Farhikhtegan Daily – Araz Matlabzadeh – 4 November 2021
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| A haunting tale rooted in language and land—Skin speaks Turkish not by chance, but by necessity. |
Interview with Bahram Ark, Director of Skin
The film Skin (2020) has two directors, both born on 7 August 1989. Of course, that’s our way of saying there are two individuals—but Bahram says he and Bahman are one person in terms of directorial identity: “one soul in two bodies.” The Ark brothers are emerging talents from Tabriz whose entry into Iranian cinema has been significant. Iranian cinema often resists filmmakers from the provinces entering its professional sphere, but when that barrier is broken—even once—the results can be fresh and extraordinary, such as Ehsan Abdi‑Poor from Bushehr in literature and cinema, and the Ark brothers from Tabriz.
In this in-depth and friendly conversation, Bahram reveals another side of himself and his brother—beyond the joking at press conferences or brief festival interviews. We delve into their cinematic world, their literary influences, and their belief in local folklore and grandmother’s lullabies.
Risking the mainstream:
Q: In recent decades, world cinema has detached regional films from their local cultural roots. Iranian cinema by Asghar Farhadi resembles films by Pedro Almodóvar (Spain) in theme—dealing with interpersonal complexities in modern life. Yet Skin is unique. It blends magical realism, local language, folklore, musicality… a striking contrast to dominant trends in Iranian cinema. When you first conceived it as a debut feature, did you know you'd be taking such a risk?
A (Bahram): For us, filmmaking has always meant differentiation—not just telling a story or personal relationships. Story is a challenge to visualize. It must create a new experience in image space. If we can’t achieve that, the effort isn’t worthwhile. While many world cinemas have thematic unity in human relationships, some filmmakers—like Ken Loach or Michael Haneke—make political films with theoretical depth. Others, like Benicio del Toro (as actor/director), aren't just telling a narrative—they’re creating cinematic relationships. They love lenses, lighting, atmospheres… We aren’t just making dialogue-based films. We aim for cinema primeval—to create states of being through cinematic tools—mises-en-scène and shot composition—born from an internal vision.
Literary roots in their cinema:
Q: I sense strong literary influences in your films, especially in Skin, where you draw from Azerbaijani oral traditions. How important has literature been in your creative process?
A: Literature isn’t just story—it's about states of being that trigger personal transformation. When a story creates an inner ecstasy or shamanic mood—like Italo Calvino’s The Baron in the Trees—you experience a lived reality beyond narrative. Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita and Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov have religious frenzy and sensual extremes at their core. We’re drawn not just to plot, but to emotional and psychological experience that shakes personal boundaries. For us, literature—especially that which triggers deep experiences—is indispensable. We were even poets; cinema is a blend of literary, visual, and musical arts.
Origins of Skin:
Q: The film includes several elements: the love story of Araz and Maral, tales of the ashik (traveling bard) Vali, motifs of jinn, curses, magic, and the mystic Attar. Which came first?
A: We'd long carried a story in our heads—about love conveyed through letters, a photo that becomes a talisman. Then we brought in elements from Muhammad Siyah-Qalam’s jinn-portraits. The story never fully coalesced into a conventional plot; some parts felt too big, others too small. But that narrative disruption generated the atmospheric effect we wanted.
Folklore, myth, and legend:
Q: Myth and folklore historically explained nature and human existence. You reached into Azerbaijan's oral traditions and folklore in Skin, which might seem risky—did you worry viewers would reject it?
A: We feel society has overcomplicated things—we’ve lost touch with our essence. We need silence, introspection, and awareness of wonder. The human journey is simple again when we reconnect with the natural and mystical. Personal stories in our film are simple on the surface but deepen and reveal hidden layers. Our aim isn’t to shock or moralize—but to awaken experiences that linger.
Magical realism in Skin:
Q: Your film has a realistic foundation with bursts of magical realism. Sometimes it appears introspective, as in the ashik Vali’s line: “These are stories—I don’t really believe in magic... but I embrace it.” Other times, the magic is the central engine. It seems ambivalent—neither purely symbolic critique nor fully immersive in myth. Why?
A: We reject genre-based social critique. In our world, if the film has social function, it must engage genuine social relations—not slogans. Even the religious ‘Najis’ character is conflicted. We didn’t use allegory or label it superstition. The mystical exists: we’re part of a world rich with signs, even without philosophical systems. When magic appears, we accept it—but then also push forward. In everyday life, it lives beside us; if we’re blind to it, silence takes over.
Cinematic influences and visual language:
Q: I thought of Chulevsky’s works—personal, shamanic regional cinema—and Parajanov’s The Color of Pomegranates. Are you influenced by that kind of filmmaking?
A: Not exactly. We aim for atmospheric presence—not autobiography. We don’t turn personal writing into literal film. Personal influence matters if it leads to kindness and good. Artistic creation should add something to the artist too. At our core, we’re classical: stories that evolve into cinematic ideas and cleanse the soul.
Language and identity:
Q: The use of Azerbaijani Turkish is powerful—it adds mystery for non‑Turkish speakers, but much beauty is lost in translation. Did you consider that?
A: Definitely. The language makes the story feel believable and intimate. Translated subtitles lose nuance. We considered dubbing—but translation still robs beauty. We prefer making the film in our native tongue. In Persian or another language, it’d be absurd.
A (Interviewer): I agree—it would’ve become a caricature.
Bahram: Exactly. The ashik must sing in Turkish. It’s rooted in this place. Maybe our film will open doors for Azerbaijani cinema.
Next project and their creative bond:
Q: Will your next film continue in this folkloric‑regional vein?
A: Not necessarily in this local sense. Likely a cinema‑rooted challenge: more complex, maybe historical. It depends on budget. We’re working on it.
Q: Would your signatures ever separate? Could you envision making individual films?
A: Cinema happened to both of us simultaneously. Our personal identities merged into our filmmaking. It’s one spirit in two bodies. If I made a film without Bahman—or vice versa—the spirit of both would still be there. Cinema brings us joy together. Working alone would feel incomplete.
Read the original article in Persian: اگر این فیلم را به زبان ترکی نـمیساختیم چیز مسخرهای از آب درمیآمد