Taxi, directed by Jafar Panahi is a 2015 Iranian film that can be classified as a docufiction because of its staged mise en scène, allowing a glimpse into Iranian society. It is the winner of the Golden Bear prize of the 65th edition of the Berlin International Film Festival. The director himself endorses the job of a taxi driver after being banned from making films as well as screenwriting. The film follows his multiple itineraries in Teheran, the capital, whilst picking up and conversing with different people, each representing different individuals of society as well as raising and exploring issues coming from the oppressive government and the impact on their everyday lives.

In its form, the film is quite simple, the shots are still and the takes are long. The camera used is small and discrete in order not to draw attention to the actors. Although it is a dense film where a lot can be analysed, we will focus on the ending of this long feature. 

At the end, Panahi gets out of his car with his young niece, the camera remains in the car, the shot is still, we see them move away from the taxi whilst men break into the car, seemingly working for the government and looking for some of the director’s footage. They end up leaving without finding anything, before cutting short to move on to the credits, which only include himself as the risk of divulging anyone else's name is too dangerous. Throughout the whole film, one keeps questioning on the veracity of the events unravelling and how much of it is staged. Well, the whole film is, and this end might cause some doubt as it is Panahi’s intention. This staged abrupt ending denounces the lack of freedom of speech and the condition Iranian’s inhabitants are constrained to live in. It also allows a reflexive opening on the continuity and future of the film as it was, predictably, censored. Even though it was “not real”, it can be considered as authentic to a certain extent, as it is the reality of the cinema in Iran.

Building on Charlotte’s analysis of this documentary, we will now turn to the choice of a taxi as the primary setting for this piece. This decision is far from arbitrary; rather, it offers deep insight into Jafar Panahi’s mindset.

To begin with, the taxi serves as a powerful symbol of the realities not only of Panahi’s life in exile but also of the struggles faced by those who seek artistic freedom and free expression. It represents a life on the move, confined to the liminal spaces of the capital - constantly in transit yet never at rest. In a way, it also suggests a path to liberation, implying that no matter how much the government tries to restrain people like him, they inevitably slip through its grasp, reclaiming the streets of Tehran as their own.

Furthermore, the choice of a taxi - a vehicle meant for public use rather than private ownership - reinforces Panahi’s vision of art as something communal and accessible. It reflects his desire to bring others along on his journey, to share his story with the people. However, while the taxi embodies this openness, Panahi takes a contrasting approach when crediting the film, choosing to list only himself as its creator. This decision underscores his commitment to protecting the lives of the actors and collaborators involved.

Another significant aspect of this set is its placement in the public sphere. Throughout the documentary, the streets and their inhabitants take center stage, offering viewers a multi-layered glimpse into contemporary Iranian society. Finally, the very act of filming in such an exposed environment can be seen as an act of defiance—creating a work of art in plain sight, reclaiming a sense of freedom even as he defies an explicit government ban.

The long feature Jojo Rabbit (2019, Taika Waititi) follows Jojo, a young German boy during the Second World War, and devoted Hitler’s supporter. He discovers that his mother, played by Scarlett Johansson, hides a Jewish young girl in his deceased sister’s room’s walls. At first, he is more than reluctant to her presence, but as he progressively gets to know her, he ends up falling in love with her.

The first scene that is analysed unravels from the 28th to the 30th minute.

Jojo is determined to talk to the “Jew girl in the wall” and tell her to move houses.  She makes it very clear that she won’t, kicking him off the room. He goes to his own bedroom, accompanied by his fellow imaginary friend, Hitler, or at least how he pictures him. In this part of the film, he idealises the Führer whilst he is still depicted as this ridiculous and cowardly character, mocking him throughout the whole film. The latter is wearing a beige uniform and the overall lightning is bright and the setting is rather colourful.

At that moment, Jojo is terrified of Elsa, the girl hiding in his house and completely dehumanises her as he tries to gather information about her lifestyle in order to write a book about the Jewish community.

In the second scene (1h39’-1h40’), after Hitler’s death and the loss of Germany, Hitler appears as a nervous and angry protagonist as he yells at Jojo as he understands he does not have a hold on him anymore. Furthermore, he wears a grey uniform this time and the lightning is much darker and dull whilst still taking place in the same room of a young child that was forced to grow up too fast. Hitler refers to Elsa as a “thing” and, as Jojo is not afraid anymore, he corrects him: “that this is a girl”, humanising her at last.

The production design and set design of this movie have been widely celebrated, earning three awards, including a BAFTA. The strength of Ra Vincent’s work in this production is particularly evident in the meticulous curation and creation of Jojo’s house. This stylishly renovated Baroque-style home not only reflects the mother’s keen eye for fashion but also provides insight into life in Germany before the war and the country’s once-thriving art scene. Vincent himself notes that “it was actually a really strong time to be involved in the arts and culture in Germany. The German aesthetic, with the Bauhaus movement, was at its sort of zenith.”

Today, we will specifically examine Jojo’s bedroom, comparing its depiction in two scenes: one at 28 minutes into the film and another at 1 hour and 39 minutes. At the start of the first scene, the bedroom is presented as almost unnaturally tidy. The fact is, Jojo is only ten years old—an age when most children’s rooms skirt on the edge of chaos. Yet here, not a single object seems out of place. In a striking representation of youthful fanaticism, the walls are covered with posters. However, instead of images of pop stars or actors like most children put up, Jojo’s bedroom is plastered with Nazi propaganda. The entire scene is filmed with a warm-toned filter, making the bursts of red stand out on screen. Few signs of childhood innocence remain, aside from a framed display of butterflies—an ominous foreshadowing of what’s to come.

In the second scene, however, the space appears transformed. The warm, inviting tone is gone, replaced by a muted, greyish palette that brings the room closer to reality. Chaos—if only in subtle hints—has finally crept into the space, making it feel more authentically lived in by a child. More posters now cover the walls, including numerous images and sketches of butterflies. These insects symbolize not only Jojo’s love for Elsa but also his newfound sense of freedom. No longer trapped in the frame seen in the first scene, the butterflies have spread across the room, mirroring Jojo’s own liberation as he reclaims his childhood and creativity. Many of the Nazi stickers on his mirror have been removed, replaced by various illustrations of bugs—suggesting a return to the natural order, where little boys can simply be little boys, and the end of Nazi Germany looms near.

Special Mention for Cléo from 5 to 7 (1962)

For this week’s edition, we felt that Cléo from 5 to 7, directed by Agnès Varda, must be mentioned for its means of filmmaking and production.

On this day, the 8th of March, we encourage all of our fellow readers to watch this beautiful film!