Eran Riklis: “Living in Tel Aviv is very painful, but the life of a Palestinian child in Gaza is much worse.”

Israeli filmmaker Eran Riklis has spent years dedicating himself to films with a strong social emphasis, highlighting stories of people facing a lack of rights and freedom, such as The Syrian Bride and The Lemon Trees . He is competing at the BCN Film Fest with Reading Lolita in Tehran , an adaptation of the autobiographical bestseller by Iranian English literature professor and writer Azar Nafisi, who in the 1990s secretly gathered some students at her home to read books banned in her country, such as Nabokov's Lolita and Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice . It will be released in Spanish theaters on June 20.

How does an Israeli filmmaker end up making a film about the story of the resistance of a brave Iranian teacher?

I read the book in 2008, five years after it was published, and it enchanted me. I know there were talks with American directors about making a film, but Azar wanted someone European. In 2016, I reread it and was surprised that a film hadn't been made yet, so I traveled to the United States to talk to her. It was a very powerful story. I felt it belonged to me, that it was part of my cinematic style, about people in political situations, women who have to navigate complicated political and social situations. And I really wanted to direct it. Azar trusted me and gave me his approval.

What impacted you so much about the book that made you want to bring it to the big screen?

When I read it, I thought it wasn't just a story about Iranian women. I saw it as a story about humanity, something universal. I think that's what cinema is all about: when you tell someone else's story, you have to make it your own. And for me, it was never about the location or the specific context. It was about people fighting oppression, something I've always wanted to explore in my work.

To what extent has Azar Nafisi been involved in the project?

She hasn't been. She's an intelligent woman. She trusted me because she'd seen my films, and we had a very interesting conversation. And then, when I started working on the script with Marjorie David, an American writer, we sent her the second draft, and she wrote me a very brief email. She said, 'Thank you for understanding my book.' That was it. It was a good process, but when I finished the film, she didn't see it until the day before the world premiere in Rome last November. I was terrified of her reaction, in case she didn't like it. But she loved it. And it wasn't easy at all because it's about her book, which is her life. It's really her story.

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As a male filmmaker, how did you approach this very feminine story?

It's funny because my first film, Cup Final (1992), only had men as protagonists. And then, when I made The Syrian Bride , I realized that having a woman as a central character gives it a special richness. I don't know, I guess it's a question I ask myself too. I think a man looks for the feminine side of himself to understand women. But do I really understand women? I don't know. Probably not (laughs).

Azar is a cultured woman who refuses to wear a veil and isn't afraid to stand up to authority. But she also has a vulnerable side...

I think she's a very brave woman. She refuses to obey absurd orders. She's sure that reading those forbidden books can help other women open their minds, and it really does help them, but she also pays a high price for it. I see her as a sensitive, sensible woman trying to understand the world as it works. I find this interesting to think about when I think about how she wrote about men, not women. The men of Tehran, especially those at the university, are classic Islamists. But they're not monsters. They came to the university, and those studying English literature with her would reproach her for not allowing Nabokov's Lolita , for making them uncomfortable. But Azar tried to get them to see beyond that, to debate what they were reading, and to reason their points of view.

She is clear that books can help transform people. Which book has impressed you the most?

I remember when I was 14, I lived in Brazil for a while because my father worked at the embassy there, and I went to an American high school. My literature teacher came to class and told us we'd be studying a new book that had come out in the U.S. in 1964 called One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest . I read it, and it changed my life in terms of the way I looked at societies, politics, and all that. It's a very political story. It's about an individual and how he struggles against the system, against the complexity of an institution... I think that gave me a light to continue down this path.

Reading 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest' changed my life in terms of the way I looked at societies and politics.

Was it important to you that the actresses were Iranian?

During the casting process, I remember asking Azar who she'd like to play her, and she said Angelina Jolie. But I was clear that it had to be Iranian actresses and actors. And it wasn't easy. Most of them are exiled. They live in Paris, London, Berlin, New York, Los Angeles, everywhere, and... it was a huge journey for me to find them. Certainly, almost all the actresses in the film have some kind of connection with their character. Golshifteh Farahani, who plays Azar, or Zar Amir-Ebrahimi, left the country when they were about 25 or 26. And they had careers in Iran. So, for political reasons, social norms, and stupid things, they had to leave. Golshifteh, for example, left in 2008 and never returned. She's never made a film in Farsi, and this is the first time she's made one in her own language. There's a great connection between the actresses and the moment being told. Somehow I felt that the lives of these women, the actresses, are a reflection of the characters in the film and vice versa.

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Some men don't accept their wives' attendance at this reading and beat them. Azar's husband, on the other hand, supports her but doesn't really appreciate her unhappiness in a country with increasingly strict restrictions.

I think the relationship between Azar and Bijan, her husband, is like that, although they are very different. Bijan isn't an intellectual; he's an engineer, and she has a strong background in literature and philosophy. And then there's the mysterious character, this sort of mentor called 'the magician' in the book, who has more in common with her on an intellectual level. On the other hand, he's a bit cynical because he tells her, "I dropped out of college. I don't care about anything. I'm at home now." I think that shows two sides of her in two different men. But in the end, when she leaves, she goes with her husband, not with that guy.

More than 20 years have passed since the book was published, and Iranian women are still fighting for their rights. How do you see the situation?

If you ask Azar, he'll tell you that every generation has its own struggle, which is the same. I remember him telling me, 'Yes, my mother struggled, I continue to struggle, and now my daughter does too.' But I think the struggle has two paths: one is that you stay and fight in your country, and the other is that you decide to leave for the United States or Europe because you can't take it anymore. In the end, it's a big choice you have to make, and I see it in myself now. Israel is going through a really difficult period, you know, internally and with the Palestinians, and Gaza is a really crazy time. It's always been crazy, but now it's really extreme. There are times when you say, 'I can come to Barcelona and maybe fight from here,' but in the end, I'm one of those who say, 'No, you have to stay. You have to stay and do what you can to change your country and not become an exile.'

I think Spaniards and Israelis have a pretty similar way of thinking in general.

Are you still living in Tel Aviv?

Yes, and it's hard, and it isn't. Look, as I was flying from Tel Aviv to Barcelona, ​​which are like two shores of the Mediterranean, I was thinking that both cities are very similar. The mentality, the food... I think Spaniards and Israelis have a pretty similar way of thinking in general. It's very painful to live in Tel Aviv now. And yet, life goes on. It's a really complex situation. But I still think that if I compare my life to that of a Palestinian child in Gaza, his is much worse.