The radical legacy of the cartoonist and filmmaker who created Persepolis.
Marjane Satrapi in 2023.(Sylvain Lefevre / Getty Images)
Marjane Satrapi was a born troublemaker. This was surely due in no small part to her remarkable heritage, which was both aristocratic and radical—a combustible combination which seems to have gifted Satrapi with a confidence that powered her resilient scrappiness.
Satrapi, who became a celebrated cartoonist and filmmaker, died on Thursday at age 56. She’s best known for her internationally bestselling graphic memoir Persepolis, first serialized in four volumes in France from 2000 to 2003 and then translated into English in two volumes, published in 2003 and 2004. Satrapi also co-wrote and co-directed an animated adaptation in 2007, which was nominated for an Oscar.
Persepolis tells the story of Satrapi’s coming of age against the turmoil that follows the Iranian revolution of 1979. She was 10 years old when the country erupted, forcing the long-ruling Shah to flee and bringing Ayatollah Khomeini to power. The main thrust of the narrative is Satrapi’s increasing estrangement from the theocratic regime as she chafes against its restrictions on women. But the book is also about her family, which had been deeply intertwined with the national politics of Iran for more than a century. Her maternal great-grandfather, Naser al-Din Shah Qajar, was Shah of Iran from 1848 to 1896. Satrapi’s grandfather, although technically a prince, rebelled against this royal heritage and became a communist. He was frequently jailed by subsequent monarchist regimes, which came from a separate line.
Most of Satrapi’s family shared her grandfather’s politics. They were secular leftists who opposed both the dictatorship of the Shah and the theocracy that was established by the 1979 revolution. Satrapi’s maternal uncle, Anushirvan Ebrahimi, had been exiled to the Soviet Union under the Shah. He returned to Iran after the Islamic Revolution, and was arrested and executed by the new regime.
Satrapi’s father Taji was an engineer, her mother Ebi a dressmaker. Even as a child, Satrapi was alert to the ironies and contradictions of their status as well-to-do communists. She was embarrassed by her father’s Cadillac and the fact that her beloved maid wasn’t allowed to eat with the family.
Raised on stories of her heroic ancestors, Satrapi nursed dreams of not just being a revolutionary but even a world-changing prophet who would spread a true message of equality.
Any child with such grand ambitions is a poor fit for a dictatorship, especially if that child is a girl living in a tightening patriarchy. Satrapi repeatedly clashed with the authorities. She went to protests, sometimes against her parents’ wishes. She talked back to teachers and ran afoul of the Guardians of the Revolution who policed the streets for signs of impious behavior. She was a Persian punk with a taste for sneakers and pop music (Iron Maiden, Kim Wilde, and Michael Jackson).
The Iran-Iraq war made the country even less safe and intensified the crackdown on dissenting voices. Satrapi’s parents decided it was safer for her to finish her education elsewhere, so at age 14 she was sent to stay with family friends in Austria and study at a French school in Vienna. Although she kept up her good marks, she ran into all sorts of trouble in Vienna, hanging out with pseudo-anarchists, smoking and dealing drugs, and once again telling off the powers-that-be. When a nun at her school said Iranians “have no education,” Satrapi responded that she heard “you were all prostitutes before becoming nuns.” This got her expelled.
Satrapi experienced the alienation that often bedevils immigrants. “I was a Westerner in Iran, an Iranian in the West,” she said. In her last months in Vienna, she spiralled downwards, living on the streets for three months and nearly dying of bronchitis.
This crisis forced her to quit her European studies and return to Iran in 1989. Under the tolerant care of her parents, she studied visual communication at Islamic Azad University in Tehran and had a brief, unhappy marriage with a painter. One problem with studying in Iran was that, when learning figure drawing, the students had to work with models who were fully draped to preserve modesty. Satrapi would later blame the stylized anatomy in her art on this education.
Other problems proliferated. Unhappy, she attempted suicide. A friend was killed after the police raided a party Satrapi was at. She bristled at the fact that some of her acquaintances rebuked her for being sexually experienced. In perhaps the crucial scene in her memoirs, she shows that she herself was being corrupted by fear. About to be apprehended by the Guardians of the Revolution while wearing make-up, Satrapi decides to distract them by making up a false accusation against a random man on the street, saying he had engaged in improper conduct. The ruse worked but also made clear that she was now complicit in the culture she had previously resisted.
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Once again, Satrapi faced the dilemma that even though she was deeply Iranian, she could not live in the Islamic Republic. She left Iran again, this time for good. In total, she spent 18 years of her life in the country of her birth.
After returning to Austria to study at the Haute École des Arts Du Rhin in Strasbourg, Satrapi tried her hand at children’s books, initially with little success. Thanks to a friend, she joined a studio called L’Atelier des Vosges, in Place des Vosges, Paris. Although she had no background in cartooning, she lucked into joining a studio that was the hotbed for the burgeoning French alternative comics scene.
At L’Atelier des Vosges she found herself working side by side with artists such as Lewis Trondheim, Christophe Blain, David B. (the nom de plume of Pierre-François Beauchard), and Joann Sfar. These were artists who broke from the predominantly commercial spirit of Franco-Belgian cartooning to do personal, often autobiographical work, that paralleled the underground comics being created in North America by cartoonists such as Lynda Barry, Joe Sacco, Art Spiegelman, and Chris Ware.
Unlike most cartoonists, Satrapi didn’t have a deep childhood attachment to the form. As a child, she found Tintin to be alienatingly masculine and Asterix too rooted in French culture. But she quickly learned from her studio-mates at L’Atelier des Vosges, particularly the work of David B., whose powerful memoir Epileptic (1996-2003) records the impact of his brother’s mental health problems on their family. Satrapi was also deeply shaped by Maus, Spiegelman’s classic account of his family’s experience in the Holocaust. Like Maus, Persepolis is a work shadowed by family tragedy and suicidal impulses.
Persepolis was a major work, a revelatory examination of Iranian history and society. It fully deserves its status as one of the great modern memoirs. Among cartoonist memoirists, Satrapi belongs in the small pantheon that includes Robert Crumb, Carol Tyler, Barry, and Spiegelman. What makes the book a masterpiece is not just the intrinsic interest of the material but also the tone: elegiac, wry, and self-critical. Contra some critics on the left, Persepolis is not a one-sided denunciation of the Islamic Republic. Rather, it has a deeper critique of the authoritarian impulse that pervades everyday life and is careful to record the dire impact of imperialist interventions such as the 1953 coup.
Satrapi’s art was sometimes criticized. USA Today complained that “the simplicity of the artwork [in Persepolis] lacks the texture of Maus.” The Orlando Sentinel lambasted Satrapi’s art as “sloppy.”
I’ve always thought this line of criticism was misguided. Cartooning is a form of storytelling rather than representation. In conveying a story, a style that distills essential information in an iconic form is more powerful than the lushness of ample verisimilitude. This is why Charles Schulz’s Peanuts, whose characters are so elegantly minimal as to almost be geometrical shapes, is among the best examples of comics art. Satrapi’s images were deliberately blunt, like wood-cut art. She worked with markers rather than pencils, drawing on the cheapest paper she could find. This was done with forethought, so she wouldn’t get distracted by any decorative impulse.
Satrapi was twice exiled from the land of her birth. One way to understand Persepolis is that it was a way of recreating an essential distilled image of the country she could never return to.
In 1996, Satrapi married the actor and producer Mattias Ripa. He died last year. The news agency AFP quotes a “member of [Satrapi’s] close circle” who said she “died of sadness.”
Jeet HeerTwitterJeet Heer is a national affairs correspondent for The Nation and host of the weekly Nation podcast, The Time of Monsters. He also pens the monthly column “Morbid Symptoms.” The author of In Love with Art: Francoise Mouly’s Adventures in Comics with Art Spiegelman (2013) and Sweet Lechery: Reviews, Essays and Profiles (2014), Heer has written for numerous publications, including The New Yorker, The Paris Review, Virginia Quarterly Review, The American Prospect, The Guardian, The New Republic, and The Boston Globe.