TEHRAN -- In the pale autumn light of Tehran, the 42nd Tehran International Short Film Festival opened its doors on Sunday, with a sharp, unflinching gaze toward a future that feels far too near — a future not imagined, but inevitable. 
A future in which an aging population finds itself increasingly alone, and the silence of empty homes echoes louder than any dialogue.
Among the first-day screenings, what stood out was a recurring concern among filmmakers: loneliness in old age and the fragile fabric of family that no longer guarantees connection. The question wasn’t just cinematic — it was existential. Where do we go when we are no longer seen? 
One such film, “Tamaroz” (Malingering), quietly captured this crisis. Directed by Payam Inalouei, it tells the story of an elderly man trying — in his own dignified, desperate way — to find someone, anyone, to talk to. Veteran actor Esmaeil Mehrabi delivers a nuanced performance, playing a man whose face carries the weight of unspoken stories. He is alone in his apartment, organizing pointless building meetings, simply to have a moment of human connection. The heartbreak is not melodramatic — it’s real, grounded, and unsettlingly familiar.
Inalouei avoids sentimental clichés. He doesn’t paint the elderly man as a victim, nor does he vilify the younger generation. Instead, he creates a balanced, human portrait — a man with pride and history, confronting the void left by a lost child and a fading community. In his silence, there’s a storm. In his attempts to speak, there’s a desperate reach for meaning.
What’s striking is the way the film refuses to judge. It presents the struggles of today’s youth — crushed under economic pressure — alongside the quiet erosion of elder lives. There are no villains, only consequences. Tamaroz doesn’t ask you to take sides. It simply invites you to watch and wonder: Is this my future too?
In stark contrast, yet on the same thematic ground, we find the return of the Ark brothers — Bahman and Bahram — with their haunting short film “Goodbye Garbage”. Known for their Cannes-winning “Animal” and the striking “Skin”, the brothers come back after a long hiatus with a visceral, grotesque, and deeply poetic piece.
“Goodbye Garbage” is the surreal descent of a lonely elderly woman into companionship with a garbage monster — a literal heap of trash that becomes her only friend. She’s an Azerbaijani woman, marginalized not just by language but by time itself. The film dares to anthropomorphize what society discards, giving life to waste, and reminding us that what we throw away may be someone’s last connection to the world.
Fifteen years ago, the media reported on a 60-year-old woman in Iran who had filled her home with trash — a story that was reduced to ridicule. The Arks resurrect this tale, not to shock, but to empathize. Their lens isn’t tabloid — it’s tragic, symbolic, and empathetic. The garbage becomes more than a backdrop. It’s a metaphor for accumulated neglect, for memories unprocessed, for a society that forgets its elders.
Mahrokh Rafieezadeh, in the role of the elderly woman, gives a staggering performance. Her presence is physical, tactile, heartbreaking — a woman who has turned to a monster not out of madness, but out of necessity. And the monster? Surprisingly believable. The creature, foul yet endearing, becomes a stand-in for everyone who never called, never visited, never cared. That the audience accepts this creature is a testament to the filmmakers’ mastery.
There are moments of dark humor, too — as when the neighbors, disgusted by the smell, suddenly “remember” someone lives in that house. It’s absurd, yes — but also deeply, tragically real.
Both Tamaroz and Goodbye Garbage speak to the same fear: the erasure of the elderly. One does it in stillness, the other in surrealism. But both ask us — the viewer, the citizen, the child of aging parents — to look forward. Not just to what we will become, but to how we are treating those who’ve already arrived there.
This is what cinema can do — not just mirror reality, but hold it up like a lantern, illuminating what we too often choose not to see.