Bahram Beyzaei: A Filmmaker Who Designed the Image

The passing of Bahram Beyzaei, for me as a graphic designer and visual communication artist, is not merely the silence of a distinguished filmmaker; it is the loss of a thinker who understood cinema before it even understood narrative. Beyzaei was among the rare artists who perceived the frame not as a mere container for action, but as a carefully designed, deliberate, and meaningful surface. In his cinema, the image thinks before it moves.

Beyzaei’s films can be experienced in silence and still convey their essence. For anyone attuned to imagery, composition, and semiotics, this is a fundamental quality. In his work, the frame is never accidental; the relationships between elements, the spaces, the voids, and the visual silences all carry significance. He did not merely fill the frame—he constructed it, much like a graphic designer understands that omission is as vital as addition in the creation of meaning.

This perspective naturally brings Beyzaei closer to the realm of visual arts. His cinema draws less from literature than from painting, architecture, ritual performance, and the visual memory of Iran. Characters often appear iconic: upright, conscious, and aware of their presence within the frame. This iconography is neither decorative nor nostalgic; it emerges from a profound understanding of the logic of imagery in Iranian culture.

From this viewpoint, the connection between Beyzaei’s cinema and graphic design becomes even more significant. The memorable posters designed by Master Morteza Momayez for films like Gharibe va Meh exemplify the harmonious intersection of cinema and graphic design in contemporary Iran. With minimal elements, relying on symbols, negative space, and visual tension, Momayez translated Beyzaei’s cinematic world into an independent visual language. These posters are not mere advertisements; they are integral parts of the visual text of the film.

Continuing this trajectory, the poster for Bashu, the Little Stranger was designed by Mohammadreza Dadgar, achieving a lasting place in the visual memory of Iranian cinema. Through concise and expressive visual language, it reflects the film’s national theme: the encounter between northern and southern Iran, the clash of cultures, and the isolation of a child scarred by war. Here, graphic design does not sit on the margins of cinema; it acts in alignment with Beyzaei’s visual logic.

This connection persists in Passengers as well. The memorable poster by Ali Khosravi stands as a prominent example of translating the inner and ritualistic space of the film into graphic language. By employing visual silence, formal rhythm, and a sense of suspension, the poster mirrors the film’s somber, fatalistic, and ritualistic world. Once again, the poster is not a narrative explanation but breathes in sync with the film—a visual entity that thinks as much as the cinematic work itself.

From a visual perspective, Bashu, the Little Stranger is a unique masterpiece. Beyzaei used the body, attire, and movement as active visual elements. A striking example is the way Soosan Taslimi’s scarf is tied—a form that transcends mere clothing to become a graphic element. Diagonal lines, the breaking of surfaces, contrast with the background, and its placement within the frame disrupts the composition and guides the viewer’s gaze. This formal decision is firmly grounded in the principles of visual arts: surface division, tension, rhythm, and dynamic equilibrium.

For a graphic designer, such details are never accidental—they are deliberate choices. Beyzaei recognized the image as a language, a language that, when properly used, requires no further explanation.

I have a personal memory that deepened my connection with Beyzaei’s world. Years ago, I had the honor of designing the advertisement for Sag Koshi (The Killing of Dogs) in the weekly magazine Cinema No.

Raheleh, [12/29/2025 10:16 AM]

Encountering that film was a rigorous exercise in condensing meaning: how to encapsulate the film’s atmosphere of mistrust, latent violence, cold suspense, and moral collapse within a limited visual space. That experience stayed with me, revealing that Beyzaei’s cinema must first be seen before it can be narrated.

In Sag Koshi, frames speak as eloquently as dialogue. Vertical lines, confined spaces, and the proportion of faces to their environment all convey meaning. This is a cinema of pause, allowing the image to act thoughtfully. The camera observes, it does not intervene—a profoundly visual approach.

Color in Beyzaei’s cinema also follows a design logic. He treats color as typography: a careful tool whose misuse can distort the message. In his work, color whispers rather than shouts.

Bahram Beyzaei was one of the few artists to truly think interdisciplinarily. His cinema is a crossroads of theater, painting, graphic design, mythology, and architecture. For those of us who live through images, his absence is a bitter reminder: the art of thinking through images has become rare.

Beyzaei is gone, yet the frames he envisioned remain standing—like enduring posters and unforgettable images, which time may pass by, but can never conquer.

By Hossein Norouzi