A Review of It was just an accident, Ja’far Panahi’s Palme d’Or Winner at the Cannes Film Festival
I do not know whether the philosophical problem of “the self and the other” was deliberately chosen as the film’s central theme. I suspect not, since the film’s primary concern is to critique and expose the social consequences of the ongoing violent treatment of imprisoned dissident youth in Iran. Yet beneath the surface, one can trace Panahi’s philosophical reflection, articulated through a masterful portrayal of shifting identities—of the “I” and the “Other”—as the characters move through escalating tensions. The present review approaches It was just an accident from this perspective.
The film begins with what appears to be a trivial event: a car hits a stray dog. For the little girl in the back seat—and soon for the audience—the question arises: What was that “other” crushed beneath the car, and why did it happen? The mother’s evasive reply and the father’s indifference—he is an interrogator at Evin Prison—echo throughout the film. Their responses set the tone for the film’s ongoing inquiry into the construction of “the self and the other.”
A former political prisoner, repeatedly tortured by this same limping interrogator, sees the man’s shadowy figure in the half-lit corner of a mechanic’s shop. He believes that “he” is finally within reach, and without hesitation, sets out to take revenge. Thus the central conflict begins.
Yet at the final moment, the mechanic (the former prisoner) hesitates. Conscience seizes him. He must know who this “Other” truly is—lest he be someone other than the limping interrogator (“Pa-Qashangeh”). Within this inner turmoil, the Other reshapes his moral bearings, and a renewed sense of self is born.
There is no certainty regarding the man’s identity. The mechanic is compelled to seek help from his former cellmates in order to identify the interrogator and, equally, to rediscover himself. This inward compulsion propels the film toward a universal plane—where the philosophical dilemma of the self and the other emerges with artistic clarity in Panahi’s cinema.
In Fichte’s view, no existential truth exists outside the “I”; the Other emerges only through conscious action and striving. The boundary between self and non-self is drawn by the self itself; in becoming aware of the Other, the self becomes aware of itself. From each new awareness a new “I” is born, and with it a new Other—an iterative process leading toward greater freedom, which is the ultimate end of human will. The self tends toward perfection, and this striving guarantees free will.
Thus, for the mechanic to attain awareness and freedom, he summons his former comrades to confirm the interrogator’s identity so the “ethical” task—eliminating evil—may be carried out. At first, for all of them, this “Other” is nothing but the embodiment of evil. But the mechanic’s hesitation infects the others, including the son-in-law who is unwillingly drawn into the conflict.
“Pa-Qashangeh” gradually ceases to be a captured monster deserving annihilation; he becomes a problem. Is he truly the familiar tormentor of their past, or merely a passerby caught by it was just an accident, at risk of becoming an innocent victim?
The film’s tension rises with each wave of doubt and conviction. New characters enter the story—each with a recognizable social identity—yet in confrontation with the supposed interrogator, they reveal new facets of themselves, new “selves” shaped through moral struggle.
Initially, “Pa-Qashangeh” is, for all of them, a criminal deserving death. Under Iranian law and under the moral logic of retribution, each tortured prisoner has the right to exact justice. Had he not tortured every one of them—and many others—to the brink of death, defying both law and basic morality?
But as the mechanic doubts, so do they. Their shared tormentor becomes, to each of them, a different Other—one that must be uncovered. In confronting him, they discover newly emerging selves, shifting identities that propel the film through the moral ambiguities of justice and revenge. Their doubts multiply; no one remains the person they once were. Each becomes, for the others, both a new “I” and a new “Other,” at times unrecognizable. These fragile identities shift with every conversation—with every “simple accident.”
Even the police officer who encounters the group—including a bride and groom in full attire—sees an opportunity. Instead of safeguarding the community, he extorts a bribe, masking it as a request for wedding sweets. In doing so, he too becomes an “Other,” revealing a different side of his social identity and treating the wronged, justice-seeking ex-prisoners as harmless revelers.
Another “simple accident” occurs when the interrogator’s phone rings. His pregnant wife has fallen, and their young daughter pleads for help. It is the mechanic and his old cellmates who rush to save her, restore the child’s joy, cover the hospital expenses, and celebrate the successful birth. Through this moral act, they themselves become “Others”—joyful, compassionate—and another layer of ambiguity is cast over their identities. It seems the mechanic retrieves his authentic self: an ethical, freedom-seeking fighter. He leaves with the guerrilla daughter to finally confront “Pa-Qashangeh” and bring the ordeal to an end.
When they drag the blindfolded, bound interrogator from the car, he suddenly lunges at the mechanic—only to be subdued by the woman’s swift blow and tied to a tree, a symbol of life. The once-fearsome torturer now appears as a pitiful, ignorant man, forced to confront his dark past. The blows he receives are not crushing; he can still hide his inhuman identity, insisting repeatedly that they have the wrong man.
But when the mechanic tells him of his newborn son, the interrogator falters. A new “I” seems to break through. Yet, confused by this unexpected twist, he lashes out with threats: if they have touched his wife, he will never forgive them. As he rants, a confession slips out. He reveals a childhood of humiliation—a story he offers as an explanation, portraying himself as the product of a diseased society. Then he declares his readiness to sacrifice his life for the “Agha,” unwilling to let the system be harmed by “people like them.” He clings to an unchanging self.
Examined closely, this scene validates Hannah Arendt’s insight into evil: that wrongdoing emerges from ignorance and blind fanaticism. Evil is constructed; it has no inherent essence.
Shi‘a theology, the review argues, resists transformation of identity. In Shi‘ism, the “sacred”—the conduit to understanding and worshipping God—takes human form in the figure of the Ayatollah. As God is immutable, so too must the sacred human figure embody an unchanging essence. His followers, therefore, resist altering their beliefs or identities. “Pa-Qashangeh” is a product of this mindset. His brutal treatment of dissidents stems from the conviction that, as Iranian Shi‘ites, they must be obedient to the Leader; to think otherwise warrants severe punishment.
Thus the interrogator cannot grant his victims an equal human identity. They are not seekers of awareness or perfection, and therefore cannot possess free will. In his view, they act only under foreign manipulation. At best they are misguided and must be corrected to become worthy of freedom.
In opposition to them, he remains a fixed, unwavering “I,” proud of this constancy.
Yet by the end of this tumultuous day, the interrogator begins to see himself as fundamentally similar to his former prisoners, and a new “I” emerges in him. Their confrontation transforms him; he concedes that if his wife and children behaved as the mechanic claims, he will not pursue him—otherwise…
By now, the mechanic and the guerrilla daughter have both shed their former selves. Through confrontation with the Other, they arrive at a more complete version of themselves. Having released the interrogator with the means to free himself, they depart.
They, too, were idealistic—but not ideological. They sought justice and freedom but refused to reach their goal at any cost. They did not believe that good ends justify immoral means. After a day filled with simple accidents, they return to their authentic selves, recognizing that they cannot do what they initially intended. Is this conscious restraint a form of surrender?
In the closing scene, the mechanic prepares to leave town. As he bids farewell to his landlord, he hears the familiar dragging of a limping foot behind him. Have the day’s actions transformed the interrogator’s “I” into an Other?