Back in March 1990, Los Angeles Times critic Kevin Thomas raised the question if the run-down apartment building in Dariush Mehrjui's 1987 film, "The Tenants," was more than just a setting for a neutral story telling. He asked if this "clever social satire" could represent Iranian society at the time.  Thomas wasn't the first to raise this idea. Even before the article appeared, Mehrjui had faced similar questions in interviews, and the film’s supposed deeper meaning was already circulating among critics. Despite his resistance, many viewed the run-down apartment building—with its structural problems and struggling residents—as a microcosm of Iran itself, reflecting the country’s political and social tensions. In his final in-depth interviews (between 2016 and 2021) before his recent tragic death, Mehrjui strongly denied any symbolic reading of the film:

"One would need a highly paranoid and sick mind to look for such interpretations in a film like this and try to prove that you are an enemy [of the country]. Our symbol-making and ideologue minds are always looking for strange interpretations, taking each apartment and floor as a symbol of something and sticking a bunch of nonsensical and irrelevant interpretations to the film."[1]

Despite Mehrjui’s repeated insistence that The Tenants carried no hidden symbolism, audiences and critics almost immediately read more into it than he intended. Some saw it as a snapshot of Iranian society, though their attention often stayed on tangible issues such as the worsening housing crisis of the late 1980s. However, other analyses went much further, drawing elaborate connections between every detail of the film and specific moments in Iran's political past. For instance, a 1987 article in Weekly Etalla'at went as far as to link the film's characters and plot points to figures and key events from before the revolution, including the former Shah, the land reforms of the 1960s, and Iran's relationships with the United States and the Soviet Union:

"The house—an heirless four-story building—symbolizes Iran, while the butcher, acting as the legal representative of the late livestock owner, represents Mohammad Reza Shah as the rightful heir to the Pahlavi throne. Meanwhile, Bagheri, the real estate agent, symbolizes the Soviet Union, while his rival, the owner of the competing real estate agency, represents the United States. [...] When the butcher issues eviction notices to his tenants—just as the Shah initiates land reforms—the tenants, symbolizing opposition political groups, plead for a full renovation instead."[2]

Although these extensive interpretations of every detail often faced criticism, their influence within Iranian society, and even among professional filmmakers, was evident. Perhaps the most striking reaction, driven by a strong belief in this symbolism, came from another prominent Iranian director, Mohsen Makhmalbaf, then known for his support of radical revolutionary ideas. In a 1987 letter to Mohammad Beheshti, head of the Farabi Cinema Foundation, Makhmalbaf expressed his intense anger, writing, "Two hours ago, when I saw the film, I was ready to strap a grenade to myself, hug Mehrjouei, and go to the other world together!"[3]

Makhmalbaf's furious reaction highlights just how deeply "The Tenants" unsettled the more radical elements of the revolutionary movement. He condemned the film for "mocking the essence of Islam and the revolution,"[4] viewing it as a perilous new direction for Iranian cinema. But what exactly in "The Tenants" ignited such intense responses and invited so many layers of interpretation? While some of these symbolic readings undoubtedly arose from the revolutionary discourse of the era, the film's lasting impact suggests a deeper significance. Given its continued relevance, the story of this film – its symbolism and its reflection of Iran in the late 1980s – asks for a closer examination.

A key figure in Iran's New Wave[5] cinema since the late 1950s, Dariush Mehrjui fled Iran two years after the 1979 revolution. Censorship of his new film, "The School We Went to,"[6] had become unbearable. In spring 1981, Mehrjui headed to France for the Cannes Film Festival, where "The School We Went to" had been accepted into the Critics' Week sidebar. But Iranian film authorities prevented his participation by refusing to send a print from Tehran. With conditions worsening, Mehrjui was advised not to go back. He stayed in Paris, then, looking to reconnect with exiled Iranian intellectuals and restart his stalled career.

While Mehrjui enjoyed the company of intellectuals in Paris, especially author Gholam Hossein Saedi, his film career there didn't take off, resulting in few finished or well-received projects. Meanwhile, back in Iran, the film industry was struggling, with fewer movies being made. Despite this, Mehrjui's close friends and colleagues kept urging him to return.[7] Although doubtful at first, he was gradually convinced to go back, no matter the difficulties – even with the ongoing war, the strong influence of Islamic ideology, and the government increasingly controlling culture, society, and personal lives. However, upon arriving in Iran, Mehrjui found that "the situation was not as unfavourable as the false propaganda suggested."[8]

The 1980s were a tough time for Iranian cinema. Social and political issues, along with the Iran-Iraq war, made it almost impossible for private investors and filmmakers outside the government's ideology to operate. However, around the mid-1980s, things started to shift with the creation of organizations like the Farabi Cinema Foundation. With new connections being made between intellectuals and the government, small spaces were provided for alternative artistic work, even for those not focused on ideology. From 1986 onwards, Iranian cinema slowly started producing films that didn't always follow the government line. Seeing this chance to rebuild Iran's struggling film industry, Mehrjui teamed up with Haroun Yeshayaei, a former left-wing political activist, and his new studio, Pakhshiran. This partnership, along with Mehrjui's growing trust in the revolutionary system, and reconnecting with old friends on set, led to his groundbreaking film, released in the winter of 1987.

The initial marketing for "The Tenants" – both the first posters with their cartoonish, goofy-faced characters funny images – made it seem like a purely comedic film by Mehrjui. However, audiences who went to see the movie found a different opening, one filled with strong symbolic hints. Set to music that shifted from heavy to light and happy, the film starts with a car driving along Tehran's modern Vali-Asr Street, amidst the city's busy traffic. Moving with the car, the camera shows the modern towers, tall buildings, and important landmarks of Tehran at the time, including the Museum of Modern Art, painting a picture of a city undergoing rapid construction and development. 

Moments after this opening, the image of progress shatters. The car leaves Tehran's modern heart and abruptly heads to the city's western edge, finally reaching the story's central building. This structure sits in a near-desert setting, a stark contrast to the modern cityscape and a clear sign of Tehran's uneven growth. "The Tenants" appears to tell the story of this isolated building, seemingly caught between its current state and a desired future of modernization. It's a building out of place, a blank slate where both the structure and its inhabitants are set to create new, modern identities.

The scene opens with cheerful chatter and smiling faces outside the building, but the mood soon darkens as more residents arrive. Despite the initial appearance of a happy story, the audience quickly senses that something is wrong. Some residents clearly have complaints about the building's deteriorating condition and are also keen to confirm the growing rumour that the owners died in an accident. However, they appear unable to argue or assert themselves with the butcher, the building's "legal representative," due to his hostile reactions. With the real owners absent, the legal representative feigns surprise at the renters' complaints, accusing them of spreading baseless rummers and declaring he won't tolerate such talk about the property he manages.

Ironically, even though the butcher/manager lives in the same building, his position prevents him from seeing its rundown state and the tenants' real worries. While denying the rumours, he only agrees to a few small, ultimately pointless repairs, briefly fixing the most urgent problems but leaving the building in terrible condition. Meanwhile, the powerless and oppressed residents demand real change – reforms that seem impossible given their relationship with the absent owner and his representative. Recognizing this hopeless situation, the tenants gradually start asking a crucial question: does the building owner's legal representative truly have the right to be in charge?

This absence of a clear owner allows the residents to imagine, for the first time, that the building essentially belongs to no one. It's as if the fundamental concept of the house – having a permanent owner – their connection to it, and their rights as residents could be entirely redefined. Reflecting the film’s opening images of Tehran's modern changes, this moment suggests a significant shift is possible if the tenants can redefine their identities and their connections within the building. Just as the city and its infrastructure are rapidly modernizing, the tenants appear on the cusp of a similar transformation—yet they are burdened by the presence of an illegitimate force blocking their way.

Beyond questioning the representative's authority, the film introduces another issue: a disturbing power outside the building. As tensions escalate, the butcher/manager consults a trusted ally—a powerful local realtor with wider influence. Instead of mediating the dispute, the realtor proposes a radical solution: illegally selling the entire building and evicting all tenants. To achieve this, he advises the representative to forge a legal document from the deceased owners, granting him full control. Driven by personal profit, the realtor embodies the forces resisting change, ensuring power stays within the established order.

But as more people inside and outside the building resisted change, a group of tenants who wanted things to change decided to act. They hired workers to fix and improve the building, even though the owner's representative hadn't said it was okay. By using their own money, they tried to show they had a right to own part of the building, seeing themselves as more than just renters. As you might guess, this caused a big fight between the representative and the tenants who wanted change. The fight was mostly about how much the workers were getting paid and how they were being treated, which was often unfair and blown out of proportion.

This situation adds another symbolic layer to the film. While everyone is fighting over who owns the building, their rights, and making things modern, the working people are just used as tools to help others get what they want. The workers don't have any say, any power, or any part in deciding what happens or becoming something new. However, later in the movie, when the fighting groups in the building (the renters and the representative) decide to stop fighting for a while, the workers are also asked to join in. This shows that they need to be included to make things normal again. At a dinner party – something that happens a lot in Mehrjui's movies – the workers are invited to talk about this ceasefire. The leader of the workers honestly tells both sides that the building is in bad shape and they need to realize that and do something about it.

Even though the long happy dinner scene seemed to mean things would get peaceful, with both sides agreeing, the fighting starts again quickly because the real estate agents get involved. The first agent reminds the representative about what he wants, making the argument start up again. Listening to this advice, the fake representative tries again to stop the house from being fixed by pretending to be a family member of the owners. Meanwhile, the second real estate agent tells the renters to damage the house, thinking it will hurt the representative who wants to stop any improvements. It's strange because the renters, who first wanted the house fixed, now want to damage it since fixing it doesn't help them anymore. In a surprising turn, they are encouraged to become the very destroyers they were against before, giving up on their original plan to fix the house for a quick benefit.

Even though the workers' leader warned them, the next scenes show both the renters and the workers doing something that looks like it could be either breaking things or fixing them! It's chaotic, like a revolution, with everything being torn apart. Finally, the workers realize it doesn't make sense and tell both sides to agree on something first, and then call them to work. While the workers are on strike, a strong wind blows, a bird flies over the building and lands on a water tank on the roof, and then a big part of the building collapses. In the original movie plan, the story ended right there, with the building half destroyed. This would have left the audience deeply discouraged and very pessimistic, with no real hope for a better future, especially if they believed the film's social symbolism.

The original ending, likely the more fitting one, showed the building collapsing completely, making it unlivable for everyone. However, after pushback from the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance, Mehrjui and the Farabi Foundation agreed to a last-minute change. In this revised ending, with the building half-destroyed, a city official arrives. Confirming that the original long-term owners are dead, he announces that due to a recently imposed law, the tenants can buy and own the building under certain conditions. This strange twist highlights how much officials in the Islamic Republic understood the film's powerful symbolism, even before its release and widespread public interpretation.

It seems the Islamic Republic's influence shaped the ending by framing its intervention this way: even with the house in ruins, let the people be its owners. It's as if, after a revolution, everyone—including those in power—agreed that Iran's tenants are the rightful heirs to these broken-down homes. And supposedly, a plan to rebuild is in place. In the final moments, legal officials show the new homeowners’ blueprints that inflate their hopes and fill them with optimism for the future. It's as if, despite the obvious destruction, the revolutionary moment has given the residents an almost dreamlike hope that a better world is possible—a grand hope for those in a crumbling house.

The power of the building as a symbol in The Tenants lies in its multifaceted nature. A building is, at once, a physical structure, a home, and a community. It provides shelter, but it also shapes the lives and the identities of those within its walls. Crucially, it can represent stability and tradition, but it can also be a site of conflict and even change. While normally we tend to see buildings as symbols of stability, not considering them as sites of change, The Tenants opens a new perspective for the audience, showing how such stable structures could also function as metaphors of change. This happens due to Mehrjui's understanding of a building not only as a structural object, but as a complex mixture of relations. This is why in his groundbreaking film, the building plays the role of the main character and is always a potent symbol for the complexities of Iranian society.

Just as a building houses diverse individuals with their own stories and struggles, so too does a nation contain a multitude of relations, perspectives and experiences. The building's physical decay mirrors the social and political challenges facing Iran, while the residents' attempts to repair and reclaim their space reflect the nation's struggle to develop a modern identity. The multi-layered meanings, the film's ability to represent so much simultaneously, and the dual nature of buildings—as both stable structures and sites of constant change—all contribute to making this phenomenon a compelling and enduring symbol in Mehrjui's film. Yet, what makes the building in The Tenants so powerful is not only its role as a symbol of Iranian society but also the way it defies a simple or fully conclusive resolution. Even in the revised, state-approved ending, the audience is left suspended in ambiguity. The promise of ownership is offered, but the ruins remain. The blueprints suggest a hopeful tomorrow, but the foundations remain uncertain.

In this way, The Tenants does not merely tell a story about conflict and resolution—it captures the essence of an era in flux, where hope and despair, destruction and renewal, coexist in an uneasy balance. Mehrjui’s film does not provide answers; instead, it compels viewers to reconsider what it means to live within a shifting structure, constantly threatened by collapse. More than three decades later, the question lingers: can the tenants truly rebuild, or are they destined to inhabit a home forever caught between ruin and restoration, a question that continues to resonate in Iran today?

Perhaps the most striking aspect of The Tenants is how it continues to speak to the present. The same questions about legitimacy, ownership, and the future of an uncertain structure still haunt Iranian society. Just as Mehrjui’s tenants hoped to reclaim their home, new generations wrestle with power, justice, and the possibility of real change. The crumbling building is no longer just a relic of the 1980s but a mirror reflecting the tensions of today—between stability and transformation, control and resistance, survival and the dream of renewal.

This connection has become even sharper in light of the most recent social movements, such as the 2022-2023 “Woman, Life, Freedom”. At the heart of Mehrjui’s story lies a question that has lost none of its force: who speaks for the house, and who decides its future? In the film, the tenants confront a representative who claims authority while the building literally falls apart around him.

The protests in Iran raised the same questions on a national scale. As authorities continue to silence women, marginalize young people, and suppress alternative ways of life while offering only the illusion of reform, the tenants of the country search for fragile ground on which they can keep their voices alive. In The Tenants, the residents refuse to abandon their collapsing home, demanding a say in its fate even as the walls crack around them. That same determination is visible today in those who want more than the chance to endure the present; they want the right to shape what comes next. Seen this way, The Tenants speaks beyond its late-1980s setting, capturing a struggle over voice, power, and belonging that remains unresolved decades later.

Refrences

[1]. Mani Haghighi, Mehrjui: A Forty-Year Career (Tehran: Gilhamesh, 2023), 124.

[2]. “Which Tenants?,” Weekly Etalla'at, no. 2346 (June- July 1987): 12.  

[3]. Emily Amra'ei, “Makhmalbaf said: "I will explode myself in cinema.",” Tarikh-e Irani, January 12, 2014: Link.  

[4]. Ibid. 

[5]. Mowj-e Now

[6]. Madrese'ei Ke Miraftim

[7]. Mani Haghighi, Mehrjui: A Forty-Year Career (Tehran: Gilhamesh, 2023), 114.

[8]. Ibid.