Thematically, Ten (Iran 2002 Abbas Kiarostami) is an episodic revelation of the role and image of women in contemporary Iran, through the iconic vessel of the motor vehicle. However, Ten is much more than this: Kiarostami achieves an “alienation effect” by playing with cinematic conventions and through his technical production limitations. Ten asks more of its spectator than the Western hegemonic cinematic experience prepares us for. Kiarostami successfully disorientates the spectator in order to engage them more critically.
“An uncomfortable, painful viewing experience” was how I described Ten to a friend. It was like going to the dentist for a filling; I knew it was good for me, I just didn’t enjoy it. Later, I questioned my initial response: why had I found Ten such a hard film to watch? I was perplexed at how conditioned my responses were for a certain type of cinematic experience. My unsettled reaction prompted a critical self-examination, and I realised that Kiarostami had achieved what he set out too.
One of the reasons that Ten is so unsettling is that it refuses to adhere to cinematic conventions in a number of different registers. The first episode goes for 18 minutes and 34 seconds, of which the first 16 minutes and 38 seconds the camera is entirely focused on the car’s passenger. This episode – like the others – is edited so discretely that it appears to be one continuous take. This scene typifies the rest of the episodes: there is little visual variation, and accustomed to visual over-stimulation, such focus and stillness seems intensely uncomfortable. Furthermore, our attention begins to wander, and this is undoubtedly Kiarostami’s aim.
With the fixed camera angle obstinately refusing to give us a broader view of the events, we are encouraged implicitly to imagine those aspects outside the frame that we cannot see. In the first episode, our attention is divided between the little boy’s antics [that we can see] and the disembodied voice of the driver, his mother [that we can hear]. I will return to the effect of the disembodied voice, but firstly I will examine the other elements that capture our attention; namely dress customs.
In the second episode, we become intensely aware of the dress customs for women in Iran. We watch a female passenger – the driver’s sister we later discover – as she waits for the driver’s return; she gently fans herself and later lifts her headscarf off her chest slightly to cool herself. There is an intimacy and poignacy to this small, unconscious act: it could be a metaphor for control, or desire. Or, it can be simply understood to convey the somatic reality of wearing a headscarf in a car, in summer, in Iran.
As Roland Caputo observes: ‘The Spectator is made aware of both the implicit voyeurism and our own intense curiosity about the limits of what can and cannot be shown’. This scene gives us a pronounced understanding of our desire to delineate or even cross these implicit boundaries. It made me think of the recent reports of the continued “crackdowns” on “unIslamic dress”.
Whilst Ten draws our attention specifically to the limitations placed on Iranian women in public, it implicitly investigates the source of such control and power: men. Although the only male character is a little boy, men and their opinions, control and influence are felt throughout the entire film. At the heart of Ten is an exploration of these limitations, of how they control one on a daily basis, and of how they can be circumvented or used as a creative stimulus.
By restricting the spectator’s frame of reference, Kiarostami generates an incredible tension and mirrors the claustrophobic, constricting interior of the car. One could interpret it liberally, yet perhaps too literally, as a metaphor for the moral strictures imposed on Iranian society. In the first episode we can hear both sides of the sparring dialogue between mother and son, but we are limited to viewing the son’s agitated gesticulations and distress. Kiarostami uses this dramatic dialogue to emphasize his denial of the “shot, counter-shot” cinematic convention. In doing so, he makes the spectator explicitly aware of how this film is, and all films are, constructed and controlled by their creators – mirroring the themes of the film.
Kiarostami evidently wants us to think about what is going on outside the frame; outside of what we are restricted to viewing. He encourages us to transgress these aesthetic limitations by imagining what the mother looks like. Further, by refusing to satisfy our desire to see the mother’s face, our interest in her only increases, and our focus shifts to that element of her person that does perforate the frame: her voice. The effect of the disembodied voice is a particularly peculiar one, the disjunction between sound and image creating an awareness of the limitations of the camera in capturing this diegetic world. Disembodied and denied a visual representation for the first quarter of an hour, when the driver is finally revealed she is both beautiful and ordinary; it is, as Rolando Caputo identifies, an unveiling.
Kiarostami relies on a cinematic equivalent to Bertolt Brecht’s “alienation effect” to prevent the spectator from suspending their disbelief. By constantly reminding the spectator that they are watching a film, Kiarostami prevents identification with the narrative and prompts a critical engagement. The technical and production limitations that maintain this “alienation effect” are many: the digital film, the fixed camera angles, the distinct lack of camera movement, the use of natural lighting, the long scenes, the lack of non-diegetic sound or music. These elements also combine to create a film that looks and sounds like a piece of documentary realism; a contrast to the fictional narrative of Western hegemonic cinematic convention. However, Kiarostami references cinematic convention by denying their use. The episodic structure and consequent denial of a linear narrative also position the spectator more critically and prevent the spectator from becoming too involved in the individual conversations.
Ten creates discomfort because it requires a level of active engagement - it pushes you to think about the circumstances, customs and society surrounding the conversations as well as questioning your own historically and culturally contingent set of assumptions, codes and conventions. The source of my discomfort was Kiarostami’s deviance from and denial of the naturalized cinematic conventions of narrative, structure, cinematography, editing and sound; Ten helped me to realise now how expectant and dependent I had become on these codes. Such a reappraisal of the assumptions, expectations, and values that I bring to each film I see was both confronting and timely. Kiarostami is able to transform limitations in creative innovations and tools for our critical awareness.
