A Persian‑language feature filmed in secret in Iran and smuggled out of the country won a jury prize for ensemble acting at this year’s Sundance Film Festival. The Friend’s House Is Here, directed by Maryam Ataei and Hossein Keshavarz, was completed amid wartime tensions and mass street protests that made both shooting and exporting the footage dangerous.
Set in the wake of last summer’s Iran–Israel war, the drama illuminates Tehran’s underground arts scene—street concerts, galleries, avant‑garde theater and the after‑parties where artists congregate, flirt and argue about life and art. The story follows two roommates, Pari and Hana: one an actor in an underground troupe, the other posting videos of herself dancing at historic sites—acts that can draw legal penalties in Iran. When a woman rebukes them for not wearing hijabs, they laugh; the film traces their refusal to be silenced as authorities begin to target their circle.
Ataei says she wanted to capture “the story of sisterhood and a fantastic community of people helping each other.” Keshavarz, who co‑wrote and co‑produced the film with his wife, says it was inspired by the young artists they know in Tehran for whom resistance has become an everyday practice. He notes that the same generation has figured prominently in the mass protests, and that security forces have arrested and killed thousands since the unrest began.
Making films in Iran has become riskier: directors critical of the regime face bans, arrests and other reprisals. Keshavarz points to the high‑profile case of Jafar Panahi—whose work remains banned in Iran and who has faced repeated imprisonment—as an example of the dangers filmmakers confront; Panahi was recently nominated for an Academy Award and has faced further legal penalties, while collaborators have also been detained.
Ataei and Keshavarz say they shot in secret, hiding cameras and sound equipment and limiting takes in public to avoid detection. They used friends and family as extras, wary that strangers could be informants. They finished principal photography in October and moved into postproduction as protests intensified and the government intermittently shut down the internet. The filmmakers feared they might not be able to get the film to Sundance.
Two crew members in Iran decided to smuggle the finished film out to Turkey. They concealed the footage on a hard drive, hiding it at the end of a religious film in case the drive was inspected, and then drove nonstop through numerous checkpoints—an arduous 12‑hour crossing—before delivering the material to the filmmakers. Ataei described their effort as heroic.
The risks did not end with production. During a protest last month, one of the film’s actresses was struck in the face by pellet fire; she avoided hospitals for fear of arrest, and medical personnel quietly helped preserve her vision. Separately, U.S. travel restrictions prevented the film’s two principal actresses from obtaining visas to attend the Sundance premiere, adding another blow after the hazards of making and exporting the movie.
Ataei and Keshavarz divide their time between the U.S. and Iran with their seven‑year‑old daughter. Ataei, 45, grew up amid explosions during the Iran–Iraq war; Keshavarz, 48, grew up in New Jersey and New York. The two met about a decade ago through Keshavarz’s sister and have collaborated on independent projects since. They also worked for years as consultants on a Hollywood production that was ultimately canceled—a disappointment they call heartbreaking.
Undeterred, the pair are now in Los Angeles pitching new projects to Hollywood, including an animated feature set in ancient Iran, while the secretly made film continues to draw attention for both its artistic achievement and the risks behind its creation.