There are films that whisk you away to fantastical realms, and then there are films that draw you deep into the pulsing, intricate heart of a real city. Asghar Farhadi’s 2016 masterpiece, “The Salesman” (Forushande), is a masterclass in the latter. This Academy Award-winning drama is not set in a stylized, cinematic version of Tehran; it unfolds in the city’s actual apartments, on its traffic-choked streets, and within the hushed sanctity of its theaters. To embark on a journey through the locations of “The Salesman” is to do more than just visit a film set. It is to peel back the layers of a complex metropolis, to understand the subtle tensions and profound humanism that Farhadi captures with such surgical precision. This is a pilgrimage into the soul of a city, a place where the fictional trauma of its protagonists, Emad and Rana, feels etched into the very concrete and plaster of the buildings they inhabit. We will not be looking for exact addresses, as the privacy of these residential spaces is paramount. Instead, we will be searching for a feeling, for the atmospheric truth of a Tehran that is at once a backdrop, a character, and a silent witness to a story of honor, shame, and the fragile nature of trust. Prepare to walk the streets where life and art collide, where the weight of a city’s history and the anxieties of modern life press in on all sides, creating the unforgettable world of “The Salesman.”
This cinematic pilgrimage through Tehran follows in the footsteps of other profound journeys, such as exploring the desolate warzones of Jordan depicted in The Hurt Locker.
The Urban Labyrinth: Deciphering Tehran’s Architectural Soul
Tehran, through Farhadi’s perspective, emerges as a city defined by walls—not only the physical barriers of brick and concrete but also the invisible divides separating public from private life, neighbor from neighbor, and ultimately, truth from perception. The film’s narrative is driven by its architecture, with the two main apartments acting as pivotal stages for the unfolding drama. Grasping these spaces is essential to understanding the film’s profound connection to its setting.
The Two Apartments: A Story of Urban Contrast
The story erupts with a violent tremor. The first apartment, where Emad and Rana have established their life, begins to deteriorate. Cracks spiderweb across walls, windows shatter, and the very foundation of their home seems on the verge of collapse. This is not merely a plot device; it symbolizes the sudden and brutal disruption of their domestic peace. This building, likely situated in one of central Tehran’s older, denser neighborhoods, epitomizes a particular urban existence. These neighborhoods have history, with buildings standing side by side, their shared walls bearing witness to generations of stories. The sense of community is strong, yet privacy is scarce. The frantic evacuation, with neighbors flooding the streets, underscores this collective vulnerability. The architecture itself becomes a character in distress, its structural failure echoing the emotional breakdown to come.
A visitor to Tehran today can roam such neighborhoods and sense this history. One might find streets where older, two to three-story homes are gradually being replaced by taller, more impersonal apartment complexes. The air is thick with the sounds of daily life—the call to prayer blending with the shouts of children playing, the hum of air conditioners, the distant roar of traffic. These places carry a texture, a feeling of lives lived in close quarters, which Farhadi captures impeccably. The film’s opening scene delivers a visceral shock, conveying without words that the home’s safety is a fragile illusion.
Compelled to relocate, Emad and Rana take up residence in a new apartment, a rooftop unit in a seemingly more sturdy, modern building. Yet this new home offers no sanctuary. It is tainted by the past of its former tenant, a woman whose tragic story spills into theirs in the most harrowing way. This second apartment represents a different facet of Tehran’s urban space—a reflection of the city’s ongoing push towards modernity. With cleaner lines and perhaps more space, it is also more isolating. The rooftop location provides a view of the city but distances them from the street-level community they left behind. This physical separation parallels their growing emotional detachment from each other following the assault.
The apartment turns into a prison of memories and suspicion. Every corner hides secrets, every remnant is a clue. Farhadi employs the physical space to heighten psychological tension. Rana’s obsessive cleaning of the bathroom and Emad’s discovery of the locked room filled with the previous tenant’s belongings are acts defined by the architecture of their new home. It should be a fresh start but instead is haunted by a past that refuses to be buried. Exploring Tehran’s newer residential areas reveals this architectural style—buildings designed for privacy, with high walls and secure gates. Yet, as the film poignantly demonstrates, these physical barriers cannot shield against others’ ghosts or the turmoil within one’s own heart. The very modernity of the space feels sterile and cold, starkly opposing the messy, vibrant, though connected life they were forced to leave behind. It offers a poignant reflection on urban development: in constructing new buildings, we sometimes destroy the invisible bonds that truly make a place home.
The Theater: A Stage for Life and Art
Alongside the private drama is the world of the stage. Emad and Rana are actors in a company producing Arthur Miller’s classic American play, “Death of a Salesman.” The theater is their refuge, a space for creative expression and collaboration. It is where their identities as artists are affirmed, sharply contrasting the powerlessness they experience in their personal lives. Farhadi uses the theater as more than a backdrop; it becomes a thematic mirror for the entire film.
Tehran boasts a vibrant and resilient theater scene, a cultural keystone of the city. The theater featured in the film is a local venue, yet its atmosphere reflects many such spaces throughout Tehran—from the iconic cylindrical City Theater of Tehran (Teatr-e Shahr) to smaller, independent black-box theaters. These venues are hubs of intellectual and artistic activity, spaces where potent social critiques are veiled in fiction. Visiting one of these institutions offers deep insight into contemporary Iranian society.
The atmosphere inside is electric. Before performances, the lobbies buzz with conversation as patrons—students, artists, families—gather, sipping tea and discussing art and politics. There is reverence for the craft and a shared understanding of the stage’s importance. This world grounds Emad and Rana. We witness their camaraderie with fellow actors, the rehearsal routines, the makeup rituals, and the backstage nervous energy. It is a realm of order and purpose.
Crucially, Farhadi draws sharp parallels between the play they perform and their own tragic reality. Willy Loman, “Death of a Salesman’s” protagonist, is a man consumed by his reputation, with his dignity crumbling under failure’s weight. Emad, gentle and modern, finds himself similarly obsessed, though through a culturally distinct lens, with honor and revenge. He becomes a real-life Willy Loman, a salesman not of products but of his wounded masculinity. The stage offers him a controlled version of drama, even as his life spirals into a chaotic search for justice that only breeds more pain. The film’s final, harrowing confrontation is, in essence, an unscripted third act—a raw theater that starkly contrasts with the rehearsed performances he and Rana present each night. Thus, the theater serves as the film’s moral and artistic compass, reminding us that the most profound dramas are not those performed under bright lights but those unfolding in the silent, desperate chambers of the human heart.
The Pulse of the Street: Navigating Tehran’s Daily Rhythms
Beyond the confines of apartments and theaters, The Salesman is a film in perpetual motion. Tehran is not a static backdrop but a dynamic, ever-present force, whose rhythms and pressures shape every move the characters make. Understanding the film’s geography is to grasp the flow of life through its urban arteries.
Driving Through the Metropolis
Many of the film’s pivotal conversations and moments of quiet reflection take place inside Emad’s car. In Farhadi’s cinema, the vehicle is a recurring motif: a private, mobile sphere navigating a chaotic public world. It is an intimate bubble, yet a fragile one, constantly buffeted by the city’s external pressures. As Emad drives, we experience Tehran as he does—through a windshield framing a world of relentless motion.
The experience of Tehran traffic is integral to its character. It is a complex, often intimidating dance of cars, motorcycles, and pedestrians. Lanes become mere suggestions, horns form a language, and progress is measured in inches. Farhadi doesn’t simply depict this traffic; he makes us feel its psychological weight. The gridlock serves as a metaphor for Emad’s own sense of being trapped, unable to advance or find a clear path to resolution. The endless trails of headlights at night create a hypnotic, disorienting blur, reflecting his moral confusion.
From the driver’s seat, the city unfolds before us. We see grand highways cutting through the urban landscape, lined with towering apartment blocks and glowing billboards. In the distance, the majestic Alborz mountains stand as a constant, silent presence—an eternal natural backdrop against the city’s fleeting chaos. The car carries us through different social layers, from the middle-class neighborhoods where Emad and Rana live to the poorer, less developed outskirts where his search for the assailant eventually takes him. The journey inside the car is both literal and symbolic—a descent into a part of the city, and a part of himself, he would prefer to avoid.
For a visitor, experiencing Tehran from a car (perhaps via a ride-hailing app like Snapp) is an immersion into the city’s pulse. It offers a chance to observe the city’s incredible diversity, watch its architecture transform from district to district, and see its residents going about their daily lives. It is in these moments of transit, caught between destinations, that Tehran’s true scale and energy reveal themselves. In The Salesman, the car is more than transportation; it is a confessional booth, a rolling cage of anxiety, and a moving picture frame capturing one of the world’s most vibrant and misunderstood cities.
The Neighborhood Markets and Everyday Life
While the film’s plot is driven by extraordinary events, it remains grounded in the mundane details of daily life. This is one of Farhadi’s greatest strengths as a filmmaker. He shows how life—with all its small routines and rituals—goes on even amid crisis. We glimpse this in the fabric of the neighborhoods Emad and Rana inhabit. Though our time there is brief, the presence of local shops, bakeries, and small markets permeates the film.
These small commercial hubs are the lifeblood of any Tehran neighborhood. They are sites of social interaction, news exchange, and the city’s richest sensory palette. Picture stepping out of an apartment building and being greeted by the irresistible scent of freshly baked bread from a local nanvaei. Watching bakers skillfully slap dough onto hot kiln stones to make nan-e sangak or press it against the curved walls of a tandoor for nan-e barbari is a quintessential Tehran experience. These bakeries are not merely food outlets; they serve as vital community anchors.
A stroll through such a neighborhood would also reveal small fruit and vegetable shops, their produce piled in colorful displays along the sidewalks. You would pass butchers, dairy shops selling fresh yogurt and cheese, and corner stores stocked with everything from tea to laundry detergent. This texture of daily life is what the film subtly implies—and it is this network of ordinary existence that is so violently shattered by the intrusion of crime into Emad and Rana’s home.
To truly capture this feeling, a visitor should venture beyond major tourist spots and simply wander residential areas—perhaps stopping at a smaller local bazaar like the one in Tajrish Square. Unlike the sprawling Grand Bazaar, Tajrish offers a more intimate window into daily commerce. Here, you can sense the rhythm of life that Farhadi so quietly weaves into his film: the sound of bargaining, the vibrant colors of spices and fresh produce, and the warm greetings exchanged between vendors and regular customers. It is an atmosphere both bustling and deeply communal. This is the ordinary, beautiful world that Emad and Rana, in their flawed way, strive to reclaim. Their tragedy lies not only in what happened to them but in how that event poisoned their capacity to engage in the simple, trusting routines just outside their door.
The Shadow of the Past: Unseen Histories and Hidden Spaces
Asghar Farhadi is a master at unearthing the past. In “The Salesman,” this applies not only to the characters’ emotional histories but also to the physical spaces they inhabit. The film’s tension revolves around what remains unseen, what is concealed behind closed doors, and what lies dormant in the city’s forgotten corners, waiting to be uncovered.
The Unfinished Building: A Site of Confrontation
The film’s devastating climax unfolds not in a home or theater, but in a raw, in-between space: an unfinished building on the city’s outskirts. This setting is a stroke of brilliance. It is a place stripped of all social pretenses, a concrete skeleton exposed to the elements. There are no comforting decorations, no doors to hide behind, no neighbors to overhear the screams. It is a space of stark, brutal confrontation.
This choice of setting speaks volumes about Tehran’s urban landscape. The city is in constant flux, an ongoing cycle of demolition and construction. These unfinished structures are common sights, especially on the expanding edges of the city. They symbolize a future not yet realized, a state of liminality. For Farhadi, this makes it the ideal stage for a moral reckoning. The building is a physical embodiment of the characters’ unresolved states. Emad’s plan for justice is incomplete and perilous, Rana’s trauma remains raw and unhealed, and the old man they face is caught between his public mask and private shame.
The atmosphere of such a place is deeply isolating. The wind whistles through empty window openings. Dust and debris cover the floors. The view is not of a cozy neighborhood, but of other construction sites and the sprawling cityscape. It feels like the edge of the world. In this stripped-down environment, the characters cannot hide from themselves or each other. The raw concrete and exposed rebar mirror the raw emotions unleashed. It is a moral gray zone, and the architecture perfectly reflects this. The absence of finished walls means there are no clear boundaries, just as the lines between victim and perpetrator, justice and revenge, blur terrifyingly in the film’s final moments.
This setting powerfully reminds us that the most significant events in our lives often occur far from the curated spaces where we maintain our public identities. They happen in the messy, incomplete, and forgotten corners. The unfinished building is the city’s subconscious made visible, a place where the repressed truths of all the characters are finally—and tragically—brought to light.
Echoes of “Death of a Salesman”
Arthur Miller’s play resonates so deeply within the film that it becomes inseparable from Tehran’s geography and social fabric. “Death of a Salesman” critiques the American Dream, telling the story of a man destroyed by his obsession with appearance and success. By situating this play in contemporary Tehran, Farhadi crafts a compelling cultural dialogue.
Themes of honor, reputation, and shame are universal, yet they take on a particular and potent significance in the context of Iranian society. Willy Loman’s desperate need to be “well-liked” strongly echoes Emad’s intense drive to restore his and Rana’s honor. This quest is spatial; it moves him across the city, from his intellectual theater world to the working-class neighborhood of his attacker. The city itself becomes a map of these social layers.
The pressure to uphold a facade of respectability is keenly felt in Tehran’s densely packed urban life. The concept of aberoo, loosely translated as face or honor, is a powerful social force. Fear of gossip, of what neighbors might think, exerts tangible pressure influencing the characters’ choices. This is why Rana hesitates to involve the police; the shame of public exposure feels like a second violation. The film’s drama intensifies because everything unfolds within this close-knit social network, where private matters quickly become public disgrace.
Emad’s transformation from a progressive, empathetic teacher into a man consumed by a personal form of revenge parallels Willy Loman’s downfall. He becomes so obsessed with “selling” a particular version of justice that he neglects the human cost, especially to Rana. The final scene in the unfinished building is his ultimate sales pitch—and it ends in destruction. The film suggests that these pressures—to be a strong man, to defend one’s honor, to maintain appearances—are just as powerful within a Tehran apartment complex as in a Brooklyn home. By staging this American tragedy in Iran, Farhadi reveals the profound and often painful commonalities of the human condition, regardless of cultural or geographical context.
Planning Your Farhadian Pilgrimage
Setting out to explore the world of “The Salesman” calls for a mindset quite different from that of a typical sightseeing tour. It’s less about ticking off landmarks and more about tuning into the rhythms, textures, and emotional currents of Tehran. It’s a journey to view the city through Farhadi’s perspective, appreciating the subtle dramas unfolding in its everyday spaces.
Getting Around the City
Though Tehran is a vast and sprawling metropolis, it is surprisingly straightforward to get around. The Metro system is clean, efficient, and an excellent way to traverse long distances, featuring designated cars for women that provide a comfortable option for female travelers. It offers a wonderful glimpse into a cross-section of Tehran’s society.
For more direct travel, ride-hailing apps are invaluable. Snapp and Tapsi, local counterparts to Uber, are widely used, affordable, and dependable. Using these apps lets you navigate the city’s thoroughfares just as Emad does in the film, experiencing the flow of traffic firsthand from the passenger seat. Taxis are plentiful as well, but it’s wise to agree on the fare before setting off.
Above all, the best way to soak in the feel of a neighborhood is on foot. Pick a residential area, perhaps in the central or northern parts of the city, and simply stroll. Let your senses lead the way. Listen to the ambient sounds, note the architectural details, and observe the small interactions taking place on the streets. This is how you’ll discover the Tehran of the film—not by searching for a specific door, but by sensing the spirit of the place.
Best Time to Visit
Tehran experiences clear seasonal changes. For the most enjoyable visit, plan your trip for spring (April to early June) or autumn (late September to November). During these seasons, the weather tends to be mild and pleasant, and the city often looks its best. In spring, Tehran’s many parks burst into bloom and the air feels fresh. In autumn, the crisp atmosphere and golden light cast a poetic glow over the urban landscape.
Summer (July and August) can be intensely hot and dry, while winter (December to February) may be cold, with occasional snow due to the city’s high altitude. Although visiting at any time is possible, spring and autumn provide ideal conditions for the extensive walking and exploration that a Farhadi-inspired pilgrimage requires.
Cultural Etiquette and a Traveler’s Mindset
Visiting Iran offers a deeply enriching experience, enhanced by an understanding and respect for local customs. For women, this means adhering to the mandatory dress code, or hijab, which entails covering the hair with a headscarf and wearing loose-fitting clothing that covers the arms and legs. This is not merely a legal requirement but an integral part of the public visual culture, with respect for it reflecting good manners.
One of the most endearing yet occasionally perplexing elements of Iranian culture is taarof, a nuanced system of ritual politeness. It may show up as someone declining payment for a service or extending an invitation not actually meant to be accepted. The general guideline is to politely refuse an offer two or three times. If the person persists, the invitation is likely sincere. Navigating taarof can be challenging, but embracing it with good humor is part of the experience, rooted in a deep tradition of hospitality.
Iranians are generally warm, educated, and welcoming, often eager to engage with foreigners and share their culture. Be open to conversation. The most important thing to bring on this journey is a curious and observant mindset. Observe the details. Notice how people interact, the role of family, and the reverence for art and poetry. Approach the city not as a mere spectator, but as a respectful guest and a student of its complex social fabric. This perspective is what will enable you to perceive the profound humanity Asghar Farhadi so masterfully portrays in his work.
The City as a Character: Farhadi’s Tehran in Retrospect
To depart from Tehran after immersing yourself in the world of “The Salesman” is to take a part of the city with you. It means recognizing that in Asghar Farhadi’s filmmaking, the urban environment is never merely a backdrop. Tehran plays an active role in the narrative, shaping destinies and revealing the vulnerabilities of its residents. The city’s immense pressures—from its traffic and close quarters to its social expectations—create the diamond-hard tension that drives the story. The crumbling apartment serves as the inciting incident, the anonymous new building acts as a chamber of secrets, the car becomes a vessel of anxiety, and the unfinished building is the stage for a modern tragedy.
This journey is not about finding catharsis or easy resolutions—Farhadi’s films never provide those. Rather, it is about gaining a deeper understanding of the complexities of human relationships, framed by a city that is itself a patchwork of contradictions—ancient and modern, private and public, beautiful and brutal. You may arrive seeking the film’s locations, but you will leave with a profound sense of place. You will have felt the heartbeat of a city that is resilient, creative, and deeply human. The ultimate lesson of “The Salesman” and its Tehran setting is that the most vital structures we build are not made of concrete and steel, but of trust, empathy, and understanding. And like the buildings in the film, these are painfully, tragically fragile.
