Lollywood lives it up despite Bollywood invasion
Siddharth Varadarajan was in Lahore and records his impressions
In a land of arid cultural uniformity, Evernew Studios is an oasis of passion and defiance. To go past its nondescript gate at one end of this city is to enter a magical world. A world where the shapeless tyranny of the shalwar-kameez makes way for jeans, saris and navels, where free-spirited women chase wimpish men and pelvic thrusts and thrusting busts replace the subtlety of gesture normally associated with romance in these parts.
Despite the filmic imperialism of Bollywood, Pakistan’s movie industry is alive and kicking. Every year, some 50 films are made in Urdu, Punjabi and Pashto, most of them at Evernew and most as technically accomplished – and earthy – as the average Bombay film. The studios function around the clock as sets are made and remade, dancing extras are put through their paces (even as their mothers watch wide-eyed from the sidelines) and directors walk up and down furiously trying to get their shots just right.
At the sets of Angaarey, an enthusiastic studio hand latches on to The Times of India. “Syed Noor sahib is our best director. I will give you the list of his films.” After the 10th name, Chooriyan, a Punjabi film which is still running to packed houses, my patience runs out. “But these are just his super-duper hits,” his aide insisted.
Angaarey stars Saima, Pakistan’s most successful and highest paid actress, and Nirma, another popular heroine. Saima is serene, almost meditative, while Nirma is glamorous and ebullient. Was Saima threatened by the popularity of Indian cinema in Pakistan? After all, Hindi films may not be shown on the big screen but video tapes and satellite TV have made Bollywood widely accessible.
“There is no threat at all,” she replies. “Indian stars take Rs 1 crore as signing fee; here, my total fees are just Rs 5 lakh and a whole film is made for a crore. Indian producers put in a lot of money because their domestic market is huge but our market is much smaller. Vo log paisa laga ke achhi film banate hain aur hum log mehnat lagake (They put in money and make a good film, we make them by putting in extra effort).”
Was the conservatism of society a barrier to the growth of the Pakistani film industry? “What conservatism?” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “Even maulvis go to see my films!”
According to Ashiq Choudhary, film correspondent of The Jang newspaper, Chooriyan, which starred Saima, has changed the definition of the Punjabi film. In the days of Sultan Rahi – a combustible mix of Dharmendra and Dara Singh – Punjabi films were violent and action-oriented.
“But Saima’s portrayal of ordinary village life has been a sensational hit.”
Saima adds: “The beauty of the film is its realism. There are no scenes where an innocent village girl suddenly starts dancing like a tawaif (prostitute). We have proved that you can make a Punjabi hit film without vulgarity.”
Babar Butt, introduced by the director as an “up and coming, most dashing villain”, said it was very brave of Pakistanis to dare to make films given the larger resources in India. Shahzad Gul, the owner of Evernew, argues. “We get no encouragement from our government, taxes are very high and Islamic society discourages singing and dancing. If despite these problems, we continue to work and produce films that are not technically or thematically inferior to Indian films, then this is a big achievement.”
At Evernew’s sound studios late at night, Altaf Hussain (Tafo), one of Lollywood’s most celebrated music directors, is rehearsing a new song with a young singer, Farah. Hussain has helped provide music for Indian films like Kache Dhaage and Aur Pyar Ho Gaya. But wasn’t he undermining the Pakistani industry by composing songs for Bollywood?
“When artistes help one another,” he replies, his fingers dancing on the keys of his harmonium, “they do not look at politics and country”.
Farah, who has a huge wad of paan in her mouth, starts to sing a Punjabi heer. Her voice is raw and impassioned and the small studio is charged with frisson. "Ustadji, mainu vi India le chalo na (Ustadji, take me to India too),‘’ she says plaintively at the end.
“When artistes come and go between India and Pakistan,” observes Hussain, “mohabbat (affection) increases. In art, there is no competition. But these wretched cricket matches, they undo all the work we do.”
Siddharth Varadarajan is a correspondent with The Times of India, India.