How do you hit the establishment in the gut without even brushing against its hair? Ask Jafar Panahi and he might have the answer. His filmmaking legacy and long-standing battle with the Iranian state show that he is one of the bravest filmmakers alive. His Palm d’Or–winning film It Was Just An Accident is a furious work, yet laced with sardonic commentary on a system that is corrupt, greedy, immoral and inhumane.
In the film, a single sound becomes the trigger. The noise of a prosthetic leg sends Vahid, a mechanic, into a psychological spiral. In no time, he chases a man, kidnaps him and digs a pit on the outskirts with the intent to bury him. The captive, whom Vahid is convinced to be Eghbal, pleads to know nothing of the accusations hurled at him.
The film’s core tension rests on a harrowing question: Is this man truly the infamous “Peg Leg”, the tormentor who brutalised Vahid and his fellow inmates? This moral maze in It Was Just An Accident is chilling. How does one verify identity amid anger, mangled memory, and institutional failure? What if vengeance is misdirected? Panahi uses this uncertainty as a philosophical battlefield, and it also serves as a brilliant plot device. Assuming the man is guilty, in a world built on systemic torture, what does justice even mean? Does forgiveness have space in countries where death penalties and blood money are commonplace?
It Was Just An Accident quotes ISIS while discussing the ideology of heaven and hell. It’s a theory where human life holds negligible value. One survivor recounts Eghbal’s reason to rape her, believing that sending her to hell was a divine act since virgins are automatically granted paradise. This way, while battling unresolved trauma of different kinds, Vahid, Shiva, Golrokh and Ali burn with fury upon seeing the man who caused it. So, should good people return cruelty with cruelty, or does vengeance demand skills they do not possess?
Panahi opens with a telling scene. Eghbal drives with his family, and his daughter asks him to turn up the car stereo. He fleetingly does, hits a dog by mistake, and remains unfazed. The wife dismisses it with, “It was just an accident”, adding that God has plans for every living being. Their casual disregard for a creature’s suffering becomes a metaphor for the state’s attitude toward its citizens. Vahid and his peers are no different from that wounded dog, shattered by an oppressor and denied justice.
Back in the central narrative, It Was Just An Accident turns into a frantic journey. The road-trip portions are eccentric with unlikely passengers such as a bride and a wedding photographer – all holding serious grudges against Eghbal. The final chapter shows that despite overwhelming anger, the working class has its instincts rooted in empathy. Panahi gently asserts that human nature seeks kindness and coexistence even after enduring horror.
The film, however, concludes with a dramatic display of rage. Vahid and Shiva reach the answers they seek. Major revelations erupt, but Panahi avoids conventional heroism or cathartic bloodshed. His characters are recognisably human. The final shot, where the film halts on a specific sound and the camera watches Vahid from behind, is terrifying. You never know what follows next. It could also reflect the uncertain hope of every Iranian citizen craving freedom and dignity.
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From a filmmaking point of view, It Was Just An Accident uses the sound of prosthetic footsteps (or references to them) as a psychological weapon. These auditory cues heighten the stakes for the sound team (Reza Heidari) who deliver an exceptional outcome. Amin Jafari’s brisk cinematography drives urgency while Panahi’s neorealism keeps the canvas raw and earthy. When a child enters the frame, chaos slows and tenderness seeps in, reflecting the renewed psyche of the angered ones. Panahi’s dialogues cut deep throughout, and the critique of authoritarianism is precise and timely.
The performances are uniformly excellent in It Was Just An Accident. Vahid Mobasseri leads with a certain everyman ferocity, while Maryam Afshari, Hadis Pakbaten, Mohamad Ali Elyasmehr and Majid Panahi offer vivid layers of vulnerability and moral conflict. Ebrahim Azizi, tasked with the film’s most delicate role, is extraordinary — shifting between fear, defiance and ambiguity with mesmerising precision.
At one point in the film, Panahi suggests that those who once promised revolution are now bound by a book. His decision to build a narrative around oppression using accounts he heard from his co-inmates in jail is both creative and courageous. In an age of technology, liberation and equality, it’s alarming that people in some parts of the world are treated worse than animals on the road, and are expected to accept it through archaic ideas.
For that reason, It Was Just An Accident is a highly necessary discourse to exist in a polarised era of war, religion-based and state-sanctioned cruelty. The film’s universal and timely story is one that can be transposed to many geographies, with Jafar Panahi’s storytelling ensuring it engages and entertains all along.
This extraordinary tale of resistance, therefore, is a sure-fire classic that ought to be celebrated for both its clarity and craft.
Rating: ★★★★★
