For Moein, that contradiction lies at the heart of the film. Inspired in part by the image of a tooth that appears intact while decaying from within, he imagines trauma as something that can remain hidden for years before revealing the extent of its damage. His protagonist has left his country, but not the people, streets, cafés and losses that continue to inhabit him. Even moments of beauty become vulnerable to memory.
By refusing to identify the specific war from which the fisherman fled, Moein widens the film’s gaze beyond one conflict or one geography. Distant Blue becomes a meditation on migration, belonging and the wounds carried by those who survive displacement. Suspended between land and sea, past and present, drowning and deliverance, the fisherman is forced to confront a question that runs quietly beneath the film: how do you begin again when the part of you that fled is still living somewhere else?
AM: Distant Blue follows a fisherman who has physically escaped war but remains imprisoned by its memories. What first drew you to this character and his internal struggle?
Amir Houshang Moein: In recent years, witnessing wars spread across different parts of the world, as well as the growing concern in many countries about preparing for the possibility of these conflicts expanding further, has made me think more deeply about how fragile, and at the same time, how ambitious, humanity can be.
Living in the twenty-first century, with all its technological progress and glamour, can sometimes distance us from the realities of domination, totalitarianism, conflict, and killing. Even the development of science and technologies such as artificial intelligence is sometimes used less to improve human life than to expand weapons and the machinery of war.
A fisherman who loves the boundless expanse of the sea cannot simply close his eyes to these realities and pretend that what happens elsewhere has nothing to do with him. Every explosion brings part of his past pain back to life, and every death reminds him of those he has lost. He knows very well that when a person migrates, they cannot take everything with them. Their family, friends, city, streets, and cafés remain behind in their homeland. Some are still caught in war; others live under the shadow of a conflict that is slowly spreading; and some are surrounded by ruins that no longer resemble a home or a school. These issues deeply affect his conscience and never leave him, even in the smallest moments of pleasure. His own memories remind him of the suffering of others, while the suffering of others, in turn, reopens his own wounds. He is caught in a contradiction that divides him between the past and the present: a past he cannot escape, and a present in which he cannot fully live. Ultimately, this state forces him to confront questions about the meaning of life and why he should continue living it.
AM: The film compares traumatic memory to a decayed tooth that continues to gnaw at the fisherman’s soul. Why did this particular physical and unsettling metaphor feel right for his suffering?
Amir Houshang Moein: The initial idea for the tooth came from a personal experience, a toothache I once had, involving a tooth that appeared perfectly healthy on the outside but was decaying from within. It made me think about how, in many cases, we are unaware of what is happening inside us. A part of our being may be quietly and silently deteriorating for years, until one day that collapse suddenly reveals itself, perhaps at a point when it is already too late to repair it. The decayed tooth became, for me, a metaphor for a part of a person that was wounded many years ago and was never properly attended to. It remains a part of us, but if left untreated, it can gradually affect our entire being and even lead to our destruction. Sometimes, separating ourselves from such a part, however painful, becomes necessary.
The fisherman in the film also separated himself from many things years ago and left his country, but he was unable to leave his traumas behind. Perhaps he believed that time had healed his wounds, only to discover that they are still alive within him. Perhaps, in order to continue his journey, he has to separate himself from something once again, make a new decision, or find a different way of letting go of part of his past. This liminal state, somewhere between staying and leaving, between the past and the present, draws him into a journey across the depths of the sea and, at the same time, into the depths of his own being.
AM: The remote beach appears to offer refuge, yet it can also be understood as another form of isolation or imprisonment. What did the landscape allow you to reveal about exile?
Amir Houshang Moein: Exactly. Although I am not sure whether his isolation is something he has chosen for himself or something imposed upon him by circumstances and society. Perhaps both play a role. Over the years, however, the sea has become a place where the land no longer matters to him, a space where, for a few moments, he can free himself from nationality, borders, and identity. It is an expanse of blue stretching into the distance, evoking something like the “end of the world.”
The shore, by contrast, represents his return to the human world. He steps back onto the ground and the sand, and whenever he becomes sad or needs solitude, he returns to the sea for refuge. These two spaces represent two different yet interconnected states, much like the many dualities that define his life: staying and leaving, belonging and not belonging, solitude and the need for another person, the past and the present.
Between these two worlds, the waves are constantly moving back and forth, much like memories that come and go but never completely stop. Each time, the waves remind him that there is no way to fully escape a dark past.
AM: The particular war from which the fisherman has fled is not identified in the synopsis. Did you deliberately avoid geographical or political specificity in order to make his experience more universal?
Amir Houshang Moein: Yes. This was important to me from the very beginning of writing the screenplay, and it was something we discussed. From the outset, I wanted to focus more on the concept of migration and the wounds left behind by migration and war, rather than on a specific war or geographical region. For me, migration is not a phenomenon that belongs only to the present. It has been part of human history for thousands of years. Throughout the centuries, people have left their homes and homelands for many different reasons. Sometimes migration has been a choice; sometimes it has been shaped by circumstances; and sometimes it has been the result of force, war, and violence.
But I think there is something shared among all these experiences: longing, the idea of home and family, and the loss of something to which one can no longer easily return. I wanted to avoid limiting this human experience to a particular group, nationality, or region, and I did not want the film to become a political statement about a specific conflict. Unfortunately, today the issue of migration is increasingly influenced by political agendas, while its human dimension is seen less and less. We talk less about the fundamental question of what actually forces people to leave their homes. War is one of the most important of these factors, wars that are still continuing in many parts of the world, some of which do not even seem to have a clear end in sight. For this reason, I preferred not to identify the war in this character’s past. I wanted his experience to transcend a particular geography or political conflict and become something more universal: a shared human experience.
AM: What does it mean to present Distant Blue in the Orizzonti section of the Venice Film Festival, and what conversation do you hope the film will provoke about the invisible wounds carried by people forced into exile?
Amir Houshang Moein: To have such an issue receive attention at the world’s oldest film festival, through a short animated film, is deeply meaningful to me. Having the film at the Venice Film Festival gives me a sense of encouragement that perhaps it can once again draw attention to one of humanity’s oldest and most persistent problems: war and its human consequences.
It is also important to me that we pay attention to people who have suffered profound wounds throughout their lives, and that we understand that we cannot judge everyone by the same standards or in the same way. Sometimes a simple act of empathy, a moment of listening to or truly seeing another person, can save someone from the edge of a precipice. At the same time, because animated films, especially short films, usually have fewer opportunities to be included in festivals of this stature, having Distant Blue screened at a prestigious festival such as Venice is personally very valuable to me. I hope this opportunity will help the film connect with a wider audience.
Ultimately, the question that matters most to me is this: What kind of world are we leaving behind for our children? Will the next generation have the opportunity to learn empathy, compassion, and acceptance of their fellow human beings? Will we teach them to embrace differences and recognize the suffering of others, or will a large part of their education and lives be devoted to preparing themselves to go to the battlefield?