PUBLISHED
October 19, 2025
A nation’s cinema is supposed to question, to disturb, to inspire but ours has forgotten how. What we call “Pakistani film” today is neither from an industry nor an art form; it is a patchwork of overused faces, the same jokes, predictable stories, and borrowed glamour. In a country of 240 million voices, the screen still echoes with the same five faces and the same tired plots. The problem isn’t that Pakistanis don’t love cinema — it’s that cinema gives them nothing worth loving anymore. While other nations use film to expose injustices, inspire debate, and even change laws, we reduce it to a two-hour escape that leaves no trace on the mind. In a land full of stories, we have simply stopped telling them.
The beginnings
Pakistan’s cinematic journey began soon after independence, with films like Teri Yaad (1948) marking the fragile but hopeful beginnings. The black and white era was modest in its resources and monumental in sincerity. The first Pakistani colour film, Sangam (1964), directed by Zahir Raihan, introduced the audience to a new vibrancy, but even before the glamour of colour, stories ruled. Films like Bedari (1956), Salgirah (1969), Armaan (1966), and Naila (1965) weren’t merely entertainment; they were lessons in love, sacrifice, and family.
This golden period of the 1960s and 1970s gave us leading stars like Waheed Murad, Mohammad Ali, Nadeem, Zeba, Shabnam, Santosh Kumar, and later Babra Sharif. They has charming and a kind of innocent earnestness that the actors had and presented on screen, that made credible and creditable. Writers like Masroor Anwar and directors like Pervez Malik, Shabab Keranvi and Nazrul Islam knew that cinema was, at heart, storytelling. A simple love song could bring tears; a moral dilemma could grip audiences.
When films had a soul
The golden age of Pakistani cinema wasn’t only about glamour; it was about morality wrapped in melody. Films such as Armaan, Aina, Humrahi, and Bandish, more or less spoke the story of a man who, after losing his memory in an accident, falls in love again only to be torn between his new life and the woman he once left behind.
Songs of that era were philosophies set to music, not mere fillers. Classics like Ye Ghar Mera Gulshan Hai, Ye Duniya Hai Doulat Walon Ki, Tere Mere Pyar Ka Aisa Naata Hai, and Rafta Rafta Woh Meri Hasti Ka Samaan Ho Gaye lived in hearts because poets like Qateel Shifai, Masroor Anwar, and Ahmad Rahi wrote literature, not jingles. Their words gave ordinary people the language to express love, pain, and hope, turning songs into timeless memories.
Directors like Pervez Malik, Nazrul Islam, S. Suleman, others gave cinema a vision, while producers invested seriousness.
The decline creeps in
But like all golden ages, this one too faded. By the late 1970s and early 1980s, Pakistan’s cinema began to stumble and crumble. Many of its brightest stars fell victim to alcohol and personal excess.
And then came the Punjabi cinema wave, loud, exaggerated, and often divorced from the real Punjab. Guns, gandasa, and endless “badla” (revenge) stories replaced the moral dilemmas and nuanced emotions of earlier decades. Mr Fayyaz-ul-Hassan, a 70-year-old businessman and film buff who has watched nearly all of Pakistani old cinema, puts it bluntly: “Punjabi films destroyed Urdu cinema. The culture shown in Punjabi films was not seen in real Punjab. Ye sirf shor sharaba tha. [It was just loud noise] and then the era of cinema came to a sad end.”
He reminisced about his first film Farangi, in 1965, a story of partition, Muslims, Hindus, and the British. “It had depth, facts, and emotional scenes that touched the heart,” he says. “Cinema has a powerful impact on society. Our earlier films had a message, advice, social values, but now they don’t depict our culture, not have any literary values. Where are the poets whose words would touch our hearts?”
Hassan is spot on. Cinema once gave us songs like Khilone Teri Zindagi Kya Hai and Jo Dard Mila Apno Se Mila — melodies etched in memory, carried on for generations. As Hassan recalled, “A film would have 6–7 songs, all would be hit.” Today, songs fade within months, reduced to forgettable party anthems or Bollywood imitations. A strong film is never built on one star; it requires a whole team of intellectuals: writers, directors, editors, song composer, and producers. Without that collective vision, cinema becomes hollow glamour instead of lasting storytelling.
The era of Babra Sharif remains one of the most iconic eras of Pakistani cinema. Rising to fame in the 1970s, she carried herself with a charm and energy that few could rival. Babra experimented fearlessly from glamorous heroines to emotionally intense characters; she brought depth to every performance. Her films like Mera Naam Hai Mohabbat (1975), Shabana (1976), and Sangdil (1982) showcased her ability to balance grace with raw emotion. Providing a lifeline to Pakistani cinema, she became the heartthrob of a generation, ruling the screen well into the 1980s. Her name carries the aura of a true star to date.
Javed Sheikh and the transition era
The 1980s and 1990s saw Javed Sheikh’s rise as a star that carried the torch from television to cinema, offering yet another lifeline to our films. After his iconic role in the TV drama Ankahi, Sheikh transitioned to the big screen, acting alongside leading ladies ranging from Sri Lankan imports to Salma Agha and Neeli. These decades were turbulent but still produced films that had some heart, even if they struggled against the dominance of Punjabi masala.
By the late 1990s, however, cinema halls had begun closing. Marriage halls took their place, symbolising how our culture was replacing shared storytelling with rented banquet rooms. A country that once had over 700 cinemas was reduced to less than 100 by the early 2000s.
Botox without a story
When Pakistani cinema attempted a “revival” in the 2000s and 2010s, the excitement was short-lived. Yes, there were a few bright spots like Khuda Kay Liye (2007) and Bol (2011), which proved that serious films could still move audiences. Shoaib Mansoor showed that cinema could be bold, relevant, and deeply Pakistani. But beyond him, what do we really have?
Today’s films are drowned in gloss, clothes, and botox. They look like extended overlong wedding photo shoots with a dash of Bollywood choreography. The titles themselves invite ridicule: Karachi Se Lahore, Lahore Se Aagey, Punjab Nahi Jaungi, London Nahi Jaunga, and the crowning jewel of absurdity, Welcome to Punjab. One is forced to ask: are we so bankrupt that we cannot even name a film without borrowing a map or a bus ticket? Pakistan once had films like Armaan, Aina, Bandish, Waada, Kundan, Amanat, Zanjeer, Maa, and Humrahi that carried the nation’s soul..
Pakistani films rely on predictable plots and shallow humour, leaving audiences to seek depth and quality in Hollywood or films from across the borders.
Cinema beyond entertainment
Cinema is meant to entertain, but also to shake society’s conscience. The Korean film Silenced (2011) exposed child abuse in a school and was so impactful that it forced the government to change laws. That is the power of storytelling with courage.
Pakistani cinema avoids serious issues like abuse or corruption, favouring forgettable comedies.
Across the border, Indian cinema despite its flaws often explores diverse themes: from Article 15 exposing caste discrimination, to Super 30 highlighting education struggles, to Airlift narrating a real humanitarian rescue, and even films like Aspirants or 12th Fail that inspire students preparing for UPSC exams. Their cinema shows the sweat, sacrifice, and pain behind ambition. In contrast, our films often portray the elite class sipping coffee in mansions, suggesting that achieving success is just a piece of cake, a fantasy divorced from the reality of struggling students in small towns who burn the midnight oil.
Globally, the Cannes Film Festival proves that films with serious social narratives gain respect. Cannes doesn’t reward box office numbers; it rewards storytelling with meaning. Films tackling war trauma, refugee struggles, women’s rights, or poverty often make it to the top simply because they speak to humanity at large.
Pakistan has seen glimpses of such courage through Sharmeen Obaid Chinoy’s documentaries like Saving Face and A Girl in the River, which exposed acid attacks and honor killings. Her fearless storytelling proved that cinema, when honest, can become a tool for justice.
If mainstream Pakistani filmmakers borrowed even a fraction of this courage and addressed floods, bonded labour, or child marriage with the same sincerity, our cinema could move from being a colourful distraction to a force for reform and international respect.
Why Pakistanis Don’t Watch Pakistani Films
The bitter truth is that Pakistanis avoid local films because they no longer see themselves in them. The simple, heartfelt stories of the ordinary man have been replaced by glossy brands, foreign shoots, and shallow plots with no depth, family appeal, or moral value.
Another reason is the lack of academies. Film direction is a craft, but here everyone with a camera suddenly believes he/she is a director. Directors like Nabeel Qureshi (Na Maloom Afraad, Actor in Law) and Wajahat Rauf (Karachi Se Lahore) churn out formula films, high on comedy but low on depth. Even when someone attempts serious storytelling, like Jami’s Moor, their work struggles to survive because we need more film production to keep theatres running. One good film alone can’t do it. There are exceptions that show what our cinema could achieve films like Doda or Intezar which dealt with social realities, or John based on the struggle of a Christian boy facing discrimination.
These films had heart, but they never got the screen time or publicity that hollow comedies did. Weak films are over-promoted with billboards, trailers, and talk shows all hype, no soul. When, by chance, a genuinely good film emerges, it is under-promoted, left to die quietly in empty cinemas. Without academies, trained producers, and visionary distributors, what we have is not an industry; it’s a scattered hobby.
Pakistani cinema suffers from monotonous casting, with the same actors Humayun Saeed, Mahira Khan, Mehwish Hayat, Fahad Mustafa, Saba Qamar, Ahmed Ali Butt and others dominating both dramas and films. This lack of fresh faces makes cinema predictable, dull, and disconnected from audiences seeking something new. Unlike other countries, where cinema and television nurture separate stars and constantly introduce new talent, Pakistan treats acting as an exclusive club for a few celebrities. The result is boredom and disconnection from audiences craving something new. The Legend of Maula Jatt proved audiences still crave quality. The problem is the system that treats cinema as a side hustle instead of a serious cultural force.
“At one time cinema was everything,” said 55-year-old Tanzeem Alam, sipping tea at Islamabad cafe. “People lined up for hours, saving money to buy a ticket because it was the only entertainment. Today, nobody cares. You may find tickets sold, but there isn’t a worthy film to watch.”
He pointed at his phone. “This little device killed half the cinema culture. Why spend money when you can watch anything at home? In our youth there was a craze for cinema from the fifties right up to the eighties, but now there’s indifference. Other countries make films like factories — every topic, every genre. We are stuck with weak scripts and fear of experimenting. That’s why we’re left behind. Cinema used to live in our songs and discussions. Now it feels like an empty hall.”
Pakistani cinema is not doomed; it can rise again if it dares to reclaim its soul. We need real academies to train filmmakers, because passion without craft is hollow. We must ditch Bollywood copy-paste and tell our own stories of partition, migration, women, ambitions, and class. The screen must welcome new blood, not the same tired faces. Songs must be poetry, not jingles. And above all, films must be marketed with vision, not drowned in empty hype. Only then will our cinema breathe again.
Cinema can be a mirror of the nation’s soul. We need stories written with honesty, directed with vision, and acted with heart. Pakistan’s cinema doesn’t need glitter; it needs depth and soul.
Rabia Khan is a writer who covers social issues, literature, and cultural values of Pakistan. She can be reached at rabiayousufzai26@gmail.com.
