Naz Riahi (she/her) is a director and writer. Much of her work explores the spaces, emotions and opportunities of otherness and isolation, informed by her experiences as an immigrant from Iran.
She was named one of Filmmaker Magazine’s 25 New Faces of Independent Film. Her short film Sincerely, Erik received a Vimeo Staff Pick and won a Vimeo Best of the Year Award and was named a NoBudge Best Film of the Year. It has garnered praise from Brooklyn Academy of Music (BAM), The New York Times T Magazine and Fast Company among numerous publications and cultural institutions.
Her essays, journalism and fiction have been published widely in outlets such as Harper’s Bazaar, Oldster, Pipe Wrench, Food & Wine, Los Angeles Review of Books, Longreads, Catapult, The Fader, Guernica and more.
She was the creator of the dialogical art project, Bitten. In recognition of Bitten, Naz was invited to SXSL at Obama White House. An essay she wrote about the experience received public praise from President Obama.
She holds an MFA from the New School and is the recipient of a NYFA City Artist Corps Grant.
New Orleans Review
You originally studied journalism in undergrad and received your MFA in creative writing. Why did you start writing and directing short films and what was your experience with shifting writing styles?
Naz Riahi
I wanted to be a filmmaker and writer from the time I was a little kid, but I’d never seen anyone who looked like me or had my life experience direct a film. Now I know there are plenty of women directors, like Agnes Varda and the Iranian poet Forough Farrokhzad, but their work has consistently not been visible to the masses. So the directors I grew up hearing about were all men. Growing up in an immigrant family, it never occurred to me that there would be a path for me to make films. I did not know anyone in Hollywood, my family was not wealthy, I did not think I even had permission to study film as a potential career because it seemed so out of reach. The other part of my answer is that my family has always been very artistic. My grandfather is one of Iran’s most famous poets and lyricists, so writing and reading and growing up in that world was just part of my culture. It was really impactful to me, and art and film are really important to my family. When I came [to the United States] I knew I had to make a living and I did not know how to make a living as a writer unless I made my writing not just a craft but a profession. So I studied journalism, thinking it was the more practical thing to do. I never fully worked as a journalist; I wrote for various publications here and there as a freelance writer.
In my senior year of undergrad, I took my first fiction writing course. At this point my creative writing was mostly focused on poetry, and [the course] blew me away. I thought,This is what I want to do with my life. I want to write stories. I still wanted to make films, but writing novels seemed more accessible because I had seen people who looked like me write novels. I knew a lot of women novelists, but I did not know a lot of women filmmakers. So that is how my path started. All through my thirties I tried to be practical and it was really hard because the practical things were never things I wanted to do; they were always compromises because I had to support myself. I did not have a family or a partner who could support me, so I had to be realistic. That came at a cost and it took me a while to transition into filmmaking. I think I always was a filmmaker; even in my writing I visualized everything in my mind. My writing is so sparse and that carries over [into screenwriting]. One thing that has been amazing in my trajectory, is that all the years of honing my writing gave me a distinct voice as a writer that has carried over into my filmmaking. My films have a specific, distinct voice and I did not have to spend decades searching for that voice.
NOR
Toxic masculinity is extremely prevalent in our day-to-day lives. However, in your films Sincerely Erik and Andros in the City, you depict male leads who express their emotions in very gentle, endearing ways. Why is it important for you to showcase these types of male narratives?
Riahi
We never see gentle masculinity or tender masculinity. My partner is a filmmaker who is trans and he told me that when he transitioned, he realized that men love each other, but their love is so secret. That tenderness does not show in the public realm; they have to perform masculinity and the masculinity they are asked to perform is so toxic. I have a huge problem with patriarchy. Growing up in Iran and experiencing so much patriarchy, I came here thinking this is a country where we are all equal because that is the message of America. I experienced an equal amount of patriarchy [here], but it was more sinister. In Iran they say women are not equal to men, which is crazy. But here they say women are equal to men and then they treat us like we are not equal and then we feel crazy. So I have a really hard time with patriarchy and I can either be angry about that, and that anger and rage does not go away, or I can do something about it. I think modeling gentle, tender, feminine masculinity is a powerful thing to do. Also with Sincerely Erik and Andros in the City, Erik and Andros are my friends; neither of them are actors. They are both lovely, gentle men and they inspired those characters greatly.
NOR
Your work tends to have low-contrast, muted colors. What attracts you to these aesthetics?
Riahi
I love films from the 1970s. All I want to do is make ‘70s films. That is a really big part of that aesthetic, and my influences are the punk films from the late ‘70s, early ‘80s. They also had a very rough feel to them. A lot of them were made on tiny budgets, like Smithereens, one of my favorite films. I love Variety; I love Girlfriends, which is not exactly a punk film, but in that era. There is something really powerful [in being sparse]. My writing is also very sparse, my scriptwriting and narrative writing is sparse. So I know the power in being very contained. I feel like this aesthetic really imbues a sparseness that allows you to see the film in a different way. I also do not want to do what everyone else is doing. Right now everything is shiny and fast, cameras are so fancy and I really shunned that in a lot of my work. Even my music videos are intentionally not colored to the degree that a usual music video would be.
NOR
Music plays a key role in your work, such as Madelynn Von Ritz is Almost Famous and the music videos you directed for Ella Hunt. What connection do you feel to lyrics or songs that prompts you to represent storytelling through a more musical lens?
Riahi
Whose life has not had music play a big role? It is the soundtrack to our emotions. When we are sad, we listen to a certain type of music. When we are angry, we listen to a certain type of music. When we are happy, we want to hear a song that is happy, we want to move to it and it courses through us in a different way. Film, music and writing all go together so well. I understand the impact of music in film as a tool of manipulation. That can be really profound, powerful and stunning, but I also like the challenge of not relying on [music] to move an audience. Andros in the City is a 25-minute film with no score. There are three pieces of music in that film, the same three pieces of music. It is an opera written by Reynaldo Hahn, called La Barcheta. I had my friend Nick Halet do a rendition of that because I wanted a scene where there is an opera singer practicing nearby. It is a very Brooklyn thing for you to hear other people’s lives passing through as you are living your own. So I wanted them to hear music coming out of someone else’s window. I have an opera singer in my building who practices and I was inspired by her.
NOR
Your dialogical art project Bitten encouraged others to view food from a perspective of equity and sustainability. Why do you believe it is important to continue these types of conversations and push for more people to view food through an intersectional lens?
Riahi
Bitten, at its core, was created because I wanted people to engage in dialogue around food as art. That is one way we can change the world, by seeing the beauty and the challenge in something and being engaged in dialogue. That also means to listening and learning and that is what I tried to do with Bitten. It is what I try to do with my films and writing. I have been watching the Iran protests from here; I have been glued to my phone. One thing that has struck me is that so much of the protest footage coming out of Iran is actually art; it is dialogical and starts conversations not in just one way. It is a conversation that the protestors are having with us and we give back to them. It is very circuitous and that is important to think about with any kind of creativity, music, film, writing, protest.
NOR
In your personal essay “A Film and/is a Prayer”, you describe finding strength and escaping through film as a young child in Iran. Now as an adult living in New York, do you still find yourself “praying at the altar of films?”
Riahi
Absolutely, in a different way now. They are not my escape any more; they are my inspiration. I watch films so that I can absorb the legacy of filmmakers I love and hopefully move culture by imbuing some of my work with things I have learned from them.
NOR
Following the murder of Mahsa Amini, protests have sparked across Iran, where women are fighting for their rights and autonomy. You have been extremely vocal on social media about supporting these women and amplifying their voices. Considering how many posts about the protests are being shadowbanned, why do you think it is important now more than ever for others to show their support toward Iranian women and educate themselves on what is happening through the media?
Riahi
None of us are free until all of us are free. We are all connected. I cannot walk by someone who is being hurt by someone else and not intervene or say something. That is not the kind of life I want to lead and if I am being hurt by someone, I do not want some stranger to walk by and do nothing. This is a grander example of that. The other part of this coin is that what happened in Iran is actively happening all over the world right now; the fundamentalists are taking over. There is a long legacy of fascism and one of the rules of fascism is imposing regulations on the bodies of women, queer people, people of color, Black and Indigenous people. That happened in Iran forty-three years ago and it is happening all over the world now. Italy just elected its first proudly fascist prime minister. It is happening in the United States with the overturning of Roe v. Wade. The women and the people of Iran are demanding freedom. They are not imposing their beliefs on anyone else; they are just demanding to be allowed to live a free life. Since they are trying to overthrow a government, they are not asking for reform; they are asking for regime change. They want democracy. I think that if we show support for them, we help them succeed in their movement, we are sending a message to fascists all over the world, including those in this country, including our last president and all of his cronies, including the governor of Florida, that we are going to band together globally. We are so much stronger together than we are individually.
NOR
The revolution happening in Iran is an intersectional issue that should gain the support of every person who believes in gender equity and that everyone deserves basic human rights. By simple, yet powerful acts, such as dancing in the streets, Iranian women are defying a regime that has failed them. What do you think the world can learn from these incredibly brave and inspiring women?
Riahi
Do not fuck with women? Do not fuck with Iranian women? The world should be in awe of this bravery, which comes with no weapons, no guns, no drones, no batons, no armor. These women and their allies, and all the children fighting for this revolution, come with just their bodies and that is the most vulnerable thing someone can do. It is so scary, I think our jaws should be dropped in awe, admiration and inspiration.
NOR
As an Iranian woman, the weight of educating others on the protests in Iran should not fall solely on your shoulders. Thank you for the work that you do and for encouraging others to amplify the voices of those who are being silenced.
Naz Riahi (she/her) is a director and writer. Much of her work explores the spaces, emotions and opportunities of otherness and isolation, informed by her experiences as an immigrant from Iran.
Briana Bhola (she/her) is from Long Island, New York. After graduating from Loyola University New Orleans, she hopes to one day pursue an MFA in Creative Writing. Her Guyanese and Goan heritage constantly inspires her to pursue activist work and empower others during her free time.
