THE STORY – Bahram is a 40-year-old filmmaker who has spent his entire career making films in Turkish-Azeri, none of which have ever been screened in Iran. His latest work, once again denied permission by the Ministry of Culture, pushes him to the edge of defiance. With his sharp-tongued, Vespa-riding producer Sadaf by his side, he embarks on an underground mission to showcase his film to an Iranian audience — dodging government censors, absurd bureaucracy, and his own self-doubts.
THE CAST – Bahram Ark, Bahman Ark & Sadaf Asgari
THE TEAM – Ali Asgari (Director/Writer), Alireza Khatami, Bahram Ark & Bahman Ark (Writers)
THE RUNNING TIME – 98 Minutes
After establishing a name for himself on the festival circuit with his first two films, Ali Asgari broke out internationally at Cannes in 2023 with “Terrestrial Verses,” a sharply Kafkaesque satire about the bureaucratic obstacles Iranians face in their everyday lives. The film was widely acclaimed abroad, but unsurprisingly, it was never screened in Asgari’s home country, a common occurrence for filmmakers who dare even mildly to critique the political system. As punishment, his passport was temporarily confiscated, and he was banned from making films.
Like fellow directors Jafar Panahi and Mohammad Rasoulof, who have also faced state repression, Asgari refused to stay silent. His new film, “Divine Comedy,” doubles down with an even sharper bite. Its title gestures both to a running Dante gag and to the purgatory—or perhaps limbo—that Iranian filmmakers often find themselves in: unable to screen their work at home legally.
The story opens with Bahram Ark, playing a wryly fictionalized version of himself, trying to secure a permit from the Ministry of Culture to screen his latest film, which has already been warmly received at international festivals. The request is denied for a litany of reasons: Bahram won’t cut his films to meet government demands, he often shoots in Turkish (his mother tongue), and he acted in “Terrestrial Verses”—all fodder for a running inside joke. The exchanges with the Ministry’s spokesperson, heard but never seen, deliberately echo the vignette structure of Asgari’s previous film.
Undeterred, Bahram and his producer Sadaf Asgari—played by the director’s real-life niece and frequent collaborator, also portraying “herself”—attempt to stage an unauthorized screening. But even this requires evading the law, since permits are mandated for any public showing with more than five people. Along the way, Bahram must also contend with the shadow of his twin brother Bahman, a more commercially successful director whose broad comedies draw wide national audiences. “Who even watches arthouse films anymore?” the Ministry employee quips, oblivious to their international acclaim.
Like Panahi’s “It Was Just an Accident” or Rasoulof’s “The Seed of the Sacred Fig,” Asgari’s “Divine Comedy” is fueled by exasperation with a system he’s been battling for years. Casting Sadaf, who was banned from working in Iran after “Terrestrial Verses,” only underlines the film’s defiance. She appears from the very first scene with dyed hair and no headscarf, a quiet but potent emblem of a younger generation unwilling to bend to religious authoritarianism.
Yet despite its political urgency, the film is no less effective as a comedy. Its premise—a filmmaker scrambling to show his work against impossible odds—provides fertile ground for hilarity, not unlike the backstage antics of “Call My Agent!” or “The Studio.” Co-written with Asgari’s longtime collaborator Alireza Khatami and the Ark brothers, the script crams in gags at a dizzying pace, riffing on everything from cinephile obsessions (“The Matrix” is a recurring motif) to broader, crowd-pleasing bits (weed jokes and a scene-stealing dog named Sheila).
Formally, Asgari favors stillness over the hyper-kinetic style of filmmakers like Seth Rogen and Evan Goldberg. His camera often remains static, allowing tension to simmer in awkward pauses before erupting into absurdity. Only the scooter rides shared by Sadaf and Bahram recall Nanni Moretti’s lighter touch. Bahram’s dry, deadpan delivery grounds the chaos, offsetting more flamboyant turns—like a narcissistic, coke-fueled actor with delusions of grandeur—resulting in a pitch-perfect balance of subtle wit and broad comedy across the brisk 90-minute runtime.
In the end, the film’s cruel irony is apparent: though it is a sharp, funny, and crowd-pleasing work, “Divine Comedy” will almost certainly never screen legally in Iran. The Ministry insists audiences love to laugh at the cinema. On that, at least, they’re right—because this is a very good one.
