Jafar Panahi’s award-winning thriller ends not with a scream but with a chilling squeak. The sound of a prosthetic leg, tied to a traumatic past, becomes a ghost that cannot be buried.
It Was Just an Accident, the latest film from celebrated Iranian director Jafar Panahi, is not an easy story to leave behind. Its power gathers in its final, quiet moments, anchored by a simple, sinister sound effect. The film, which won the Palme d’Or at the Cannes Film Festival earlier this year, tells a tense story of trauma and the search for justice. At its center is a sound that triggers a flood of painful memories for its main character, a sound that the film’s ending suggests will haunt him forever.
The movie is set for a wider release in theaters on October 15, 2025. For global audiences, its journey to the screen is as remarkable as the story it tells. Made in secret on the streets of Tehran, the film was edited on an old laptop that was never connected to the internet to avoid drawing attention from authorities.
A Story That Begins with an Accident
The plot is set in motion by a seemingly minor event. A man named Eghbal, played by Ebrahim Azizi, is driving at night with his pregnant wife and young daughter when his car hits a dog. He drags the injured animal to the side of the road and, with a dismissive shrug to his family, seems to treat it as an unavoidable mishap. His car breaks down soon after, leading him to a garage for help.
At the garage is Vahid, a mechanic played by Vahid Mobasseri. As Eghbal enters, Vahid hears a specific sound: the distinct squeak of a prosthetic leg. This noise acts like a key, unlocking a vault of horrific memories. Vahid is a former political prisoner, and during his incarceration, he was repeatedly tortured by a guard known only by the nickname “Peg Leg.” The prisoner was always blindfolded, so the guard’s identity was defined solely by that haunting squeak of his artificial limb.
Convinced he has found his tormentor, Vahid acts. He kidnaps Eghbal and takes him to the desert, intending to bury him alive. But doubt creeps in. Vahid was blindfolded; he never saw the man’s face. How can he be absolutely sure? This uncertainty transforms a straightforward revenge mission into a complex moral journey.
Gathering a Jury of the Traumatized
Unsure of what to do next, Vahid decides he needs witnesses. He begins seeking out other former prisoners who might identify the captive man. This turns the film into a tense, almost absurd road trip. Vahid’s van fills with a makeshift jury of the traumatized.
He finds Shiva (Mariam Afshari) working as a wedding photographer. She, in turn, directs him to an angry man named Hamid (Mohamad Ali Elyasmehr). In a surreal twist, a bride, Golrokh (Hadis Pakbaten), and her groom even join the group. Each carries their own scars from state violence, and each has a different idea of what justice or revenge should look like.
The group debates, argues, and hesitates. Their mission is complicated when they discover Eghbal has a family and learn his pregnant wife is in distress, forcing these would-be avengers to instead help her. The film masterfully mixes this dark, tense subject matter with moments of unexpected humor, highlighting the absurdity of their situation. Director Panahi has described the film’s tone as having the rhythm of a “Beckettian farce” wrapped around a serious political core.
The Climactic Confrontation and a Masterful Performance
The search for certainty builds to a climactic scene that has been widely praised as one of the most powerful in recent cinema. In the dead of night, the group ties Eghbal to a tree. Bathed in the harsh red glow of the van’s taillights, he is finally interrogated directly.
This 13-minute sequence is a single, unbroken shot focused entirely on Eghbal, who is blindfolded and bound. It is here that actor Ebrahim Azizi delivers a performance that director Panahi called absolutely vital to the film’s success. Azizi, the only professional actor in the main cast, runs a gauntlet of emotions.
He begins by pleading his innocence, presenting himself as a simple family man who lost his leg in an accident. As the pressure mounts, his demeanor shifts through tactics described by a former prisoner who consulted on the scene: playing dumb, offering deals, showing force, and finally, hysterical laughter. The performance reveals the man behind the nickname, not as a monster, but as a complex individual who claims he was “just doing his duty” to provide for his family.
Panahi has said this scene was the one he was most worried about filming. He worked closely with Azizi and a consultant who had spent years in prison to ensure its terrifying authenticity. The scene forces both the characters and the audience to confront uncomfortable questions. Is this man guilty? Does it matter? In a system built on violence, can moral clarity ever be found?
The Ending: A Sound That Echoes Into the Future
The film does not end with a act of vengeance. After the intense confrontation, Vahid ultimately cannot go through with the murder. In the final moments, he walks away. The choice for mercy is made.
But peace does not follow. The movie’s last shot shows Vahid walking down a hallway. Then, the sound begins. Off-screen, the audience hears the unmistakable, rhythmic squeak of a prosthetic leg walking. The sound approaches and then fades away. Eghbal is heard but never seen.
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This is the film’s devastating final point. For Vahid, the trauma is not something that can be resolved or buried. The man who caused his pain may walk away, but the memory of that pain—triggered by a simple, everyday sound—is now a permanent part of him. The editor of the film, Amir Etminan, explained that the goal was to show a man trying to live a normal life while “the shadow of dictatorship and totalitarianism lingers”.
The title, It Was Just an Accident, becomes deeply ironic. The regime’s violence is dismissed as a mistake or a necessary duty. The lasting psychological damage inflicted on its victims is treated as collateral damage. But as the final squeaking sound proves, for the victim, the aftermath is intentional, personal, and forever.
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