Jasmine (2013) - full transcript

Last night, I arrived in Tehran
at about 11pm.

I felt totally lost in the surging crowd
at the airport.

I phoned my brother.

When he drove me home,
I was amazed by the changes.

I wonder how long you and I
will have to live in a world apart.

I'm convinced we love each other
and want to be together.

Anything's possible.

Azizam, I really miss you.

Jasmine,
we did the revolution together.

It was 30 years ago.

Curiosity, desire, and pleasure
drive me to track you down.



As I go on, exhilarating memories
well up from deep inside.

Your laughter and the events we shared
come back to me.

Please get back in touch...
Alain.

I mailed the letter to her parents' address.

She used to copy it for me in Farsi.

Tehran... the suburb...

"the house at the end of the street."

It seems that the acoustic education
of the ear can be guided

by a recording of the heartbeat.

This is the goal of this record.
Listen to it over and over...

...in total silence.

Here are a few examples
of a normal heartbeat.

30 years ago
I abandoned stop-action films

and clay figures.



30 years ago, I also abandoned
Jasmine in Tehran.

I remember Jasmine's first shy smile.

I remember her shining eyes.

I was at my home in Aix.

I'd opened my studio door
to get some air.

I wanted to run after her.

I was making films. She was studying
the theatre of the absurd.

We met again.

She came up just below my eyes.

Facing her, I bowed my head...

the way one does
as a sign of respect.

She didn't like effusive
or public shows of affection.

Oddly, I found this difference

mysterious and compelling.

She gave me the impression
that I alone could broach her secrets.

She had completed her studies,
and was about to go home.

We cleaved to one another
like two magnets.

Then she went back to her country.

Obsessed by her absence
for the first time...

I discovered boredom.

You are always in my thoughts.

When I close my eyes,
I see your sweet face...

your dreamy eyes.

Your mouth, your lips, your nose,
sometimes your body.

I reach out to you in the void...

I seek you in my dreams.

You're somewhere else.

I long to see you, talk to you,
kiss you, feel your arms around me.

Far from her,
my hands were clumsy.

I dragged my feet,
for my head was in Tehran.

I thought only of her,
of seeing her again...

of hearing her laughter again.

The systemic murmur of the aorta contracting
is rougher yet...

associated with the fading
of the second sound.

As time went on, I began to forget
her facial features.

But she has blue eyes.

Yes.

A deep blue... very deep.

That, I remember.

How can one live without one's lover?

Please let us be together again.

The situation here is terrible.

A civil war is raging.

But we are safe.

I rented a room down-town.

I told my mother it would be
more convenient for my work.

I've moved into the apartment,
the home we will share.

My heart rejoices so,
now that you're coming.

If we love each other and want
to be together, anything is possible.

22 days ago, I left France.

It feels like centuries
since I saw you.

Nozam, my great love...

I want to listen to you, hear you...

to kiss you everywhere...

to pester you with my caresses.

I miss you so much.

Even though life will be tough
in this crazy country...

let's wait no longer.

I'm tired of living without you.

I've read your charming letter
over and over again...

navigating for days
in the immense sea of words.

It carried me close to you,
brought us together.

Azizam, come quickly please.

I yearn to see you...

to listen to your voice,
to touch your skin!

Time passes too slowly.
I wish I could push it.

Pahlavi Avenue...

No...

Shah Reza Avenue...

No...

Mohammed Reza Avenue?

No...

Jaleh Square? No.

Where was it.

I arrived on Friday,
September 8, 1978.

Black Friday.

Jasmine told me the news.

Seeing a crowd praying in the street,

the soldiers panicked and fired.
A massacre.

That's why it was Black Friday.

My presence was top-secret.

The riots were liable
to worry her mother...

who might send the brother.

We stayed in her bedroom...

hidden from everyone.

Fortunately the curfew protected us.

"Thank His Majesty's soldiers,"
she said.

The protests resumed, and Jasmine
couldn't resist joining them.

She wanted to show me
her people's courage.

We walked, haunted by the fear
she'd meet someone she knew.

I should pretend
I didn't know her.

For me...

Iran was the splendour
of the Shah and Queen Farah...

ceremonies my parents
watched on television.

Now there was a general strike.

Shops and bazaars
closed their shutters.

Men and women marched separately.

I kept an eye on Jasmine,
being careful not to touch her.

Discreetly, mullahs guided the crowd,

calling for the return
of Ayatollah Khomeini.

Jasmine told me
I had to reason in Persian.

"We want the Shah, his family,
and the brutal police to go away."

She kept a watchful eye on me.

I filmed the protests,
feeling her at my side.

I had absolutely no desire to stray.

I was in love.

You may not be aware of it,

but the reality of Iran

is rampant illiteracy...

gutters overflowing
with the rubbish of the rich...

flooding the slums crowded
with hopeless starving people.

At the time it was fashionable for
well-bred Iranians to speak French.

France had offered asylum to Khomeini
and people like me.

He wanted me to thank the president
for sheltering Khomeini.

Women threw bundles of paper
from the windows, like confetti.

When the army convoy drove up,
the windows closed...

opening again when the soldiers left.

Months of strikes made food scarce.

Once, an egg was all Jasmine could find.

The shell was a beautiful colour.

Solid ivory.

I wondered what kind of hen
had laid that egg...

...how she had made
such a beautiful shell for it.

Jasmine wondered
how we'd share it.

Allah Akbar!

Together, we thought of the future.

Life would change.

The army became stricter
about the curfew.

One night, when we were singing,
a shot rang out.

There was a pause in the singing.

Then it started again....
but differently.

"Because someone was killed,"
Jasmine told me.

More democracy is needed.

And we will adopt laws
identical to those in France.

Freedom of speech,
freedom of assembly...

We'll copy your model.

And I'm determined...

after much thought on the matter...

that this is the path to follow.

Soldiers were everywhere,
day and night.

Even the newsreader was a soldier.

One night, after curfew,
the lobby across the street lit up.

A man came out,
draped in a white sheet.

"It's a shroud!" Jasmine cried...
"They'll kill him!"

She ran outside to dissuade him.

He wanted to die
for his country's freedom.

A Persian poem comes back to me,
reflecting the Shah's legacy.

12,000 men were killed

and black smoke hovered in the air.

All the waves were coal-coloured.

The desert was a river of blood.

To hell with milk!
I want Mr Khomeini!

Still moving.

Brutality? Sorry,
we don't have a word for that.

We're going to organise
a big singing contest.

We'll find the names
of those who sing off-key.

Where could she be now?

She had a different first name in Farsi.
Yossaman.

If she'd married, her last name
would have changed.

I'd written to her
at her parents' address.

Even if she lived elsewhere...

they'd forward the letter.

The Iranians are furious.

The Shah's interview was an outrage.

We must do something effective,
once and for all.

I don't want to stagnate.

I write in French...

so that I can be published worldwide.

That was the day
we heard the news.

The Shah was gone!

He had finally given in.

The shining eyes I'd loved in France
were beside me...

full of joy.

The Shah was gone,
leaving his Prime Minister.

The army's loyalty to the Shah
hadn't wavered.

For months, from the rooftops,
we called for Khomeini.

Now we awaited him.

After 15 years in exile...

Khomeini was returning
to his country.

At Martyrs' Cemetery,
he spoke on Iran's future.

An Islamic Republic
would be established.

The Prime Minister and Cabinet
had to step down.

The US Embassy ordered Americans
to leave Iran.

Some of Jasmine's friends were
also leaving for Europe or the US.

Others had already fled.

I'm glad to be living in a country
going through a revolution.

Outside Iran,
they think we are starving.

I was worried.

I felt she was being manipulated.

Wild rumours abounded.

"Hundreds of millions of Americans
have converted to Islam."

The government controlled the media.

Information was scarce.

Things were moving very fast,
and a military coup was feared.

The mullahs wanted to implement
Khomeini's speeches.

Women were supposed
to stop wearing make-up.

There was talk of keeping them at home,
to release work for men.

Some said punishment by whipping
would be reinstated.

Allah's justice
would descend on miscreants.

Jasmine reassured me:

"Once the Pahlavis are ousted,
Khomeini will let citizens rule."

"The strikes will stop,
and everyone will have work."

The radio said

that a rural woman caught in adultery
was flogged in public.

I was disturbed.

"Westerners just don't understand
the culture," Jasmine scoffed.

She wasn't afraid of the chador.

"It's just a uniform.
It's what protesters wear."

Something must be done
to change this world.

Not only for us,
but for our children.

Despite the threats I face,
I must stay in the game.

That's life.

It's attractive in many ways.

Joy is followed by grief
in an endless cycle.

We must hang on.

Don't you agree?

Outdoors, she seemed worried.

But we were both swept away.

The university students
were rejoicing.

Suddenly someone waved
a machine gun in the air.

Jasmine tugged my arm.
"Time to go, fast!"

We ran out and she hailed a taxi.

As the driver zig-zagged
through the crowd...

I glimpsed a sign with a phone number.

"Call here for guns."

Civilians had raided the army bases....

and the soldiers
had not resisted them.

Jasmine was proud
that women had fought.

"No one will forget that."

I suggested we go to France.

How could I manage in France?

I wouldn't be able to do any job
besides being a cleaning-lady.

Thanks for the offer.

Her friends had all left Iran.

I told her that in France
she could fight for her country.

That was all I could suggest.

I had only vague plans.

When I finally told her we had to go,
maybe I didn't make myself clear.

Here, women must be married,
to travel with a man.

I failed to hear her wish...

her wish to marry me.

I didn't know how much
marriage mattered to her.

To a young Westerner like me,
marriage was meaningless.

I won't vote for the Islamic republic...

because I know nothing about
that sort of regime.

No one does.
Not even the leaders.

They don't know what they'll do.

I could bring all my woes
and joys to France...

but I will always be an Iranian.

I love my country so much...
it goes without saying.

That's why I keep fighting.

Jasmine's mother was worried.

Without warning,
she sent Jasmine's brother.

I raced to the roof, to hide.

For some reason...

he moved into our bedroom.

I spent long nights on the roof.

No one sang now.

For the first time in months,
I thought of clay.

Sometimes, I don't think
you understand me.

There seems to be static between us.

Is it the language gap,
or the cultural one?

When I fell in love with you,
I thought that love

could overcome language barriers.

I'm afraid you're not the way
you used to be.

Do you still love me?

Azizam... I feel torn between you
and your family...

shattered by the events here.

I want to go...

to stay, to run to you,
to live with my family with you.

My head is exploding.

I feel like crying,
but my tears have dried up.

I want to yell,
but my throat is locked tight.

Khomeini Committees were set up.

Pahlavi regime dignitaries, police,
pimps, thieves and homosexuals

were summarily executed,
day after day.

I'd seen enough.

I convinced myself
I wasn't abandoning Jasmine.

Yes, I'll go and scout our way;
she'll join me later.

The chador will drive her
to flee to France,

where I'll be waiting for her.

She wants to stay,
but that's impossible.

I'm sure of that...
She can't.

Then, I don't know what I said,
but it doesn't matter.

She wanted to stay.
I didn't.

I left Tehran on April 10, 1979...

...by bus.

3 weeks later, defeated,
dirty and lost...

I reached France.

An old shabby man, slumped
on a bench at the station...

gazed at an empty glass,
half dozing.

I was overcome by gloom.

Through my tears, I saw
the old man nod in sympathy.

Tomorrow, I'll give the keys
back to the landlord.

Then I'll finish moving out.

Your shape is scattered everywhere.

Everything I touch...

air, time, space...
hurts me.

Everything says you're gone.

Your letters are colder.

Why?

Don't worry about me.

Every day, I fight for the freedom
of my country' women.

Two young women
selling a leftist paper...

were being threatened
by fanatical male students.

Guys are becoming savages,
and Khomeini is a fanatic...

a madman.

Azizam, I can't forget you,
despite your coolness towards me.

I love you, and will love you
all my life.

I shall never forget you.

Please write soon.

She wrote almost every day.

Then the letters tapered off.

Then they stopped.

As time went on...

my memories of Jasmine
gradually faded.

10 years later, Jasmine phoned
from Jeanne's house in Paris.

I didn't ask her anything,
but I can still hear her voice.

We chatted a bit.

She asked me
for a note I kept.

I was going to mail it,
but suddenly I had an idea.

I immediately took it to Paris.

I'd see her again, at last.

Memories were flooding in...

of her laughter, her brother,
the revolution.

I spent 3 days
ringing Jeanne's doorbell.

I cursed my slow wits.

I should have replied
that I was coming.

Back in Aix, I met a buddy
on the street.

"Where were you?
Jasmine was here, looking for you."

The letter I'd sent to her family home,
came back.

"Unknown at this address."

No more family home?

That worried me.

How could I find her?

Is she still in Tehran?

Alain stopped searching for me,
but I found him, with the internet.

I'd returned to Tehran.

Dear Alain, I voted.

30 years ago, we did
the revolution together.

30 years later,
history is repeating itself...

5 days after the elections.

Tomorrow is Saturday.

Our fate will be decided.

This evening, we hear them,
louder than ever.

I don't recognize this place anymore.

The people who live here
can do nothing besides call God!

All day, I wait for dark to see

if the "Allah Akbars"
will be louder than last night's.

My body trembles.

I wonder if God is trembling too.

Or not!

Where is this?
Our innocence was imprisoned here.

Where is this?

The world hears nothing
but our silence.

Where is this?

They shed young blood here.

Where is this?

The citizens are labelled as "hoodlums".

Where is this?

Do you want me to tell you?

This place is called Iran.

In Farsi, to describe a beautiful face,

we compare it to the Moon.

Last night, the Moon sent your smile,
and I was glad to see it.

And you?

What are you going to do?

For their safety, the Iranians in France
who helped make this film
asked to remain anonymous.