Iranian drama My Favourite Cake is the latest in a long line of films to have attracted ire from its government. Here, Guy Lodge assesses the impact of censorship on art.
On the face of it, My Favourite Cake does not seem like a film that would run afoul of censors. Warmly received at the Berlin Film Festival earlier this year, the second feature by Iranian directing duo Maryam Moghaddam and Behtash Sanaeeha is a gentle, whimsical crowd-pleaser: a late-life romantic comedy centred on 70-year-old widow Mahin and her search for a new soulmate. Its portrait of sweetly reawakened desire and female agency has endeared itself to many – but not to officials in its country of origin, where it has caught heat for its focus on an independent heroine who is shown drinking, dancing and, most controversially, not wearing a hijab.
My Favourite Cake (2024)
That perceived red line has earned My Favourite Cake a ban in Iran, while the filmmakers, facing court proceedings, also had their passports seized by the authorities, preventing them from travelling to Berlin for the premiere. ‘We feel like parents who are forbidden from even looking at their newborn child,’ Moghaddam and Sanaeeha said in a joint statement. ‘We are sad and we are tired, but we are not alone.’
Indeed, they are not. Conflict between many of Iran’s leading filmmakers and their national censors has become commonplace. In May, we saw dissident auteur Mohammad Rasoulof literally escaping Iran – where the state had recently sentenced him to eight years in prison, a fine and a flogging – to premiere his new film The Seed of the Sacred Fig in competition at Cannes. (The film, a damning study of court corruption and toxic patriarchy in a well-to-do Tehran family, received a special prize from Greta Gerwig’s jury in recognition of both its artistry and its political daring.) It wasn’t the first time that Rasoulof, currently in exile in Germany, had been arrested by the authorities for work deemed inflammatory; like his compatriot and ally Jafar Panahi, whose 2010 imprisonment and ban from filmmaking only prompted an inspired run of illegally made works, his is a career defined by resistance.
Iran, of course, isn’t the only country where censorship and state interference weigh heavily on local filmmakers. Internationally, reports on China’s film censors are dominated by stories of Hollywood blockbusters banned or trimmed for content deemed morally unsuitable – Minions: The Rise of Gru (2022) famously secured a Chinese release only after its ending was altered to show key characters being punished for criminal acts.
There’s less coverage, however, of the Chinese films suppressed for failing to align with the government’s vision of the country, even if they’re not openly provocative. In 2022, Li Ruijun’s gritty rural drama Return to Dust attracted a rare amount of attention on this front for a low-budget arthouse affair. This story of a devoted farming couple worn down by poverty and illness was internationally acclaimed on the festival circuit and initially a hit with Chinese audiences – before, after several weeks of release, it was replaced with an amended cut featuring a nonsensically upbeat ending, and subsequently pulled from release and streaming platforms altogether. No formal explanation was given; sometimes mere realism is enough of an offence.
Return to Dust (2022)
Portraying his country in a supposedly negative light is also what got Malaysia’s most celebrated filmmaker, Tsai Ming-liang, in hot water on home turf back in 2007. His yearning, not overtly political love story I Don’t Want to Sleep Alone was only screened in Malaysia after Tsai agreed to make cuts to scenes censors declared ‘culturally, ethically and racially’ unflattering. Might it have received less scrutiny were its love story not queer? Given that Malaysian censors recently banned Pixar’s Lightyear (2022) over a same-sex kiss, you can draw your own conclusions.
Sometimes, of course, it’s not even about the film itself. Russian censors probably wouldn’t have adored Alexander Sokurov’s surreal deepfake experiment Fairytale (2022), in which simulations of Stalin, Hitler, Mussolini and other historical figures wander purgatory in a mischievous reflection on power and political legacy. But it seems Sokurov – long a vocal opponent of the state – ensured the film wouldn’t be released in his homeland when he spoke out against the war in Ukraine, earning himself a travel ban in the process. The film was subsequently banned without official explanation beyond a reference to ‘other cases determined by federal laws’.
Fairytale (2022)
Sometimes, meanwhile, multiple national censorship systems can work in tandem. Back in 2022, Swedish-Iranian director Ali Abbasi wouldn’t have been surprised to see his film Holy Spider – an explicit, semi-fictionalised portrait of Iranian serial killer Saeed Hanaei, who claimed a moral high ground in his targeting of sex workers and drug addicts – banned in Iran, since he’d already been barred from filming there. Less expected was an abrupt ban in Russia, days after its initial release in cinemas there, in what appeared to be an act of economic and military solidarity with Iran, an economic and military ally. ‘The Russian government is returning favours to their ally Islamic Republic who has been arming Russian military to kill innocent civilians in Ukraine,’ said Abbasi, uncowed. ‘I don’t know what kind of law prohibits Holy Spider in Russia but judging the way independent press and dissidents are being treated there, it sure feels like a compliment for us to be banned by Putin’s servants.’
Holy Spider (2022)
Clearly, Abbasi isn’t afraid to ruffle feathers — his next film, The Apprentice, premiered at Cannes this year, and none-too-favourably depicts the early career rise of one Donald Trump. It’s hard to guess which scene the former US president will personally resent more: one in which he undergoes liposuction, or the deeply disturbing one in which he rapes his first wife, Ivana. It’s the latter, however, that has prompted legal action from the Trump campaign, with a cease-and-desist letter sent to the filmmakers. Even as it has sold in multiple international markets (the UK included), an American distributor has yet to buy the film – sometimes the threat of censorship does the job anyway.
MY FAVOURITE CAKE IS IN CINEMAS FROM FRIDAY
