The fall and rise of Pakistani film

By Z.R.

THE 1960s and 1970s were a golden age of Pakistani cinema. Hundreds of popular films were produced yearly by Lollywood, the Lahore-based entertainment industry. The era’s stars included Waheed Murad, a heartthrob, and Sabiha Khanoum, known as the first lady of Pakistani screens. Both continue to be revered today. Murad’s 1966 film “Armaan” (“Desire”) introduced audiences to the first South Asian pop song, creating a new genre of Pakistani music.

But for all its former glory, production in Lollywood collapsed by the end of the 1990s. By 2005, barely 20 local films were released annually. Political turmoil triggered the decline. General Zia-ul-Haq seized power in 1977 in a military coup. The new president proceeded to enforce an Islamisation agenda, under which film-makers were forced to comply with strict censorship. Projects could be banned if deemed prejudicial to all manner of interests, including decency, morality and the public good. With little to screen and unable to compete with home entertainment, hundreds of cinemas were shuttered.

Further absurdities awaited. Producers could only work if they had an academic degree and all had to register with the ministry of culture. Heavy entertainment taxes were introduced, and investment dried up as profits fell. Indian films were banned, and eventually the number of Pakistani Urdu films dwindled. Pakistani audiences, starved of entertainment, were pacified only by the arrival of the VCR. A thriving black market for Bollywood videotapes soon developed, and many Pakistanis grew up watching pirated films from across the border.

But a new generation of directors and producers is now leading Lollywood’s recovery. The nickname has endured, but little else remains the same. Production has moved from Lahore to the coastal city of Karachi. The ban on Indian films was lifted, and it is these and Western offerings that keep Pakistan’s cinemas open today. But Pakistani films are, slowly, returning to the screen.

Shoaib Mansoor is the director credited with reversing the film industry’s fortunes, but his reputation is partly built on savvy marketing. In 2007 his film “Khuda Kay Liye” (“The Name of God”) was advertised as marking the official revival of Pakistani cinema. The move was a public relations masterstroke that took advantage of softening government control and tapped into a public hunger for local films.

“Khuda Kay Liye” follows the lives two young Pakistani men in the aftermath of 9/11. The film is darker than classic films, and the plot is sometimes convoluted. Yet Mr Mansoor found an audience eager for a modern Pakistani Urdu production and the film played to packed cinemas. Pakistani audiences had been promised a revival, and by showing up to cinemas across the country, they made it happen.

Mr Mansoor followed up with “Bol” (“Speak”) and 2017’s “Verna”. Both focus on gender issues, and the latter triggered a national debate. The plot of “Verna” follows a sexual assault survivor, a subject that caused enormous political controversy after Pakistan’s censor board took issue with what it called “edgy content”, and considered banning the film. The ensuing debate touched a public nerve, as it coincided with widespread protests held over the rape and murder of Zainab Ansari, a seven-year-old girl. When it was eventually screened, the film’s skewering of misogyny was applauded. Mr Mansoor typically focuses on content over style, choosing to pack his films with social criticism, sometimes to a fault. Both “Verna” and “Bol” were criticised for erratic pacing and weak cinematography.

But Mr Mansoor’s example has been followed and improved on by other directors. “Cake” (see picture), directed by Asim Abbasi, was released at the end of March. It’s a far cry from 1960s films, known for their melodrama and impressive song and dance numbers, yet is all the better for this. The plot revolves around the lives of two sisters caring for their ailing parents. One has remained in Pakistan and the other has just returned from Britain, a common scenario in Pakistan’s wealthier neighbourhoods (accordingly, critics have praised it for its realism). Mr Abbasi focuses on the conflicted relationship between the two women as they gather to celebrate their parents’ wedding anniversary, and neither muffles their anger nor exaggerates their rivalry. Refreshingly, their romantic ties remain secondary. “Cake” became the first Pakistani film to premiere at London’s Leicester Square.

Much work remains to be done. Pakistan’s Central Board of Film Censors continues to wield enormous power over which films are seen. And although the rising numbers of subversive films are encouraging, the social consequences of their release fall disproportionately on the women involved. The lead role in “Verna” was played by Mahira Khan, who has long been a target for sexist trolls online. Sharmeen Obaid-Chinoy, an Oscar-winning documentary maker, has faced similar problems for her work on honour killings and acid attacks.

But despite the obstacles, a resurgence is finally underway in Lollywood. Fresh-faced directors such as Mr Abbasi have access to high production budgets, talented casts and scripts that avoid clichés. The new wave of Pakistani cinema may well eclipse its golden age.