International Cinephile Society

“A film that doesn’t yell, but hums with defiance.”

At the centre of Without Permission, Hassan Nazer’s quietly radical piece of docu-fiction that straddles protest and poetry, is an exiled Iranian filmmaker (Behrouz Sebt Rasoul), stripped of official approval, yet unwilling to relinquish the camera. With his assistant director (Setareh Fakhari) by his side, they drive the sun-scorched backroads of Iran that snake through rugged mountain terrain, capturing unsanctioned moments and unscripted lives. It’s part fiction, part vérité, held together by a filmmaker’s relentless desire to create despite censorship. But perhaps the most poignant voices come from children, wide-eyed, unfiltered, and disarmingly honest. In dimly lit underground rooms they speak of dreams, clothes they wish they could wear, friendships across gender lines, and their early, confused grasp of social restrictions. These interviews, captured with tender restraint by cinematographer Ali Mohammad Ghasemi, are the soul of the film. His use of backlight creates gentle halos around the young faces, visually echoing the vulnerability and fading innocence of growing up under surveillance.

However, while Without Permission breathes originality and urgency, it occasionally stumbles under the weight of homage. The film opens with a nod to Abbas Kiarostami – a revered name in Iranian and global cinema both. And while the comparison is understandable, it feels slightly forced. Nazer has already established his own voice with works like Winners (2022) and Utopia (2015). By invoking Kiarostami so directly, Without Permission risks positioning itself in someone else’s cinematic shadow rather than standing entirely on its own. The reference feels less like a tribute and more like an unnecessary framing device, especially for a film that thrives on its individuality.

The narrative also weaves in a fictional subplot: the assistant director’s domestic conflict and impending court case. While it adds thematic weight – mirroring the larger tension between freedom and control – it occasionally distracts from the raw immediacy of the children’s interviews. The film is at its strongest when it lingers in the unscripted moments, in the raw silence between questions, in the eyes of a child who isn’t quite sure what’s safe to say. Still, there is an undeniable tenderness in how Nazer handles these layers – balancing children’s voices with adult anxieties, threading issues of immigration and repression into the background without cinematic noise. He doesn’t preach. He listens. Visually, the film is minimalist yet evocative. There’s a tactile sense of place – the grit of unpaved roads, the muted palette of dusty towns, the claustrophobia of dim interiors. The sound design is subtle, almost austere, mirroring the restraint of a film that knows too much noise would betray its message.

Nazer doesn’t ask for your permission to tell this story. He simply tells it – quietly, bravely, and with extraordinary grace. Despite its missteps in homage, Nazer’s film ultimately proves that when you’re not allowed to speak, sometimes the only way forward is to film in secret and hope the world is listening. Without Permission is a deeply personal story about filmmaking under constraint, told by a director who knows that silence is often a louder act than shouting. It’s a film that doesn’t yell, but hums with defiance.