance of the Rabbits, for example, I was trying to reach a specific human sound something close to suffocation or internal pressure. There was no sound effect for it, and the actor couldn’t perform it, because that reality didn’t exist for them. I stated that directly in the film.What word can carry that? There isn’t one.That’s where denial begins.So the issue is not reducing dialogue. It’s refusing simplification. Dialogue can exist in my films, but it cannot be allowed to resolve meaning.Repetition, for me, is not emphasis. It’s erosion. It builds pressure by wearing things down.Language doesn’t fail because it’s weak. It fails because it’s forced to carry things it was never meant to hold.
Q — In STILL: A Version, reality appears stable on the surface but fractures underneath.Where does observation end and participation begin?
A —For me, observation is not passive. It’s an active function something the human mind evolved for survival.In my films, that function is pushed until it turns on itself. Through repetition and duration long looks, direct gaze, or the act of closing the eyes the viewer is held in a state that doesn’t remain observational.I don’t force participation. I set the condition. It works like a trap the viewer steps into it.This shift is not something I impose as a goal. It happens when the pressure holds.If a viewer resists it, the film doesn’t fail. These films are not built for success or failure. They are built to remain.The participation is not only mental. It can become emotional, and at times physical. I’ve seen it happen.And it’s not safe.This cinema is not designed to be comfortable.
Q — You frequently use elements like fishbowls, closed eyes, and confined spaces.Are these symbolic choices, or are they structural devices within your cinematic system?
A —I don’t see these as symbols. They’re residues.The fishbowl, for example, comes from early memory something that was always there. Over time, these elements settle. They remain. They resurface.They’re not aesthetic decisions. If someone reads them as visual style, they’ve already simplified the work.If you remove them, the films collapse. Not just in meaning, but in structure and in feeling. They’re not added they’re embedded.I don’t design them in advance. They come from the background, and over time, through repetition, they erode into the work.There’s no external logic connecting them. But internally, they’re consistent. They belong to the same system because they come from the same place.And they don’t symbolize they expose.Like evidence at a crime scene, they reveal what is already there but not immediately visible.
Q — Your work avoids emotional manipulation, which is uncommon in contemporary cinema.Do you see emotional engagement as a limitation within film language?
A —I don’t reject emotion. I reject manipulation.Emotion is the most precise thing we have. It’s how we exist from the smallest physical sensation to something like love. But in cinema, it’s often simplified, shaped, and delivered in a controlled way. That’s where I disagree.Mainstream cinema reduces emotion to something readable. It tells you what to feel, and when. I’m not interested in that.I’m interested in experience, not instruction. If a film carries ten years of suffering, the viewer shouldn’t understand it they should go through it.But there are limits. I can’t show something like smell, which is one of the most powerful human senses. So I can’t pretend I’m giving a complete sensory reality. That’s where denial enters again. To keep balance, some things have to be withheld.Emotion in my work comes from pressure from duration, repetition, silence, and erosion. It builds rather than being delivered.I’ve seen viewers react with discomfort, even disgust. That’s not a failure. If that’s the correct response, then the film has done its job.The discomfort is not designed as a trick. It’s the natural result of the process.
Q — Many filmmakers seek clarity for the audience.You seem to do the opposite.What do you believe clarity destroys?
A —I don’t reject clarity. I reject simplification.What is often called “clarity” in cinema is a controlled form of explanation it reduces experience into something immediate and readable. That’s not clarity to me.For me, clarity is confrontation.In controlled surrealism, we face the unconscious directly. That’s a more precise form of clarity one that doesn’t translate everything into language.Ambiguity is not confusion. It’s a condition. The mind needs it. It’s part of how we process pressure and survive it.If a viewer says, “I didn’t understand the film,” that’s not a failure. If everyone fully understands the film, then I start to question the work.These films are not made to be comfortable or universally accepted. They’re made to stay with the viewer so that something remains after the film ends.I’m not trying to be understood completely.I’m trying to leave something unresolved.
Q — If your cinema is about “survival,” what exactly is at risk and what would failure look like?
A —When I talk about survival, I’m not talking about heroes or victims. I’m talking about systems how they function, and how we exist within them.What’s at risk is truth, and more precisely, lived experience. The ability to recognize and feel what is actually happening within ourselves and in others.I’ve seen how difficult it is to communicate something like trauma. Not as an idea, but as something lived. Without that, experience gets replaced by repetition things are reenacted without being understood.That loss doesn’t come from outside. It comes from us from what we choose to produce, consume, and repeat.I don’t think films can create survival. But they can leave traces. They can hold a position. They can resist simplification.If that fails, then everything becomes surface fast, consumable, and forgettable.For me, a film works when the viewer leaves with something unresolved something they recognize as their own. Not understanding, but recognition.That’s enough.
Q — When working with limited resources, what do you refuse to compromise on?
A — The team.
Everything else can adapt location, shot design, even parts of the plan but the team defines whether the work can hold.
I’m used to working within constraints. The question is not how to avoid them, but how to integrate them without damaging the core rhythm and structure.
During production, conditions can shift. When they do, I don’t treat it as a loss. I adjust the form so the film remains intact. What changes externally doesn’t change the internal logic.
On STILL: A Version, we worked with a dense shot structure under tight conditions. That required continuous recalibration reshaping sequences, rethinking execution while maintaining the same rhythm and intention.
Even when certain elements became unavailable, the film was restructured to hold without them. Not as a compromise, but as a reconfiguration.
The process is demanding, but it’s clear.
Trust, precision, and alignment within the team are what allow the work to exist.
Q — What kind of collaborator can actually work with your process?
A — Someone who can work within a defined structure and stay responsive as it evolves.My process doesn’t rely on scale or fixed conditions. It requires focus, adaptability, and the ability to remain precise when things shift. A collaborator doesn’t need to fully understand the film in advance, but they need to trust the direction and stay present in the process.I’m not working toward visibility, speed, or explanation-driven outcomes. So collaborators who are primarily focused on those goals may not find alignment here.At the same time, I’m open in who I work with. Background, perspective, or experience are not limiting factors. What matters is whether the person can engage with the work on its own terms.The process is collaborative, but it holds a single internal structure. That structure doesn’t change but how we reach it can.There have been cases where highly capable professionals couldn’t continue not because of ability, but because the process didn’t align.So the requirement is simple:clarity in communication, trust in direction, and the ability to work inside a system that doesn’t fully reveal itself in advance.
Q — Who is your work built for and who does it deliberately exclude?
A — My work is built for viewers who are willing to stay with pressure.This is not a cinema of immediate access. It asks for attention, patience, and the ability to remain inside something unresolved. The experience is durational and accumulative it unfolds rather than delivers.I’m not trying to reach everyone. The work is selective by nature.Viewers who are primarily looking for clarity, speed, or resolution may not find alignment here and that’s part of the structure.The ideal viewer is not defined by background or taste, but by their relationship to experience. Someone who can stay with an image, a sound, or a repetition without needing it to resolve immediately.These films don’t operate as open invitations. They define their own conditions.If someone rejects the work, that’s not a failure. The films are not designed for agreement they are designed to persist.What matters is recognition.When something remains with the viewer without being fully named, but without disappearing that’s where the work continues.
Editorial Interview — Javanmard Cinema
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