Persepolis, the film, is a triumph of translating static comic images into the cinematic language of film. The film by cartoonists and first time filmmakers Marjane Satrapi and Vincent Paronnaud offers a condensed version of Iranian-born Satrapi’s autobiographical graphic novels.

In keeping with flat two-dimensional format, the images are distilled into black and white with all shades of grey in between. The textured backgrounds, varied styles and an eye for details -the dancing puppet, the curl of cigarette smoke, falling jasmine petals all breathe life into this coming of age story amid the backdrop of a Islamic revolution in Iran.

As a child we see a feisty little Marjane practicing her Bruce-Lee moves and reciting commandments as a ‘future prophet’ to her progressive politically-minded parents and equally no-nonsense head-strong grandmother. With the fall of the Shah regime and the repressive regime that follows, Marjane and her family experience not only curbed personal freedoms but see first hand the repercussions of political restrictions. A moving scene with her imprisoned Uncle Anoosh reveals how this young girl has to deal with issues of injustice and a changing political landscape.

Growing into adolescence she seeks the delights of western contrabands – a Micheal Jackson lapel pin, a ‘Punk is not Ded’ leather jacket and heavy metal. Fearing that her headstrong ways would land her into jail or worse, her parents send her off to Vienna. Here we see her adrift, disconnected from her Western counterparts and nursing heartbreak. We follow her back to Iran where things have gone from bad to worse.

The film is exceptionally brilliant at pointing out the absurd restrictions of the regime – woman prohibited from running, a fully clothed model for a ‘life drawing class’-which gain greater poignancy in scenes where a party turns fatal and young boys are promised paradise in return for martyrdom on the battle field.

With the bracketing of the film with scenes of an expatriate Marjane at the airport longing to return, it captures a sentiment familiar to all Iranians – nostalgia for their homeland but the inability to live there. As a film, Persepolis treats you to a heady mix of warmth, humour, and an interweaving of memoir, history and fantasy. Most of all it shows you how people have no choice but to get on with life even in the most repressive circumstances, and that they continue living without losing a sense of self.

While I applaud the film for its sensitive portrayal and well told personal story enmeshing the political, I was left feeling a little uneasy. Where was the lyrical cadence of Farsi? The peppering of every phrase with an endearing jaan? There might have been logistical reasons (the film was funded by and made in France where Satrapi now lives), but even so, it created a distance. It was only the few scenes of Farsi writings that placed you back into that landscape.

And while Iranian repression (as well as those in other Islamic states) is a twisted interpretation of Islam, I couldn’t help but feel a little dread that this film would only add to the simplistic understanding of Islam equals bad and West equals good.