Lina Irawan
At the 2024 Karlovy Vary Film Festival, the competition for the prestigious Crystal Globe saw the premiere of Hijamat, the latest feature from Iranian-Turkish writer-director Nader Saeivar. A filmmaker known for his dissident roots and his ongoing navigation of the sociopolitical minefields of the Iranian cinematic landscape, Saeivar’s newest project attempts to bridge the cultural divide between his homeland and his adopted diasporic realities in Berlin. Yet, while Hijamat—a drama centered on the fractured dynamics of a Turkish family living in Germany—possesses moments of undeniable technical brilliance, it ultimately struggles to reconcile its sprawling narrative threads, resulting in an experience that feels as fragmented as the family it depicts.
The Production Context: The Panahi Connection
Much of the anticipation surrounding Hijamat is rooted in the high-profile involvement of legendary Iranian auteur Jafar Panahi. Serving as both editor and producer, Panahi’s fingerprints are visible throughout the film, marking another chapter in a productive creative partnership that includes The Witness (2024), 3 Faces, and No Bears.
For cinephiles, the collaboration is a double-edged sword. While Panahi’s influence has often signaled a bold, subversive approach to storytelling, Hijamat feels curiously muted. Given Saeivar’s reputation for making films that openly challenge the Iranian regime, observers have begun to speculate whether the pressures of this specific narrative—or perhaps a form of self-censorship regarding the sensitivities of the Turkish-German community—have dulled the sharp edges of his typically poignant social critique. Where past works felt urgent and vital, Hijamat often feels like a collection of disparate ideas searching for a cohesive thematic home.
Narrative Chronology: A Crisis of Identity
The film opens with a sequence that showcases Saeivar at the height of his visual powers. A fluid, bravura "oner" follows a young boy’s arrival at a lavish family party, capturing the vibrant, chaotic, and joyous energy of a community celebration. The occasion is a circumcision, a milestone traditionally steeped in religious and cultural significance.
However, the "jolliness" of the event is shattered by the arrival of news that triggers a rapid descent into chaos. Kerem (Jael Cem Ilhan), a younger member of the extended family, has been violently assaulted. As the narrative unfolds, the cause of the violence is revealed: photographs have surfaced within the family circle documenting Kerem’s intimate relationship with a German man.
The immediate fallout creates a binary within the family. Murad (Kida Khodr Ramadan), the older brother, and his Kosovan wife, Leyla (Nicolette Krebitz), represent a more secular, modern perspective, displaying a level of tolerance and acceptance that stands in stark contrast to the rest of the clan. Opposing them is the formidable figure of Ibrahim (Vedat Erincin), the family patriarch. Ibrahim, a man whose influence is built upon the wealth of his restaurant empire and the iron-clad rigidity of traditional values, views Kerem’s sexuality not merely as a personal failing, but as a direct threat to the family’s honor and structural integrity.
The pressure mounts as Ibrahim forces a terrified Kerem to seek "absolution" from the local cleric, Sheikh (Aziz Capkurt). What follows is a descent into psychological entrapment. The Sheikh, however, is not merely a spiritual arbiter; he is a power player. It is revealed that he is colluding with a businessman in Turkey to manipulate Ibrahim into selling his restaurant, using the "shame" of Kerem’s sexuality as leverage to force the patriarch’s hand.
Supporting Data and Character Subplots
The film’s thematic weight is further complicated by the inclusion of Margot (Nastassja Kinski), a mentally unwell neighbor and friend to Murad’s late mother. Margot, a character who still carries the psychological scars of her attempt to flee from East to West Berlin, serves as a symbolic tether to the city’s history of trauma and displacement. While Kinski delivers a compelling, scenery-chewing performance, the subplot remains largely detached from the core conflict. It serves as a reminder of the generational trauma inherent in the immigrant experience, but it fails to integrate into the main narrative, feeling more like a thematic footnote than a driving force.
Similarly, the film introduces a late-act revelation suggesting that Murad himself struggles with repressed homosexual desire. While this adds a layer of irony to his protective stance toward Kerem, it is handled with a lack of narrative grace. The revelation leads to an incongruous cameo from Moritz Bleibtreu, playing a New Age healer who administers the titular hijamat (cupping therapy). The scene, featuring the actor in a bizarre wig and headband, sits uncomfortably alongside the film’s more earnest drama, further muddling the movie’s tone.
Official Responses and Critical Reception
The critical consensus following the Karlovy Vary screening has been mixed. Critics have praised the film’s technical prowess—particularly the opening sequence—and the commitment of the ensemble cast. Kida Khodr Ramadan brings a weary, grounded presence to the role of Murad, and the tension between him and Vedat Erincin’s patriarch provides the film with its most electric moments.
However, the "issues-driven" nature of the film has drawn significant fire. By attempting to tackle homophobia, the trauma of immigration, religious exploitation, and corporate greed simultaneously, Hijamat often loses its way. The "Bottom Line" for many observers is that while the film correctly identifies that "shame and secrets eat the soul," it fails to provide a clear or satisfying path for its characters to resolve that decay.
Implications for Diaspora Cinema
Hijamat serves as a poignant case study in the challenges of diaspora filmmaking. Saeivar is clearly interested in the intersection of traditional values and modern realities, particularly within the Turkish-German context. The film succeeds in illustrating how power dynamics—whether in the form of a patriarch’s wallet or a cleric’s influence—are often weaponized against the most vulnerable members of a community.
Yet, the film’s failure to fully synthesize its plot points highlights a growing trend in contemporary cinema: the desire to pack every film with a checklist of social issues at the expense of character-driven narrative flow. The inclusion of the hijamat ritual as a metaphor for "cleansing" the body of secrets is a clever concept that, in execution, feels like a tonal misstep. It highlights the gap between the film’s intellectual ambitions and its emotional payoff.
Ultimately, Hijamat is a work of great earnestness that remains hindered by its own ambition. For fans of Nader Saeivar and Jafar Panahi, it is an essential watch, if only to observe two masters of world cinema grappling with the complexities of modern identity. For the casual viewer, however, it remains a "what if"—a film that possesses all the components of a masterpiece but lacks the cohesive vision required to pull them together.
As the film moves toward wider distribution, the discourse surrounding it will likely focus on the nature of the "dissident" gaze. Can a director truly capture the nuances of a culture from the outside looking in, or does the attempt to layer too many narratives eventually erase the specific, painful reality of the individuals being portrayed? Hijamat does not provide an answer, but it certainly poses the question with unflinching—if occasionally clunky—sincerity.
Jia Lissa
Asep Darmawan
