It was midday, some hours before the filmmaker would step onto stage to close the latest session of her Patakha Pictures fellowship and mark five years since she started the initiative to empower young female filmmakers.

Naturally, I asked Obaid-Chinoy to start from the very beginning and tell me what led her to start the fellowship in the first place. She said the idea was to give young Pakistani women who have stories to tell “an opportunity for them to be able to craft films and tell those stories”.

She recalled being a young filmmaker herself and said what set her apart from other women of her time who wanted to make films was that she had opportunities outside Pakistan, which was in turn because she had funding and mentorship available to her.

Obaid-Chinoy said young women in the next generation often didn’t have access to those opportunities and she wanted to bridge that gap with the Patakha Pictures fellowship.

Until recently, she said, Pakistan did not have film funds. So, when she started Patakha Pictures, young filmmakers had nobody to go to for support in making their first film.

“If you have an idea and you want to make your first film, who will give you the funding to do that? That’s where Patakha Pictures stepped in,” Obaid-Chinoy said. “We felt that there was a void, and ours is just a very small sort of contribution to the filmmaking ecosphere, but we think it’s an important one.”

I asked the Oscar-winner what it took for someone to get selected for the programme and she said she was looking for young women who had access to a story and were committed to telling it. They didn’t need to be professional filmmakers — that was for the mentors to help with — just passionate about their stories.

Those mentors, she said, were a “rotating cast” of experts from around the world, some even Patakha Pictures alumni, who would assist participants “at each step of the way” in their three- to six-month fellowship.

I asked the filmmaker about the ethnic diversity I’d seen in previous cohorts of the programmes and she said, “It is extremely deliberate on our part to be geographically diverse, to be economically diverse and to be able to give women an opportunity where they haven’t had an opportunity.”

Elaborating on the inequality of opportunity, she said there was a stark difference between someone who grew up in Karachi and someone who grew up in Shimshal, for example. “We cannot judge them as apples to apples. We have to judge them as apples to oranges.”

She said one of the things she was most proud of was that “young women are feeling that they have the confidence to tell the stories they want to tell [and] they’re coming from places you wouldn’t expect to see filmmakers emerge from”.

The filmmaker gave me some numbers to better illustrate how far Patakha Pictures had come in five years. “We’ve funded over 75 filmmakers. Their films have played in over 100 festivals around the world and they have won over 22 awards.”

Obaid-Chinoy said she wished she could “fund 50 filmmakers a year” with the fellowship, but funds were limited. So limited, in fact, that she did not think the programme would make it this far — and that’s in spite of the fact that a lot of the funds come from her own production house, SOC Pictures.

Talking about the most recent cohort, which would have its grand closing ceremony later, the filmmaker said they had four films this year, ranging in topics from a midwife helping deliver babies in the remote Shimshal Valley to another on a “badass woman” who competes in the male-dominated game of tent pegging.

Obaid-Chinoy said she has plans to establish a Patakha House in Karachi under the Patakha Pictures banner in the next five years. She described it as “a space for filmmakers to come, congregate, watch films, get funding [and] get mentorship”.

But that’s just the next five years; she was hopeful it would continue to make an impact well past that point. She said Patakha Pictures was extremely special to her because she hopes the filmmakers she mentors today will continue to tell Pakistan’s stories, “long after I’m gone, and long after our footprints are gone”.

Cover photo: SOC Films

If you find this relatable, you’re likely filmmaker Sarmad Khoosat, the artwork is popular TV drama Humsafar and you’ve been denied royalties from its release in Spanish.

In an Instagram story on Tuesday, the director shared a post from HUM TV saying the show was set to be dubbed and released in Spanish. Above the post, the filmmaker had written “If only there were royalties” with a blank-faced emoji.

Royalties, which are standard practice in foreign markets, are payments given to actors, directors, producers and other members of a TV show or film’s team every time it gets a re-run or is re-released. The payments are often diminishing, with each subsequent re-run bringing in less until a minimum is reached, after which all future re-runs earn the artist the minimum amount.

Pakistan used to have a system of royalties for television actors, but it was scrapped in the 1990s when leading actors of the time chose to trade them in for a pay raise from state broadcaster PTV.

Speaking to DAWN in 2021, many veterans of the era said they regretted letting go of the right to collect royalties from PTV, which set the precedent private channels continue to follow.

Mahira Khan, who starred in Humsafar, spoke about royalties in March during promotions for her film Aag Lagay Basti Main. She said that while big names like herself and costar Fahad Mustafa were able to survive without royalties, the same could not be said for many junior artists and other workers on set.

The issue of royalties gained national attention in 2021, when late actor Naila Jaffery brought the conversation into public view under deeply personal circumstances. While battling cancer, she spoke about her financial struggles, noting that consistent royalty payments could have eased the burden of her medical expenses.

The actor, who recently received widespread praise for her role as Beena, made the comments during an appearance on Gloss Etc by Maliha Rehman.

Hocane said a lot of reviewers, while meaning well, often use the adjective “Netflix-quality” to describe a good project.

“I find that so lame. We’re doing better than that. It’s just because there was a portal or an app that just came out and it worked for a couple of years,” she said, adding she doesn’t think Netflix knows “what they’re doing anymore”.

“The stories that we’re telling and the quality that we’re showing, we don’t need no Netflix and why are we comparing ourselves to that anyway?” Hocane continued.

The actor said the Pakistani drama industry doesn’t prioritise “glam” over the story, which, she believes, is “the soul” of a project.

“We’re really narrating stories and then we’re like let’s commercialise it. That’s a cherry on top,” she added.

Citing Aap Ki Izzat as an example, Hocane said Pakistani dramas attract audiences without any pomp.

Hocane’s comments are the latest addition to a discourse that has been simmering across the industry for a while, with celebrities such as Faysal Quraishi, Shamoon Abbasi, and Usama Khan — all offering a wide range of opinions.

In July, Federal Minister for Planning and Development Ahsan Iqbal also announced that the government was “in talks with Netflix and other global streaming giants to adjust the regional framework”.

Cover: Muhammad Azeem Sani for Dawn

Dedicated to supporting the next generation of documentary storytellers in Pakistan, Patakha Pictures so far has supported 76 emerging filmmakers, whose work has collectively received more than 22 awards and screened at over 100 film festivals worldwide.

This year, eight women filmmakers from Punjab, Sindh and Gilgit-Baltistan made four creative pairs, whose documentaries explore women breaking barriers in traditionally male spaces, climate change and child marriage, survival and artistic tradition in Cholistan and generations of women providing healthcare in one of Pakistan’s most remote valleys.

The five-month training and mentorship programme saw the fellows receiving production funding, weekly online mentorship, an intensive in-person edit week in Karachi along with specialised workshops spanning storytelling, camera techniques, editing and other practical aspects of documentary filmmaking.

Returning for the fifth time as an international mentor was acclaimed documentary filmmaker and Scottish Documentary Institute founder Noe Mendelle, joined by filmmaker and cinematographer Nadir Siddiqui, nonfiction and animation producer Huma Murad Shah, award-winning journalist and documentary filmmaker Maryam Ishani Thompson, Edit Mentor Husain Qaizar and sound engineer and producer Sameer Khan, bringing expertise across cinematography, documentary production and ethics, journalism and sound design.

While speaking on the occasion, Sharmeen Obaid-Chinoy said that five years of Patakha Pictures have reaffirmed a fundamental belief that talent is universal, but opportunity is not. “Together with the British Council Pakistan and the Scottish Documentary Institute, we have seen how access to funding, mentorship and creative freedom can transform the journeys of women filmmakers,” she said.

“Through successive cycles, Patakha Pictures fellows have received funding, international mentorship, practical filmmaking support and opportunities to develop stories rooted in their own communities,” she said.

“You are not the beneficiaries of this programme. You are for whom this programme exists. At the beginning of my career, there were many people who have held my hand to help me find my way. Now we are here to hold the hands of the next generation,” she smiled before calling to the stage to introduce this year’s filmmakers and their documentaries.

The first pair, Shagufta Rasool and Munira Shah, from Gilgit-Baltistan and Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, respectively, have made the documentary titled Koh-i-Firishtayesht, which traces the legacy of Lal Pari, a retired healthcare worker and midwife who spent decades reaching women across the remote Shimshal Valley.

The second pair, Kinza Waqar and Jazaba Raheel, from Bahawalpur and Lahore, respectively, have made the documentary D’aat, which follows the story of a camel barber, Bakht Ali, who makes beautiful designs with his scissors and razor on the camels’ coats in the Cholistan desert.

Next, there was a documentary Monsoon Brides, which tackles a very sensitive subject of the relationship between climate change, poverty and child marriage in rural Sindh by filmmakers and journalists Aleezeh Fatima and Aisha Manzoor of Karachi.

“It was an eye-opening and humbling experience to approach the story with sensitivity,” said Aleezeh about the film.

The fourth pair of Ishma Areeb and Javaria Waseem from Lahore have made the documentary titled The Horses Know Her Name, which explores the story of Anum Shakoor, a woman who found strength and healing through horses before entering the overwhelmingly male world of tent pegging.

Earlier, British Council Pakistan’s Arts Director, Laila Jamil, said that Sharmeen’s tenacity and vision bring the British Council and SOC Films to work together again and again across multiple art forms. “That’s how emerging filmmakers are supported, mentored and funded to ignite the firecracker that we know as Patakha Pictures,” she concluded.

Originally published in Dawn, October 20th, 2026

Some movies waste your time; others steal your soul, hold it for two hours, and hand it back slightly bruised. Produced by Hameem Productions, Mango Jutt does not tell a story. Instead, it dares you to look away.

An aam plot

Murad Jutt (played by Faysal Quraishi) is a police officer who has not taken a day off until he receives a call from his sister, Mariam (Ayesha Jahanzeb), in Lahore. She breaks the news of her husband’s passing and asks her brother to babysit her three children while she travels to Dubai for work in a few days.

While Murad is in Lahore, his boss (Aijaz Aslam) asks him to track down a major criminal with several cases against him. The catch is that Murad must go undercover. He becomes an aam aadmi (common man), or, as he puts it, an “aam Jutt”, hence the name of the movie, Mango Jutt.

The school is informed of Mariam’s trip, and the principal, Noor Jehan (Hareem Farooq), is asked to keep an eye on the children’s work and behaviour. Noor also happens to be Mariam’s friend. As Murad picks up and drops off the children at school, the two leads spark a typically Punjabi romance.

Meanwhile, Mariam’s late husband’s business partner is plotting to take over the entire business and planning to kidnap the children for ransom. With action, dance, drama and romance all lined up, the film checks the familiar boxes. The problem is that checking boxes does not automatically make a story work.

I went in with my friend with zero expectations. As we sat through the film, she whispered, “Wait for the Punjabi climax song.” Ten minutes later, we were watching Farooq and Quraishi dancing to ‘Ankhan Wich’. Then she whispered that the villain would enter. Of course, he came. Then she whispered that there would be a fight sequence. Of course, there was one.

What I mean to say is that it was a predictable film.

Songs, loose ends and unnecessary lectures

The movie is punctuated with music at random. For instance, ‘Ankhan Wich’ begins at a mela, which I could not figure out how or why had begun because there was no occasion for it. The film also carries side tales that did not need to be there. There is no clear beginning or end to how the kidnapper discovers that Murad is working undercover, leaving an important plot point hanging.

Then there are the randomly placed dialogues that do little to further the storyline. The unnecessarily preachy speech the eldest daughter delivers at the end, glorifying her mother and mamu, is one example. Another is the scene in which the film tries to prove its Punjabiat through a mother complaining that a child speaks Punjabi and sings in the same language at the elite school. It is unnecessary, adds nothing to the plot and feels particularly misplaced in a story that is already rather haphazard.

On the technical side, the dubbing could have been done better, too.

Shamoon Abbsi, Quraishi and Farooq are all fantastic actors and their mastery of their craft shines through individually. Quraishi and Farooq have the chemistry and screen presence to carry a film. Yet, even their stardom could not save Mango Jutt when the story itself had so little to offer.

Entertainment for the masses

Mango Jutt may be neither the best Punjabi film I have watched nor the funniest film of all time. What it is, however, is a film made for the entertainment of the masses.

Perhaps the film misses the need for single-screen cinemas, where a familiar plot, a few songs, some romance and a fight sequence can make for a good evening out. But there is a difference between making an accessible film and assuming that a predictable collection of scenes will be enough. The audience can see the villain coming, anticipate the fight and guess when the song will begin. What it cannot do is supply the story the film has failed to tell.

Mango Jutt has actors who can act, a romance that could have worked and all the ingredients of a crowd pleaser — it simply needed a tighter script to bring them together. Sometimes, even a passable movie needs to do more than show up with all the expected ingredients.

Final verdict: 3/10

The actor went through an emergency outfit crisis, which she described in colourful detail in an Instagram post on Sunday.

Farooq wrote about how she spent an entire week planning for the big day, including preparations for what she was supposed to wear — and that’s where things went wrong.

“A premiere to remember. A night of lessons, resilience & surrender,” she wrote.

“We’d spent a week planning every detail: clothes, jewellery, makeup, photography. Everything was ready for Thursday at 7pm… until 5pm, when an issue with my outfit meant I couldn’t wear it! Two hours to go. No backup. All hell broke loose,” the actor added.

It was in this moment of chaotic adrenaline that Farooq found a moment of clarity.

“When things aren’t going according to your plan, they’re going according to His,” she shared, noting that the sudden change in course was a reminder to surrender.

With the team scrambling, a quick decision had to be made.

“The chaos, the energy, everyone pulling together on hope… and somehow, it became one of my favourite looks, loved by so many of you too! We made it on time, in full desi glam,” she wrote.

Farooq then went on to thank her glam team for working tirelessly behind the scenes to make the cast look their best.

“Thank you for making Mango Jutt’s premiere so special with your love and warmth. Now playing in cinemas across Pakistan, take your loved ones, and keep the love coming!”

In the movie, Farooq shares the big screen opposite Faysal Quraishi. The cast also includes Shamoon Abbasi, Ayesha Jehanzeb and Qaiser Piya.

In a story posted to her Instagram account, Afgan said, “People like Abu Bakar and his mother do exist. When Jodi and I got married, I was as shocked as Zaryab.”

The actor said her husband and his family were still “the loveliest, most decent and kindest people in the world” and that she loves her mother-in-law “like my own mother”.

Abu Bakar (Sheheryar Munawar) and his mother Khushbakht (Sania Saeed) are shown in Dar-e-Nijaat to be incredibly nice and patient — some have said too much so — with Zaryab (Durefishan Saleem), whose past continues to haunt her after even her marriage to Abu Bakar.

Afgan said early in her marriage, she had asked her husband, “Are you guys really this good? And why do you never fight amongst yourselves, are you aliens?” She said she could relate to Zaryab and that “good humans do exist”.

Earlier, the show’s writer, Umera Ahmed, had also asked why people in the audience had such a hard time believing people could be good to one another.

The writer said people had said her characters seemed “out of [this] world” and “AI-created”, implying that people like this don’t exist in the real world.

In her post, Ahmed asked why her followers felt “basic human traits like kindness, empathy, forgiveness [and] overlooking others’ flaws are [going] extinct from our society” and why, when they are portrayed in the media, people find them unreal.

Ahmed ended the post questioning if we were “deteriorating as a society on basic human morality and goodness”.

Speaking to content creator Bilal Hassan — popularly known as Mystapaki — Khan said Zamil wasn’t just a person, he was a mindset, one which he had seen personally in men and boys he grew up with.

Quoting one of his earlier social media posts, the actor said he would often wonder how these young men, who had mothers and sisters at home, could allow themselves to objectify women the way they did. “I used to question how they allowed themselves… how their mindsets allowed them to speak this way about a woman.”

Hassan brought up how people who are part of these discussions, even if they don’t necessarily agree with what is being said, don’t call out their friends, which is also part of the problem. Both men agreed that many of these boys then tell tall tales to try and top each other in becoming “Zamil Pro Max”.

“What they don’t realise,” Khan said, “is that that in doing this, they are ruining the girl’s life”.

The content creator brought up Zamil’s crisis of faith, which sees him blame Zaryab for his own moral failings, to which Khan said you could pull out anything about his character on the show and it will be problematic.

Khan said his core issue was an identity crisis, which was the result of getting everything he wanted in life with relative ease. He said Zamil really started questioning himself when he failed to succeed as a student and that got worse when he crossed paths with Abu Bakar (Sheheryar Munawar) — whom he saw as a rival.

Faith, said Hassan, was also a matter of competition for Zamil, something his guest completely agreed with.

“Zamil’s exploitation of Zaryab with regards to his faith… it’s an absurd thing, an absurd mindset and I have seen such people in life, Bilal. They exist and I feel sorry for them,” the actor said.

When asked whether there was a message in all of this and how we can stop producing more Zamils as a society, Khan said the development of such people and their mindsets began in their childhoods. He said a lot of the damage came from sitting with peers who objectified women and engaged in locker room talk, which boys engage in to “fit in”.

The actor said the way to fight that was through better parenting and trying to deter such behaviour in schools.

Hassan added to this, saying there was a need to raise boys who were “emotionally in touch” but also knew they could be “held accountable” for their actions. He said this also had to start at home, with boys being taken to task for misbehaving with girls and women in their households.

Khan said another important thing to instil in men and boys was empathy, which would allow them to put themselves in other people’s shoes. “If I have empathy and I am about to talk about a girl, I will think, ‘If this happened to my sister or my mother, how would I feel?’ So that’s the point where, whatever wrong course of action you were about to take, you stop.”

Both men agreed that society often told men who didn’t participate in its misogyny they were “boring”, but that it was “better to be boring and better to be alone than to become a Zamil-like character”.

Now that episodes 7 and 8 have aired on Wednesday and Thursday, the drama has everyone firmly in its thrall, with netizens unable to stop talking about it.

The performances — especially Wahaj Ali’s portrayal of Baala’s grief and Mahira Khan’s conflicted Bilqees Bano aka Billo — are being called career-defining, but there’s a lot more to the story than the actors. It’s the drama’s uncompromising look at casteism and honour that has sparked a deeper discussion online.

Baala’s wife, Zarina, played by Amar Khan has raked in overwhelming praise.

Some called her a “breakout star”.

While others empathised with her character on a deeper level.

The story has turned brutal in the last two episodes. Episode 7 ended with the railway crossing shootout, where Baala’s brother Aslam (Achi) is killed and Baala’s world falls apart. Episode 8 then shows his transformation into the hardened Baala Gujrati, a man shaped by loss and tied to the gangster Phajja, played masterfully by Sohail Ahmed.

Ali’s shift from raw grief — a brother unable to perform the last rites — to cold resolve has left viewers stunned.

This user said Baala’s character was written for Ali.

Mahira’s controversial Billo has viewers confused, as she has the ability to be both the victim and the oppressor.

What makes the show more than melodrama is how it handles caste. The divide between Shah (sovereign or master) and Miraasi (generational musicians) drives every betrayal. Billo’s in-laws use her past not for morality, but to protect their bloodline. Baala spends his whole life trying to escape the shackles of his lineage. Fans of the show can’t stop raving about these details.

Some compared the story to Emily Brontë’s classic Wuthering Heights, as it involves elements of class-based discrimination and unrequited love.

Viewers also pointed out how religious piety is used to humiliate rather than forgive — as seen when Billo, a faithful wife and obedient daughter-in-law, is kicked out of her own home by her father-in-law over a ‘mistake’ (falling for Baala) made when she was a teenager.

Some fans pointed out how revenge, blinded by hate, can turn fatal quickly and Mitti De Baway has depicted it well.

In the end, Mitti De Baway is more than just a revenge story — it holds up a mirror to society and asks hard questions about caste, honour and hypocrisy. With strong performances, directed by Syed Wajahat Hussain, and bold writing by Faiza Iftikhar, the drama has started a conversation that is clearly not dying down anytime soon.

Both of them have latterly turned to personal projects, working with their wives — film editor Tricia Cooke and actor Frances McDormand — on movies such as Honey Don’t and The Tragedy of Macbeth.

But they said they planned to reunite soon behind the camera, joking that it had to come soon because of their advancing ages.

“We’re getting old. It better be the near future,” Joel, 71, told AFP in a joint interview ahead of a prize ceremony in the French city of Lyon where they are being given the Lumiere lifetime achievement award.

“We have a number of different things in what we call the library, things that we’ve written before,” he added. “And then other things that we’ve thought about writing scripts about and never gotten around. So we don’t know yet.”

He denied reports that “there’s some kind of schism, that there’s some kind of break that happened. In fact, it’s not anything like that.”

Their last film together was 2018’s The Ballad of Buster Scruggs, an offbeat Oscar-nominated Western starring Tim Blake Nelson, which followed the 1950s Hollywood-set satirical comedy Hail, Caesar! in 2016.

Joel will release another solo project next year called Jack of Spades with Josh O’Connor, while Ethan has done a documentary about American pianist Jerry Lee Lewis as well as two other films with lesbian heroines.

Not fantasy

The brothers declined to give any details about what their next joint project would be, but it is unlikely to be fantasy-based.

“It’s definitely some weird cultural thing where mainstream movies are now mostly fantasy: fantasy, science fiction, horror, comic books, all different kinds of fantasy,” Ethan, 69, explained. “It’s a sad thing for us because we’ve never been drawn to those kinds of things.”

He also ruled out doing a TV series, despite serving as an executive producer on the long-running Fargo television adaptation.

“You have to sort of understand that structure in order to do it successfully. And it’s just not what we do. It’s not the way our brains think about stories,” Joel explained.

Cover photo: AFP

The stills, released as part of the magazine’s December 2026 issue, confirm that the finale jumps 17 years ahead of Part Two.

Of course, we see Zendaya’s Chani back in her stillsuit in the Arrakis desert, a return to the world she once called home.

We also see Timothée Chalamet, who plays Paul Atreides, and Anya Taylor-Joy, who plays his psychic sister Alia, together — with the latter wearing a full white head and body covering.

Netizens couldn’t help but notice that Taylor-Joy’s outfit bears a striking resemblance to traditional Muslim women’s garb. Meanwhile, Chalamet’s shaved head and clothes reminded people of how some Muslim men dress after returning from Hajj.

One user on X joked, “Me and my wife after iftar waiting for her to finish namaz so we can have chai.”

This netizen is getting Pakistani director vibes.

So is this one.

Another remarked it looked like a “standard jummah photo in a Pakistani household”.

One said, “Mashallah Anya sister,” because it really does look like a form of a hijab.

The latest reaction is not the first time Taylor-Joy’s Dune wardrobe has sparked jokes online. In February 2024, her outfit for the Dune: Part Two premiere in London — a flowing white gown that covered her from head to toe — drew a very different kind of reaction.

Many Muslim fans pointed out that while the actor was being praised by the mainstream media for her unique look, the very same modest styles worn by Muslim women — hijabs, niqabs and burqas — are often met with suspicion or worse.

Some critics even argued the moment was a textbook case of appropriation: white celebrities being celebrated for wearing what women of colour and religious minorities are penalised for.

Some also pointed out that Frank Herbert’s original Dune novel was heavily influenced by Islamic history and culture, yet the films have largely removed those influences, while only keeping the visuals.

So while netizens are currently poking fun at Alia’s all-white look, the bigger conversation about the movies’ departure from the source material is far from new.

The film will be screened in theatres in Atlanta, Chicago, Dallas, Houston, Los Angeles, Miami, New York, Philadelphia, San Francisco and Washington DC on October 28.

The Eyes of Ghana follows Ghanaian cinematographer Chris Hesse, who, as his eyesight declines, attempts to rescue more than 1,000 films capturing Africa’s fight for independence in the 1950s and 60s.

“It is a great honour to be part of The Eyes of Ghana and help bring this extraordinary piece of history to the big screen,” IShowSpeed said. He said he felt a great connection to Ghana after having visited the country this year on his Speed Does Africa tour.

Talking about Hesse’s work, the streamer said, “His camera captured the birth of African independence and his determination to preserve those images has ensured that future generations can witness it for themselves. I’m humbled by his legacy and proud to help bring his story to my community.”

IShowSpeed, whose real name is Darren Watkins Jr, was granted Ghanaian citizenship after his visit to the country brought positive attention. Foreign Minister Samuel Okudzeto Ablakwa, announcing the decision to issue the streamer a passport, told him to “keep making our great nation Ghana, and our beloved African continent proud”.

He has a massive follower base of over 200 million across social media and is known for his high-energy content and livestreams. He was on TIME magazine’s inaugural TIME 100 Creators list last year.

Online creators have been making inroads into cinema, with YouTube star Markiplier directing, producing, starring in and distributing the horror film Iron Lung earlier this year. The film made $50m at the global box office, a massive amount compared to its $3m budget.

Also this year, YouTubers Kane Parsons and Curry Barker released their films The Backrooms and Obsession, both of which went on to become box office successes.

Like the caricatures of men of power it depicts — primarily the corporate moguls, army men and politicians — the film is loud, strange, intemperate and perhaps far too pleased with its own madness. The madness and the satire, though, have a legitimate reason to co-exist.

Meet the embodiment of both: Digger Rockwell (Tom Cruise), an ageing oil magnate in cahoots with President Compson (John Goodman), who has been drilling deep into Alaska and Greenland despite methane warnings. As expected, a pocket explodes and an ice shelf the size of Maryland is towed away by ocean currents towards Norway.

With impact due in three days, Dr Nirav Ganesh (Riz Ahmed), the perpetually alarmed safety chief riddled with righteousness, screams about the loss of life the collision will bring. Digger and Compson cross their fingers in the hope that the ice melts in the Atlantic.

Alejandro Iñárritu’s Digger is loud, strange and gloriously unhinged — an eco-satire that digs beneath its own madness to confront the stories we tell ourselves when reality becomes too ugly to face

Disaster ensues and Europe floods. Digger faces the European Parliament, owns the catastrophe, argues that the world demanded his oil, and watches the chamber turn on itself. Compson — undergoing surgery for rectal cancer — floats the idea of nuking China as a distraction. His military chief Fitzgerald (Robert John Burke), however, thinks about nuking the ice, which Ganesh warns will only break it into pieces. Five years later, following a bigger disaster, Digger sits on an offshore platform, deserted by most of his men, bullying God for more food.

Yes, the film is as dark as it is comedic; in this case, one shouldn’t confuse fun with funny. The seriousness is ever-present, no matter the set-up.

Around the 30-minute mark, the film changes one’s perspective and the overblown theatricality suddenly makes sense. Although the full scope of this reveal hits you only in the last frames, the twist makes the drama more profound and palpable — perhaps more so than Stanley Kubrick’s Dr Strangelove. The obvious comparison, though, is in spirit only.

By the end, Digger evolves from an eco-satire into a film about the stories we tell ourselves when reality becomes too ugly to face. I know this is a cop-out, but to understand what this writer means, one has to see the film.

There are, of course, good reasons to buy a ticket: Iñárritu — who, one needn’t be reminded, was the director of Birdman (2014) and The Revenant (2015) — his cinematographer on those films, Emmanuel Lubezki, the production design and Cruise and Ahmed.

Lubezki deliberately boxes the characters into a 5:4 squarish yet immersive VistaVision frame. Ahmed’s Ganesh is Digger’s foil — a man who can’t help sounding off his righteous concerns, despite shaking like a leaf. At one point, Goodman’s president even asks why Ganesh hasn’t been killed yet. Ahmed gets as much room as Cruise and, at times, owns the scenes. He will likely be a solid candidate in the Oscars race later this year.

Cruise — whom one forgets was nominated for Born on the Fourth of July, and was robbed for Jerry Maguire and Magnolia — is a shoo-in as well for the Oscars. Shifting tones with the subtlest of transitions, in his seclusion we see him as a fragile old man who loves his dying cat with the genuine worry of a parent. Barely a moment later, he turns into a corporate mogul who hates the idea of losing millions.

One realises early that Digger is not wrong about everything he says — and perhaps that’s why, despite his apparent evilness, he is not played like a villain. His self-conviction, written on to the page by Iñárritu and co-writers Alexander Dinelaris Jr, Nicolás Giacobone and Sabina Berman, empowers Cruise to make him unforgivably loathsome, yet pitiful at the same time. Then there is the other side of Digger — the part kept spoiler-free here — that twists the narrative and helps Cruise augment a subtler divide in performance.

The balancing act is harder than it looks. Digger is interested in how we process catastrophe through performance, rhetoric and make-believe — how stories become easier to consume than facts, and how, in the process, we begin confusing narrative with truth. Because of the peculiarity of Iñárritu’s style, some will like it, while others will hate it with every fibre of their being.

Released by Warner Bros and HKC, Digger also stars Sandra Hüller, Michael Stuhlbarg and Jesse Plemons. The film is rated A for Adults. At times, it may prove too dense or radical even for the more mature among us

Originally published in Dawn, ICON, October 11th, 2026

The familiar voice delivering it belongs to none other than Daniel Craig, who is the titular magician.

In what looks like a nod to the 2005 The Chronicles of Narnia movie, we also see a wardrobe, but whether or not it is the same one is for us to find out.

The story revolves around Digory and Polly, two children played by newcomers David McKenna and Beatrice Campbell, who discover what appears to be an attic door to “other worlds”, as Polly puts it.

Craig then gives Digory a ring that transports them to a magical realm. What follows is a montage of different adventures the children get to go on and we also see some familiar characters such as Jadis, the White Witch, played by Emma Mackey and, of course, Aslan, the talking lion, who will be voiced by Meryl Streep.

Is there a lot of nostalgia to mine here for those raised on the 2005 movie? Not really. The trailer makes it clear that this is going to be a completely different experience. It could be a good thing as this movie comes almost 16 years after The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, the last instalment of the original film series, which means The Magician’s Nephew is meant for a whole new generation of CS Lewis fans.

Plus, it’s being directed by Greta Gerwig, the vision behind Little Women and Barbie — both of which were commercial and critical successes — so the movie is in experienced hands.

Ever since it was announced in 2023 that Netflix tapped Gerwig for a Narnia reboot, expectations have remained high. After watching the first trailer, we can safely say we’re in for a big adventure.

The Magician’s Nephew will be released in theatres on February 12 and stream on Netflix on April 2 next year.

The cause of death for the actor, who lived with cerebral palsy, was not immediately revealed.

“It is with profound sadness that we share the tragic passing of beloved actor, philanthropist, and passionate disability rights advocate RJ Mitte,” said a statement issued by Sean Reilly.

A teenage Mitte first appeared in Breaking Bad in 2008 as the son of chemistry-teacher-turned-drug-kingpin Walter White, a role that won Bryan Cranston global acclaim.

“Drawing from his own experience living with cerebral palsy, Mitte brought authenticity to the role and built a platform on disability awareness and inclusion,” Reilly said.

That campaigning evolved into working as an ambassador for United Cerebral Palsy and for Shriners Children’s, a non-profit hospital network.

“He also served as president of The Mitte Foundation, supporting philanthropic efforts and community initiatives, while using his platform to challenge stereotypes and promote greater representation for people with disabilities,” Reilly added.

Breaking Bad, which ran for five seasons between 2008 and 2013, is routinely acclaimed as groundbreaking television, and was recently named by The New York Times as the best TV show of the 21st century.

Co-stars rushed to pay tribute to the performer, with Cranston recalling how Mitte was 14 when the show began and “met the demanding shooting schedule head on with great determination.”

“That kid was pretty raw when we started shooting the pilot in February of 2007, but little by little we watched him grow into a really fine actor,” Cranston wrote in an Instagram post.

Aaron Paul — who played Jesse Pinkman, White’s young partner in crime — said he was “at a loss” over the news.

“RJ, I love you my friend. You will be missed,” he said, according to The Hollywood Reporter.

“And to whoever happens to be reading this, please know you are loved, and you are not alone. Always remember that.”

Dean Norris, who starred in the series as Mitte’s on-screen uncle, a special agent with the Drug Enforcement Agency, said he was “heartbroken” by the news of the young man’s death.

“Though RJ didn’t play my TV son, I always looked out for him as a young kid on set,” Norris wrote on social media.

“He was a sweetheart of a young man and will be greatly missed. This is so heartbreaking, I can’t believe it. Thinking of him and his family.”

Fellow actor and disability campaigner Marlee Matlin, who appeared with Mitte in Cinemability: The Art of Inclusion, a documentary that examined the history of disability portrayals in US film and television, said her heart was “shattered.”

“There will never be another like RJ Mitte. You will always have a place in my heart. RIP,” wrote Matlin, who became the first deaf actress to win an Oscar when she scooped the top honour for Children of a Lesser God.

A few minutes into the third short film, three rows of celebrities — the cast, their well-wishing actors, directors and channel executives — simply got up and left, with 30-odd minutes still remaining before the end credits rolled! Only government representatives, their families, a few journalists and general invitees remained seated.

A prior engagement, one presu­mes? Still, couldn’t the cast have stayed, especially for their own film?

The en masse exit signals the temperament of state-funded projects: an utter lack of ownership. Staying till the end would at least have given one the reason to say: Hey, the movie is not a total loss!

Sheroes sets out to tell three unconventional stories about women’s empowerment, culture and anti-terrorism, but weak writing and lacklustre direction leave the Government of Sindh-backed anthology struggling to land its punches

Sheroes is four steps up from Mera Lyari, the Sindh government’s first release. On a scale of one to 10, it lands a four, maybe even a five on a good day.

Sounds like a good idea — or three

Sheroes’ pitch was music to the ears: deliver three unconventional stories around mandated themes of women’s empowerment, cultural showcase and anti-terrorism. That’s hitting three birds with one stone… if the aim weren’t shoddy. The execution lands strictly between meh and moronic. I’d blame the writers and directors.

The first segment, ‘Gear Up’ — written by Hashim Nadeem, directed by Saqib Khan (Ghabrana Nahin Hai) and shot by Nabeel Hassan Razvi — stars Zara Noor Abbas as a bomb-disposal expert battling male chauvinism and a motiveless terrorist played by her real-life husband, Asad Siddiqui.

The second, ‘Artist’, has Kinza Hashmi as an upcoming artist who decides to pull one over the system with the help of the local trans community led by Nayyer Ejaz (please give him a break from these roles already!). It is written by Amna Mufti, directed by Saqib Khan and shot by Nabeel Hassan Razvi.

The third is ‘Punch’ — the most complete story of the three — written by Mohsin Ali, directed by Badar Mehmood (of the TV drama Kabhi Main Kabhi Tum fame) and shot by Suleman Razzaq and Shoaib Suleman Razzaq. In it, Gohar Rasheed’s character fights against family and tradition (more like emotionally argues, convinces and puts his foot down) to bring his once-boxing champion wife, played by Ushna Shah, back into the ring.

These are good ideas whose shortfalls cannot be analysed without spoilers, because the issues start with the story and the approach to the narrative.

Warning: plot and spoilers ahead

In ‘Gear Up’, Saira Moin (Zara Noor Abbas) is the very definition of empowered — at least superficially. She wears aviator sunglasses over a sleek jacket and a white shirt, and rides her heavy bike to work.

Snappy cuts tell us she got the job in the bomb-disposal department after her father died defusing an explosive device. As the only woman in the department, she seeks validation from her boss, played by Rashid Farooqui.

Then comes the opportunity: a man in a hoodie, played by Asad Siddiqui, calls with a lame riddle pointing to planted bombs. She springs into action without back-up and finds her boss’ son, played by Omi Butt, strapped with a bomb, with two more explosives hidden hardly 15 feet apart.

The bomber reveals his real identity without a legit backstory or motive. Standing just out of reach, he taunts her throughout the short film. Having had enough of his yammering, she shoots the man in the head and defuses the bombs, earning validation from her boss with a pat on the back.

One cannot help but ask the most basic of questions: what was the villain’s motive? Why plant three bombs steps away from each other and not in different areas of the city? Why kill the villain at all, with the police nearly there, and especially with no repercussions or dramatic twists to follow?

Replace the woman with a man, and the same gesture of a superior’s validation applies, irrespective of gender.

So, where’s women’s empow­erment in the story? Isn’t this just a female-led action thriller, without the highs of either genre? Moreover, it is one where the dramatic music and heavy-handed colour-grading hammer and desensitise your senses.

‘Artist’ is worse off. When the debut exhibition of artist Aiman Gillani (Kinza Hashmi) fails and the world puts her down, she concocts an art swindle with Guru ji, the head of the transgender community (Nayyer Ejaz).

She falsely ages one of her artworks, passes it off on social media as the lost work of a renowned artist, and sells it for two crore rupees. Not only that, she puts a condition that an esteemed art critic, who negatively reviewed the artworks in her debut painting exhibition, praises them and that the paintings be put up for show once again.

Again, what has women’s empowerment got to do with it? More importantly, rather than setting the system right, or at least fighting it, she becomes just as corrupt, exploiting her art by lying, cheating and pulling off an ignoble deal.

Both films mistake the words ‘women-led’ for ‘women empowered’.

The third film slips in parts — especially when the old, grumpy coach (Mohammed Ehtashamuddin) visits Ifrah Ahmed’s (Ushna Shah) house — but the writing and Ifrah’s motivations make far more sense.

Instead of forcing Ifrah to lead, retaliate and revolt, the film lets her talk about issues such as willingly taking — and being bound by — the responsibility of caring for home and family, and why unconditional support from loved ones, especially her husband Zahid (Gohar Rasheed), can lead to true empowerment.

What works, what doesn’t

By way of performances. Zara Noor Abbas is fine, as are Nayyer Ejaz, Nazar ul Hassan, Hammad Siddiq, Farrukh Darbar (as a transgender character), Ahmad Hassan, Mohammed Ehtashamuddin, Ushna Shah and Gohar Rasheed. The latter, in particular, singlehandedly does the heavy lifting of an entire segment. The cinematography is a minor plus (with the exception of ‘Punch’), though the direction is mostly standard and forgettable throughout.

The editing (credited to Fawad Bajwa, Noman Anwar and Rizwan AQ) hastens the pace but cannot mask the main problem with Sheroes (and perhaps most Pakistani films): an utter lack of clear-headedness and foresight when penning the stories.

If the script is not right, neither government initiatives, heroes, nor sheroes, will get a chance to gear up, artistically shine or land the right punch (pun intended).

Produced by Imran Hussain under the banner of Tamasha Films and Sindh Films (the government’s label), and distributed by Orient Distribution Club, Sheroes may still be playing in cinemas — check local timings. The film is rated U, suitable for every age group, irrespective of gender

Originally published in Dawn, ICON, October 11th, 2026

Thankfully, former Miss Universe Pakistan Roma Riaz stepped in to defend Saleem.

In an Instagram story posted on Sunday, Riaz penned a poignant message, calling out trolls for body-shaming women and trivialising their accomplishments by focusing on their looks.

“It genuinely breaks my heart to see a woman as beautiful and talented as Durefishan being reduced to a conversation about her arms. Imagine giving your heart to your heart to your craft, only to have people pick apart your appearance instead of appreciating your work,” Riaz wrote.

Comments about Saleem’s body started making rounds on social media after she wore a sleeveless dress in Dar-e-Nijaat’s 20th episode, which aired on Friday.

In her response to the trolling, Riaz highlighted “how comfortable we’ve become commenting on women’s bodies”.

“We speak so much about empowering women, yet we’re often the first to make another woman feel like her body isn’t good enough. The pressure on women to look a certain exhausting and moments way is already like these only make it harder for young girls to feel comfortable in their own skin,” she wrote.

Riaz’s words cut to the core of a systemic issue. She noted that the pressure on women to conform to rigid beauty standards is exhausting and detrimental to young girls.

“I hope we’re raising a generation of girls who know their worth will never be measured by how closely they fit society’s beauty standards,” she added.

This isn’t the first time Saleem has been subjected to body shaming. She has often talked about it in her interviews. Unfortunately, it is a pervasive issue in the entertainment industry — one that demands immediate introspection.

When audiences reduce a performer — especially women who are already held to unrealistic beauty standards — to their physical attributes, they undermine the very essence of what it means to be an artist.

To judge them solely on whether their arms fit a toxic mould of beauty is to completely miss the point of their craft.

Also, this obsession with physical perfection has dangerous real-world consequences. It creates an environment of insecurity and anxiety, not just for the actors, but for the millions of young people who look up to them. When we mock a celebrity’s body, we send a clear message to the public that only certain body types are worthy of respect and success.

Riaz’s support for Saleem should serve as a wake-up call for everyone. We must actively choose to celebrate talent over looks and, more importantly, empathy over criticism.

These dramas, in their own ways, have given us women who feel like people rather than plot points. Mahira Khan’s Bilqees Bano is a strong-headed grey character who’s calling (sometimes literally) the shots. Durefishan Saleem’s Zaryab, while going through a painful break-up, is wholly aware she’s making all the wrong choices. Dananeer Mobeen’s Hurmat is on her way to finding herself. Yes, these characters have flaws. But they also have agency and stories worth telling.

Then there’s Gulbahar and its women.

Expectations were high from this Sanam Saeed-Emmad Irfani starrer, especially after the two actors won the hearts of fans with their portrayal of a dysfunctional couple in last year’s Kafeel.

The rest of the cast also comprises big names such as Shahood Alvi, Sabahat Bukhari and Saife Hassan along with rising talent Komal Meer. Its writer, Aliya Bukhari, has written hits like Mere Qatil Mere Dildar and Dil-e-Muztar and Khamoshi. Plus, the fact that industry veteran Mehreen Jabbar is the one directing it just took the anticipation to another level after Gulbahar’s teasers first aired last month.

Eight episodes in, though, it doesn’t seem to be connecting with the audience. The reason, honestly, isn’t hard to find: the story revolves around a man and his two wives and whether they can learn to love each other as they are.

The premise understandably feels quite regressive and the problem, unfortunately, can only be traced back to its women characters. Yes, patriarchy has made them what they are, but at some point, one has to ask: why do the women in Gulbahar seem to be doing all the wrong things?

Let’s break down what exactly is wrong with each of them — and what they should be doing instead.

Sara

Sara (played by Saeed) has been married to Sheharyar (played by Irfani) for 12 years and, by all accounts, they’re happy together.

In Sara’s first scene in the drama, we see her working on model boats. It’s a small detail but looks promising because in Pakistani dramas, stay-at-home wives are rarely shown as people who have real, interesting hobbies.

However, we soon find out there isn’t much to it. Sara, as it turns out, can’t have children and adoption is out of the question because her husband’s family doesn’t approve of it. So that becomes her whole identity in the story.

Sara’s sister-in-law, Shehnaz, keeps issuing unsolicited doom-and-gloom warnings about the dangers of growing old without children and she humours this toxic woman every single time.

Sara tells her objectively insufferable sister-in-law, calmly but firmly, that she will never allow Sheharyar to marry a second time. It isn’t exactly a moment of defiance because we know what’s coming. We know she’ll break under the psychological weight of societal expectations. And break, she does.

In the eighth episode, Sara gets her husband married to another woman. In fact, she arranges it. This self-possessed, educated and skilled woman gives in and actually believes that by getting her husband married to a seemingly innocuous person, the three of them will get a child and live happily together.

It’s as absurd as it sounds.

To absolutely nobody’s surprise, in the coming episodes, we’re going to see this reasonable woman turn into a jealous, insecure wife. How is this leading lady material?

What Sara should be doing is drawing boundaries. She should tell her sister-in-law that marriage is not a business that requires a successor to continue. Also, Sara and Sheharyar need to do this together. Their bond seems strong enough to survive this.

Sara is an educated woman. If she doesn’t want to have a career, she can volunteer. There are many ways to give back to the community, especially children. At this point, anything would be better than serving tea to Shehnaz.

Sara deserves a story where she’s allowed to say no, mean it and not suffer any consequences for it. It’s 2026 (actually we’re nearing the end of it) and we need to stop writing stories that tell women who can’t have children that their worth is measured by and limited to their wombs.

Diya

Diya (played by Meer) starts off as what is the closest to a strongly opinionated woman in Gulbahar. She is young and ambitious and has big plans for her future, primarily because she wants to be able to afford basic necessities for her parents. Diya is in a relationship with her cousin Azar (played by Sheikh Sabahat), but she’s in no hurry to get married. Diya also lives in the same neighbourhood as Sara and the two share a sisterly bond.

In addition to lack of money, Diya has another adversary: her phuppo, Samina, who is also Azar’s mother.

For reasons that will be disclosed later, Samina hates Diya. A lot. She doesn’t want her son to marry her and she’s pretty vocal and public about it.

To her credit, Diya stands her ground when Samina goes off the wall at a family gathering and severs her relationship with Azar — all to protect her self respect.

Commendable, right?

It doesn’t last long. Soon after her break up, Diya is orphaned. A fatal gas explosion claims her parents’ lives, stripping away her entire support system and reason to live.

This unimaginable grief could’ve been used to propel Diya’s story forward. The drama decided to go the other way. She’s grieving, vulnerable and financially desperate. So all the grown-ups around her decide that there’s but one solution to all her problems: marriage.

Sara wants to take care of Diya but can’t keep her at home because there’s no concrete relation between them.

Soon enough, the drama positions Diya as the obvious candidate for Sheryar’s second wife — not because she wants this, but because she needs protection. So, essentially, Sara decides Diya isn’t a threat and would agree to a loveless marriage where she’d produce heirs.

What’s wrong with Diya isn’t Diya herself. It’s the narrative that has decided a grieving young woman is the solution to another woman’s infertility.

If Sara is being limited to her womb, Diya — a young woman with potential — is being written as a vessel, a means to an end. Her phuppo’s hatred compounds her isolation, leaving her completely vulnerable to financial and emotional distress. But a woman’s vulnerability should not be a plot device.

What Diya should be doing is finding her own footing, her own future — without being folded into a marriage that’s not hers to begin with. She doesn’t need Azar and she certainly doesn’t need Sheharyar. Are we really telling young women that the best thing they can do with their lives, if they’re alone, is get married?

Diya deserves a story where she is not the answer to someone else’s problem.

Shehnaz Aapa

Shehnaz aapa (played by Bukhari) is Sara’s sister-in-law. It wouldn’t be entirely wrong to say that she’s the one causing most of the issues in Gulbahar. The only depth to her character is that she lost her son Uzair as a single parent and now her sole purpose in life is to scare, deride and pester her sister-in-law for living a childless life — while nonchalantly sipping on tea that her sister-in-law prepares for her.

That’s pretty much it. This is Shehnaz’s whole personality in the drama so far.

Shehnaz unabashedly pushes for Sheharyar’s second marriage, in front of his wife, under the garb of care and concern. She exploits inheritance as an excuse to get her brother remarried and eventually succeeds.

What’s wrong with Shehnaz is that she has internalised a system that measures women’s worth by their husbands’ legacies and their sons’ futures — and she now enforces that system on the next generation. She’s not a cartoon villain; she’s worse: she’s realistic. Shehnaz is the aunty who asks wholly intrusive questions at weddings. Had her son been alive and old enough to get married, she would’ve been the mother-in-law who treats her daughter-in-law as an incubator.

It’s usually difficult to chart an alternative path for a villain, because they’re supposed to be bad, but the writer has made Shehnaz grey. We see Shehnaz comforting Sara as she makes the difficult decision to green light Sheharyar and Diya’s marriage. So maybe there’s a tiny bit of (grossly out-of-touch) kindness there somewhere deep, deep, deep down.

What Shehnaz should be doing is finding a hobby. While she’s at it, she should probably do an online course on what healthy boundaries are. Maybe she should try out painting boats with Sara, instead of ruining her life.

Shehnaz’s inane obsession with bloodlines is her own problem to manage and it shouldn’t be a mandate for someone else’s life.

Samina Phuppo

Last but not least, there’s Samina phuppo (played by Mazhar) — the keeper of grudges and the enforcer of relentless cruelty.

Case in point: after Diya loses both her parents in a single, devastating moment, Samina can’t find a single word of kindness to say to this young woman. The sudden and tragic loss of her brother doesn’t move her. The sight of her orphaned niece does not stir compassion.

Samina has no redeeming qualities.

Instead, she continues her campaign of hostility, adding to Diya’s isolation and leaving her even more vulnerable to the very arrangement the drama is building towards.

We learn the reason for Samina’s unyielding toxicity in the second episode during a conversation with her husband, Mansoor (played by Alvi). Mansoor, it is revealed, wanted to marry Diya’s khala when his marriage with Samina wasn’t working out.

Mansoor’s unfulfilled desire seems to be the root of Samina’s hatred towards Diya — even though the poor girl wasn’t even born at the time. This is also why she doesn’t want her son Azar to marry Diya.

It doesn’t make sense, but that’s the only depth we get in Samina’s character.

What’s wrong with Samina? Everything. She has no arc and no complexity beyond this single, reductive motivation. She exists purely as a pressure point, a force that pushes Diya towards the only option the narrative has left her: becoming Sheharyar’s second wife.

The drama uses Samina as a blunt instrument. A mere device. She is the reason Diya cannot stay where she is. She is the reason Diya needs rescuing.

Samina, despite being the antagonist, can definitely do better. She could have complicated feelings about her brother’s death. She could be wrestling with her own failures, her own disappointments, the knowledge that her husband wished to marry someone else while in a relationship with her.

Or she could, at minimum, have a single scene where she is not simply monstrous. Samina comes across as a caricature of a villain. Even her dialogue delivery is one dimensional.

The real problem with Gulbahar

The real problem with the women of Gulbahar is that it reduces them to a worn-out South Asian saying: aurat he aurat ki dushman hai (a woman is a woman’s enemy).

Shehnaz is oppressing Sara. Sara has unjustly pushed Diya into a loveless and transactional marriage. Samina is oppressing Diya. Diya may intentionally or inadvertently become the reason Sara suffers.

It’s a mess.

The drama has assembled a cast of women who are, in one way or another, complicit in their own diminishment and the storyline isn’t moving towards a point where even one of them would say: enough.

The men in this story are completely useless. Sheharyar can’t stand up to his nosy sister. Mansoor lets (and sometimes enables) Samina’s machinations. Azar is a whiny young man who pines for, but can’t support, a headstrong woman. They’re all spectators.

Jabbar has described the drama as an exploration of “love, jealousy and possessiveness,” asking whether love can exist between more than two people. It’s a fascinating question. But it’s being asked about a woman who has been given no alternative but to surrender her marriage to another woman, who herself is beleaguered by her own circumstances.

There’s still time. Perhaps Sara will realise the error of her ways. Perhaps Diya will leave Sheharyar and go back to her studies. Perhaps the two leading women of Gulbahar will discover that their worth was never in their wombs to begin with.

However, based on what we have seen so far, that would be a surprise. Unfortunately, Pakistani television, for all its craft, talent and recent progressiveness in narratives, rarely surprises us when it comes to what it expects from its women.

In a reel posted by BBC Urdu, Saeed, who plays the mother of the show’s ‘green flag’ male lead, said “writers, channels and audiences” all want to discuss morality when it comes to entertainment in Pakistan.

Elaborating on that, the actor said Pakistani society was still at a point where it wanted to talk about family issues, relationships and traditional gender roles.

She did, however, contend that maybe what’s shown in her drama isn’t the best way to go when it comes to dealing with trauma. “If you look at it psychologically, you don’t walk out of one trauma and into another, you shouldn’t,” she said.

Saeed said people should instead give themselves “time to heal”, but that in Pakistan it was a widely held belief that any problem between two people who were of a “marriageable age” was to get them married. She said this was something writer Umera Ahmed tried to address in the show.

For context, Dar-e-Nijaat’s female lead Zaryab (Durefishan Saleem) marries Saeed’s on-screen son Abu Bakar (Sheheryar Munawar) after her longtime boyfriend Zamil (Nameer Khan) marries another girl.

Saeed also took issue with audiences appreciating the mother-son relationship shown between her and Munawar in the show, saying, “Our women want sons who don’t ask questions, who comply. Parents want children who accept everything they say with their eyes closed.”

She said Abu Bakar seemed unreal to some viewers because he was supposed to be unreal. “He was raised in an unreal way by Khushbakht, in light of her learnings, which is not our usual pattern in parenting.”

On the flip side, she said, working with Munawar was “very fun” and scenes shot with him would fly by.

“The time has come for us to turn our attention to ​the Matriarch of our beloved Bridgertons,” the ​social media post said, referring to Violet ⁠Bridgerton, who has been portrayed by English ​actress Ruth Gemmell across the first four seasons ​of the Netflix series.

“A new series, chronicling the romance of a young Violet and Viscount Edmund Bridgerton, is underway,” ​the post added.

The not-yet-titled limited series marks ​the latest spin-off in the Bridgerton universe.

Shonda Rhimes and Nicholas Nardini, ‌a ⁠producer on the previous Bridgerton spin-off series Queen Charlotte, will serve as showrunners, writers and executive producers on the new show.

The Regency-era romance franchise is based ​on the Bridgerton ​books by ⁠Julia Quinn, with each instalment focusing on a different Bridgerton sibling’s romance.

Season ​5 of Bridgerton is currently in production ​in ⁠London and will centre on Francesca Bridgerton, played by Hannah Dodd, and Michaela Stirling, played by ⁠Masali ​Baduza.

Bridgerton became a global phenomenon ​when it debuted in 2020 and won praise for its diverse ​cast.

This year, the Pakistan Academy Selection Committee was led by Deputy Chairperson Sana Zahra Jafri.

In addition to being a filmmaker, Jafri is also a writer and a producer. Her short Permanent Guest premiered at TIFF 2025 and won awards in Los Angeles, Montreal and Karachi. She co-produced Saim Sadiq’s Oscar-shortlisted Joyland and co-wrote Yasmeen’s Element, which premiered at SXSW.

This year’s committee was made up of veteran actors Marina Khan and Hina Khawaja Bayat, artist Misha Japanwala, director Nabeel Qureshi, director and producer Shahzad Rafique, producer Badar Ikram along with actor and influencer Tamkenat Mansoor.

Jafri explained to Images why these particular people were chosen for the committee.

“Our priority was to put together a panel that was not only experienced in cinema, but also diverse in terms of age, gender, professional background and creative perspective. We wanted each member to bring a distinct relationship with film and culture, because ultimately the strength of a jury lies in the range of perspectives around the table,” she said.

Jafri added that the Academy’s requirements were also taken into consideration while choosing the pane. She said that “the committee has to be independent, have appropriate representation from film artists and craftspeople, and be free of conflicts of interest”.

It was within this framework that the selection committee sought people with different areas of expertise and experience spanning across different generations, according to Jafri.

“Together, they bring a range of experience across acting, directing, producing, visual art and contemporary cultural engagement,” she added.

But why include an artist and an influencer?

“Mansoor’s work as a social media creator includes social and political commentary and she is very engaged with contemporary social justice issues in Pakistan. We felt that perspective, alongside her experience as an actress, would bring a unique voice to the committee,” Jafri explained.

“Japanwala needs no introduction. She has made a significant mark internationally as a Pakistani artist, with her latest work including sculptural pieces created for Christopher Nolan’s The Odyssey, worn by Lupita Nyong’o. Her contribution to global cinema as a Pakistani artist is noteworthy, and we felt her perspective was an important one to have on the committee,” she added.

Lauding the effort put into the making of Hanging by a Wire, Jafri said: “The blending of archival footage and newly shot material is so seamless that, at times, the distinction between documentary and large-scale cinematic storytelling simply disappears. The result is immersive and remarkably authentic. I found myself at the edge of my seat throughout.

“I felt that the film captures something deeply recognisable about us as Pakistanis. Our resilience, our ability to find ways to survive and persevere, our diversity and our contradictions, and the many different ways in which we navigate institutions, communities and one another. At the heart of it all is the unwavering faith that remains such a common thread in our lives,” she added.

Jafri also extended her gratitude to the members of the selection committee, adding they received a diverse set of stories this year.

“We received an extraordinary range of stories this year. Stories of bravery and resilience, stories that challenge the status quo, and stories that shine a light on experiences and communities that deserve to be seen. To have so many distinctive films in consideration in a single year is truly something to celebrate,” Jafri explained.

“I am deeply grateful to every member of the selection committee for generously giving their time and bringing such thoughtfulness, care and dedication to the process. Each member watched all the submitted films and provided their rankings and comments within the given timeframe. Their commitment to the process and to Pakistani cinema was truly remarkable, and I feel very fortunate to have worked alongside them,” she said.

The selection committee made the official announcement on October 1 at the at the Mosaic International Film Festival in Mississauga, Canada. There, Hanging by a Wire had its Canadian premiere and even won the Sabeen Mahmud Award for Courage in Cinema.

Naqvi, who has served as the chairperson of the selection committee since 2023, stepped down from the role for the 2026 selection cycle in order to submit his own film for consideration.

“I’m honoured that Hanging by a Wire has been selected to represent Pakistan in the International Feature Film category at the 99th Academy Awards, and grateful to the Pakistan Academy Selection Committee. It’s a straight-up disaster film, except it really happened, and you’re watching real footage of it unfolding live,” he said.

“The community on the ground filmed it themselves and trusted me with that footage, so in a real sense they co-authored this film with me. How resilient and resourceful they were, both in the rescue and in documenting it, is what the film is about, and there’s nothing more Pakistani than that,” Naqvi added.

The Mahrashtra government has announced a state funeral and tributes have poured in from across the country. Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi praised Patekar’s “intensity, individuality and unmistakable presence”, noting that he gave “characters that will be remembered for generations”.

For nearly five decades, Patekar was the kind of actor who didn’t merely play a role; he’d become one with the character. He specialised in playing complex, volatile and morally grey characters — most of which are iconic, despite not being protagonists of their stories. But what made Patekar truly stand out was the manner of his dialogue delivery. His unique vocal cadence, pauses and tone shifts created a distinct signature, which will forever remain inimitable.

Even though Patekar leaves behind a profound cinematic portfolio, some of his performances left an indelible mark across generations of audiences. Let’s take a look at five of those career-defining roles.

Parinda (1989) — Anna

Even though Patekar had been acting in movies since the late 70s, his breakthrough arrived with Vidhu Vinod Chopra’s Parinda in 1989 in which he played Anna — a gangster known for his quiet and unpredictable stillness. This character won him his first National Film Award and established Patekar as an actor who refused to play villains as mere caricatures. Anna was unusually charming, wounded and terrifying — all at the same time.

Krantiveer (1994) — Pratap Narayan Tilak

This is perhaps the definitive Patekar performance. As an alcoholic cynic who transforms into a crusader against corruption, he became the voice of a nation’s frustration. It was in this movie that Patekar as Tilak delivers the iconic dialogue: “Yeh Musalman ka khoon, yeh Hindu ka khoon… bata, ismein Musalman ka kaunsa, Hindu ka kaunsa (This is a Muslim’s blood, this a Hindu’s… tell me which one is the Muslim’s and which one is the Hindu’s?”

This performance also earned him the National Award for Best Actor.

Ab Tak Chhappan (2004) — Sadhu Agashe

In Ab Tak Chhappan, Patekar plays an encounter specialist wearied by the violence he is forced to witness and, sometimes, inflict as part of his job. He is a cop who has seen too much and feels too little. It wouldn’t be wrong to say that Inspector Agashe influenced a whole generation of gritty crime dramas in Indian cinema.

Welcome (2007) — Uday Shetty

This is where we welcome a different Patekar altogether.

Known for playing mostly dark and serious roles, it was a pleasant surprise to see the comic side of Patekar. As Uday Shetty, he played a hilarious gangster desperately trying to marry off his sister.

The same gravity that made Anna in Parinda terrifying made Uday Shetty funny.

Lines from Welcome are still traded like currency among friends and, in fact, have become a huge part of the desi meme scene. For example, “Control Uday… control” has a special spot in the desi meme hall of fame.

Patekar’s chemistry with Anil Kapoor in this movie remains one of Hindi cinema’s great comic pairings.

Natsamrat (2016) — Ganpat Belwalkar

In this Marathi-language film, Patekar played a retired stage actor confronting the difficult reality of old age. As an actor himself, he seemed to channel something deeply personal as Belwalkar. It’s considered to be the finest work of his later career.

During his long acting career, Patekar won three National Film Awards — for Parinda, Krantiveer and Agni Sakshi — as well as the prestigious Padma Shri, bestowed upon him by the Indian government in 2013 for his contributions to the arts and Indian cinema. But awards alone don’t capture what made him singular.

Patekar was an actor who could be frightening without shouting, funny without trying too hard and vulnerable without excessive sentimentality. He leaves behind a legacy that will not easily be matched.

The actor was reportedly found unconscious by a medical team dispatched to respond to complaints of chest pain. The team attempted cardiopulmonary resuscitation on the actor after which he was rushed to the hospital, news agency ANI quoted Dr Shehkar Salkar, the head of oncology at Goa’s Manipal Hospital, as saying.

The actor was declared dead early Thursday morning. Dr Salkar said a medico-legal case had been registered and a post-mortem exam would be conducted.

Patekar had an extensive repertoire of Hindi and Marathi cinema credits along with a handful of roles in Tamil and Kannada films. His 48-year career began with the 1978 film Gaman.

He went on to act in Mira Nair’s Academy Award-nominated film Salaam Bombay! and won three National Awards — Best Supporting Actor for Parinda and Agni Sakshi and Best Actor for Krantiveer. He was awarded the Padma Shri — India’s fourth-highest civilian honour — in 2013.

He gained widespread acclaim among younger fans with his performance as the gangster Uday Shetty in the 2007 crime comedy Welcome.

In an Instagram story posted on Tuesday, the actor thanked viewers for their appreciation but also opened up about one comment that hit particularly hard.

While going through feedback, she came across a viewer who wrote, “Our father painted our windows so that we couldn’t look outside.”

Mobeen said this remark left her in a strange position actors often find themselves in — feeling pleased that a character has resonated with audiences, yet troubled by the reasons behind that connection.

“Do you see the conundrum, like I’m so happy that you are connecting but also really, really sad that this is the reason why you’re connecting to my character,” she said, before thanking her fans for tuning in.

In Hurmat, Mobeen plays the role of a young woman living under the authoritarian rule of her ultra-conservative father who dictates almost every single moment of her life.

It’s a particularly important story for Pakistani women, many of whom still face severe restrictions on their education, basic autonomy and personal choices.

In just the first two episodes, Hurmat has successfully been able to shed light on the kind of challenges women face if they’re not allowed to make their own decisions. Mobeen’s character, despite getting good grades, is unable to attend university because her tyrant father doesn’t deem it appropriate for women to go outside ‘needlessly’. As a result, Hurmat feels helpless and suffers from a severe lack of self-confidence.

It’s not every day that a drama role sparks such a personal response. For Mobeen, the experience has clearly been one of gratitude mixed with reflection — and a reminder that television can sometimes strike closer to home than expected.

Very early in the drama, we learn that Zaryab has been accepted to Harvard University. It’s the kind of opportunity people spend years working towards, the kind that can alter the trajectory of one’s life. And yet Zaryab is prepared to give it up because Zamil hasn’t gotten in.

At the time, it tells us everything we need to know about their relationship. Zaryab has made Zamil so central to her existence that even Harvard becomes negotiable, which is why, after everything that happens between them, the most interesting ending for Zaryab was never another man — it would have been finally choosing herself.

Instead, Dar-e-Nijaat appears to take us down a road Pakistani television knows perhaps a little too well: a woman is hurt by one man and healed through marriage to another. Perhaps this is where the problem lies. Guys, it’s 2026 — there’s more to life than a marriage and a guy becoming a woman’s saviour.

This isn’t about whether Abu Bakr (played by Sheheryar Munawar) is a good man. In fact, his goodness almost makes the point more obvious. He’s kind, decent and emotionally stable and he also deserves better, especially when he visibly doesn’t want to get into this mess.

What if Zaryab had simply gone back to Harvard?

Imagine, for a moment, a different version of Dar-e-Nijaat. Zaryab doesn’t immediately move from the wreckage of one relationship to a marriage.

Instead, she goes back to university. She finishes the education she almost sacrificed for a man — who ultimately decided she wasn’t good enough for him. She sits in classrooms that broaden her perspective. She learns, grows and sees a world different to the one where she had made Zamil the centre of her universe.

She makes friends who have never witnessed the worst period of her life. She studies. She travels. She discovers cities and books and people and versions of herself that have absolutely nothing to do with being somebody’s rejected lover or wife.

Maybe, eventually, she falls in love again — or maybe she doesn’t. Both would’ve been perfectly acceptable endings. I’m very much aware this isn’t how Dar-e-Nijaat will conclude and that there’s a high chance she will go back to Harvard, but I keep wondering why she couldn’t make that choice on her own?

Why did she need a man as a saviour to help her do that?

Marriage isn’t a rehabilitation centre

Pakistani dramas have long had a peculiar relationship with marriage. It’s romance, redemption, social acceptance, character development and happy ending all rolled into one convenient nikkah scene.

A difficult daughter? Get her married. A traumatised woman? Find her a good husband. A woman recovering from a toxic relationship? Introduce a kinder man. A woman who has made mistakes? Marriage can apparently wipe the slate clean. It’s viewed as a rehabilitation centre of sorts.

But in 2026, this narrative does more harm than good — especially when television and dramas have the power to shape minds and narratives. It makes people believe that the solution to any problem is marriage.

There’s indeed something comforting about the idea that after experiencing cruelty, a person might encounter kindness and love, but that doesn’t have to arrive in the form of a husband; and healing certainly shouldn’t depend on one either.

What makes Zaryab’s story particularly frustrating is that the drama had already given her an alternative vocabulary for fulfilment: education, ambition, independence and a world beyond the relationship that consumed her.

Harvard isn’t simply a university in this story. It represents the life Zaryab repeatedly places second to Zamil and that’s why returning to it could’ve meant so much.

Let women save themselves sometimes

Umera Ahmed has done a brilliant job writing Dar-e-Nijaat and I’m hooked but I wish our dramas showed a woman could be her own saviour too — that she could work on her own growth, development and healing without a man and marriage in the picture.

None of this is an argument against marriage. Marriage can be companionship. It can be joyful and healing and transformative. A loving partner can absolutely help someone through difficult periods of their life but there’s a difference between healing within a marriage and using marriage as the healing. The latter places an enormous burden on both people and reinforces an idea our television has repeated for generations: that no matter how educated, wealthy, ambitious or capable a woman is, the final resolution of her story must somehow involve becoming a wife.

Zaryab could’ve healed in so many ways. She could’ve gone back to Harvard, built a career or travelled alone for the first time. She could’ve spent a year learning who she was without Zamil. She could’ve sought professional help and confronted why she was once willing to sacrifice something as significant as Harvard for a relationship. She could’ve become deeply spiritual independently — without a husband being her inspiration. She could’ve found purpose, and eventually her real self.

And then, if love ever found her again, she could’ve chosen it from a place of wholeness rather than hopelessness.

Like Durefishan Saleem, who plays Zaryab in the drama, posted on Instagram herself: “My sister said she low-key wants Zaryab to go back to Harvard, start vlogging, casually flip her hair, get even richer, lean into her girl gang, and travel the world and honestly, in an ideal world, without the dramatic license, I kind of want exactly the same for her.”

Most of those who consume her work are middle-class Pakistani women, and sometimes men, looking for relatable romantic fiction, and Umera Ahmed understands their desires, fantasies and fears very well. There is also the fact that she is an effective storyteller who knows how to create emotional hooks that keep audiences engaged.

Romantic fiction, of course, is not a uniquely Pakistani affliction. It has long been a mainstay of fiction consumption around the world, making romance a multi-billion-dollar industry that outsells every other genre in the book market.

Pakistan has its own long history of popular romantic fiction, beginning with the rise of digests in the 60s and 70s. They had a vast readership, and names like Razia Butt, Teen Aurtein Teen Kahaniyaan, Suspense Digest, Khawateen and Shua remain familiar to many Pakistanis of a certain generation. But these narratives moved from a hugely popular print culture into the absolute mainstream once Pakistani television went commercial with the proliferation of private channels, after decades in which television had been dominated by the state, and editorial control remained largely in the hands of the more “serious-minded”.

As digest sales began to dwindle in the 90s, editors discovered that inserting a religious segment with historical anecdotes, quotations from scripture and scholarly advice augmented circulation tremendously. Once this logic was fully internalised by the publishing industry, romance with a side of Islam became a bona fide genre.

Of course, Naseem Hijazi and those of his ilk had already done this before, but while Hijazi’s focus was on the grand historical conquerors of Islam and the ladies who swooned over them, the women who carried this genre forward, such as Bano Qudsia, then Umera and Nimra Ahmed, brought this dynamic into a mostly domestic sphere.

A little bit like her spiritual mentor, Bano Qudsia, Umera Ahmed’s specialty is bringing these Islamic fantasies to luxury domains. She presents seemingly modern setups — young brilliant students going to top colleges, studying for difficult exams, driving luxury cars, living in sprawling mansions — but the core assumptions and values the drama propagates remain defiantly middle-class and conservative.

We see the enticement of that other way of life, the audience is even encouraged to indulge in it for a good many episodes, but the indulgence is kept in check by appropriately timed warnings about the fates of those who have strayed from the righteous path, and by the moral arc of the universe bending towards Islam, so that the author can never be accused of identifying with or secretly fantasising about that corrupt version of the good life that she has placed in front of our eyes for so many episodes. To be sure, her intent in showing it to us is not because it is more colourful, interesting and fun, but so that we can recognise it and shun it if we ever happen to come across it in real life.

But while Umera Ahmed’s moral point of view may be recognisably middle class, her heroes never are. The middle class is the audience and the moral viewpoint, but never the hero’s ultimate condition. He is either already rich or becomes rich, or is so exceptionally talented that ordinary financial life ceases to apply to him. Zaroon, Salar and Abu Bakar are spectacularly successful. Tabish becomes obscenely wealthy but Jami, the deadbeat husband from Kafeel, is the villain because his is the opposite trajectory — he is a rich man who becomes poor — and Zamil, the insecure boyfriend from Dar-e-Nijaat, falls from grace because he fails to be as successful as his Harvard-graduate nemesis, Abu Bakar.

These dramas speak to viewers by getting into their inner worlds: their class yearnings, academic aspirations and fears that decent people are overlooked. It then gives those people exceptional status, exceptional wealth or a way out of ordinary financial woes. But all that wealth does not ultimately corrupt them, and if it does, it is just a temporary condition. These dramas flatter middle-class values while each one of its main characters escapes the middle-class material life.

This is best symbolised by Abu Bakar still driving around in the beat-up old car his mother gave him upon graduation. He can afford, and in fact does have, a much better car in material terms, but when he drives the old one, the one with sentimental value, he embodies the perfect amalgamation of the material and the spiritual. This is also the case with the idealised heroine of Aap Ki Izzat, Beena, who doesn’t care about all the wealth Tabish has accumulated; what she wants is his love, but that claim seems to carry greater weight when she speaks it in a mansion with a dozen rooms.

This fiction validates the middle class for what it believes by having those values acted out by characters who no longer have to live as the middle class. Your way of life is validated while allowing you to escape your own material reality for the duration of the fantasy.

Umera Ahmed’s women are even more instructive in this regard.

The heroine often starts out seeming smart and ambitious. Either she is born wealthy, stylish and desirable, like Falak Sher from Shehr-e-Zaat, Imama from Peer-e-Kaamil, or Zaryaab from Dar-e-Nijaat or she comes into wealth like Kashaf from Zindagi Gulzar Hai and Beena from Aap ki Izaat. These women are not introduced to us as dull domestic creatures with no lives outside marital aspirations, but as they get deeply entangled with a man, their professional lives begin to disappear. 

Take Kashaf. We spend so much time establishing how bright and ambitious she is, how hard she has worked, how important her career is to her, but then she gets married and suddenly everything is about whether she is a good wife, whether she can stop being jealous, whether she can trust Zaroon, whether she can cook properly, or whether she has emotionally matured enough to sustain the marriage. She still has a job but nobody ever seems to be interested in it, including herself.

Imama’s case is perhaps even stranger. She becomes an eye doctor, but then in Aab-e-Hayat, the sequel to the smash hit Peer-e-Kaamil, her profession becomes completely incidental to her life and personality, while Salar’s career becomes one of the central concerns of the book. The men are given work that absorbs and defines them, creates crises for them, gives them status and can become the defining feature of the plot. The women may have impressive qualifications, but those are mainly for show, to confer status and desirability upon them until they can catch the eye of the perfect man.

It is much like Pakistani rishta culture’s obsession with the doctor bahu who is a catch to show off and a perfect home health aide for her in-laws’ everyday concerns, but few are willing to let her continue professionally with the kind of help and support that a career as demanding as medicine requires. 

Zeba in Kafeel teaches but derives no evident pleasure from any part of her work. It’s just a means to an end because her husband is unable to perform his God-given duty, ie to earn. 

Then there is Zaryab from Dar-e-Nijaat, a straight-A student who is so smart and hardworking that she leaves her boyfriend, Zamil, in the dust by getting into Harvard Business School, but upon experiencing heartbreak at his hands, she leaves her first semester at university midway and proceeds to never have a fleeting thought about her interrupted studies.

That’s the kind of heroine Umera Ahmed asks us to admire — a perfect showpiece with the right qualifications, but not smart or ambitious enough to want a real career, or love her work and intellectual endeavours so much they sustain her at points of extreme stress. 

This message, that women’s qualifications are only for show, is not a harmless one in Pakistan, where women’s extremely low rate of participation in the workforce is a major concern for the country’s economy. We produce girls who do brilliantly in school and university and then our society, and oftentimes the girls themselves, treat long-term professional success as optional.

Another one of Umera Ahmed’s tropes is the rich woman who discovers religion. This is another fantasy she returns to that gives the middle-class viewer a very specific kind of satisfaction. The modern rich woman seems to have everything: money, beauty, freedom, glamour and social status, but she is unhappy. Something is missing. And what is missing, conveniently, is the thing the audience feels it already possesses — spiritual elevation.

So the rich woman may have the life you envy, but actually she needs something from you. You are poorer, less glamorous, perhaps less free, but spiritually you are ahead of her.

As long as the rich continue to struggle to attain the spiritual light we already possess, they can be rich without us feeling resentful about it.  Their money may buy them mansions, cars, foreign degrees and beautiful lives, but sooner or later they will discover that none of it is enough. And once they have admitted that, perhaps our own lack of glamour, romance and money stings a little less.

This is why Umera Ahmed’s popularity is unlikely to wane any time soon. Giving audiences conservative fantasies at a time when the world around them is changing rapidly serves as a security blanket for those who are unable to keep pace.

In the real world, women may be divorcing more often now with relatively less social stigma; many may be out there building careers, social media may have created stars who derive their main power from bucking old social norms, but here on mainstream television, we can still pretend like the world is not changing beyond comprehension.

Farhan Saeed, who played one of the two leads in the drama alongside Sana Javed, penned a heartwarming farewell post on Monday for his team, fans and his character.

“Today, I say goodbye to Anas. And somehow, this goodbye feels heavier than I expected,” the actor wrote.

“For months, I have lived with his silence, his fears, his pain, his patience, and the parts of him he could never put into words. I have carried his story with me, and somewhere along the way, he stopped feeling like a character and started feeling like someone I knew,” he added.

Since it began airing, Bas Tera Saath Ho continued to generate headlines about a variety of issues it took on through its story. Anas, in particular, remained the subject of much debate and for good reason.

Despite being the protagonist, Anas wasn’t portrayed as Pakistani television’s run-of-the-mill macho ‘male saviour’ who sweeps his love interest off her feet and fixes all her life issues by marrying her. Bas Tera Saath Ho was, to a great extent, lauded for doing the opposite.

Saeed portrayed a vulnerable orphaned young man who was regularly emotionally, verbally and physically abused by his uncle, aunt and their two children. He was made to do all the housework, often at the expense of his education. Anas was also the sole caregiver for his frail grandfather — played by veteran actor Salman Shahid.

Consequently, Anas grows up to be a timid but upright man, who fails to speak up for himself, even when it mattered most. Over the course of the story, however, he gains strength by remaining honest and true to himself and marrying a headstrong woman, Ansa, masterfully played by Javed.

It was this transformation from a scared, abused orphan to a self-possessed young man that drew in audiences and got them to love Anas. Finally, Pakistani television had a hero who wasn’t exerting dominance by barking orders. Instead, Anas showed that a leading man can be kind and vulnerable. He can be shown ironing his wife’s clothes, serving her breakfast and supporting her ambitions without feeling overshadowed and still be a memorable hero.

Saeed reflected on this journey in his post.

“Anas taught me that sometimes strength is not in fighting back. Sometimes, it is in surviving. In holding on to your dignity when everything around you tries to take it away. And sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is finally choose yourself,” he wrote, before thanking his team, including the director, Qasim Ali Mureed.

“Tonight, as Bas Tera Saath Ho comes to an end, I leave Anas where his story belongs — with all of you. Goodbye, Anas. You will be missed,” Saeed wrote.

Released on the streaming platform on Friday, the documentary revolves around the tragic 2021 expedition in which legendary Pakistani climber Mohammad Ali Sadpara, Iceland’s John Snorri and Chile’s Juan Pablo Mohr Prieto lost their lives attempting the first winter ascent of K2.

The Last First: Winter K2 first made international headlines when it premiered at the 2026 Sundance Film Festival in January.

For many viewers, the documentary is less about mountaineering and more about the people associated with it. Some netizens shared their reviews of the film following its release on Apple TV on Friday.

One user on X said the documentary is “worth every minute”.

Another called it a “devastating” watch, while pointing out Sajid, Ali’s son who survived the expedition and later participated in the search operation to recover his father’s body, deserves “a separate piece altogether”.

Sajid also announced the release of the documentary on X.

“From the slopes of k2 winter to the world, the fallen heroes of K2 winter forever in our hearts rest in peace,” he wrote.

Many responded to his post with heartfelt condolences, offering warm words of support.

“Just finished watching it. May your father rest in peace. I really admire your strength brother. Allah aap ko sabr de (May Allah grant you patience),” wrote one user.

Another praised the film and offered condolences.

“The film has real footage and was shot on location. It is the first time in history that Pakistani climbers’ achievements have been acknowledged internationally. This will also help promote mountaineering in Pakistan internationally,” Sajid said of the documentary while addressing a press conference in Skardu on Sunday.

With a 100 per cent Rotten Tomatoes score and growing praise from across the globe, The Last First: Winter K2 is proving to be more than a mountaineering film. It’s a moving exploration of ambition, loss and heroes who, more often than not, get lost in the pages of history.

Cover photo: Elia Saikaly/File

Lali, director Sarmad Khoosat’s dark comedy which debuted at the Berlinale earlier this year, opened MISAFF and ended up with both the Special Jury Prize and the Best Sound Design Award.

The film revolves around Zeba (played by Mamya Shajaffar), a young woman who gains the label of a “cursed bride” after three of her previous suitors die under mysterious circumstances.

Hanging by a Wire, Mohammed Ali Naqvi’s documentary — which is also Pakistan’s entry for this year’s Academy Awards — won the Sabeen Mahmud Award for Courage in Cinema.

The story follows the harrowing Battagram cable car incident from 2023 when eight people — including six children of varying ages — got stuck on a local cable car 900 feet above a raging river. All the stranded passengers were rescued after a challenging, day-long operation.

Kamran Faiq’s The Last Glance, a short film centred on a family trying to flee violence in their village, took home the Best International Short Film award and the documentary The Gymnasts of Fisherman Colony — about a group of gymnasts from Karachi’s Macchar Colony — took home an Honourable Mention in the race for Best Documentary.

MISAFF, which organised its 12th edition this year, intends to showcase South Asian cinema — with voices from West Asia and North Africa — to a Canadian audience.

This year’s festival ran from September 30 to October 4 and had a total of 16 feature-length and 30 short films from Canada, Pakistan, India, Nepal, Iran and beyond.

Hitting screens internationally from Wednesday, the follow-up movie The Social Reckoning by Aaron Sorkin delves into the darkest corners of Facebook’s legacy, from spreading hate speech to encouraging political polarisation, and undermining democracy.

It is told through the real-life story of Facebook whistleblower Frances Haugen, played by Anora star Mikey Madison, and Wall Street Journal reporter Jeff Horwitz (Jeremy Allen White), who were the duo behind the 2021 ‘Facebook Files’ PR disaster for the company.

The Zuckerberg character, played by Succession star Jeremy Strong, is the central figure in the drama, but the heroic Haugen and hard-working Horwitz provide the emotional core of the film.

“This is a whistleblower story. It’s a newspaper story,” Sorkin told AFP and a handful of other entertainment journalists last week.

“In The Social Network I made an attempt to understand his [Zuckerberg’s] motives and get inside his head. I do that less in The Social Reckoning,” added Sorkin, who wrote the script of the first movie.

“I put him in a single situation and have him make a single argument so that by the end of the film he is confronted with the consequences of what he’s done,” Sorkin said.

That situation is Facebook’s refusal to fact-check political advertisements on its platform in the run-up to the 2020 US elections, which ended with President Donald Trump contesting the results and his supporters smashing their way into the Capitol.

Cool kids

Critically acclaimed The Social Network in 2010, which went on to win three Oscars, was written by Sorkin but directed by Fight Club maker David Fincher.

It featured a break-out performance from Jesse Eisenberg as a then-student Zuckerberg, a socially awkward mogul-in-the-making who has trouble making friends and is accused of ripping off the idea for Facebook from his peers at Harvard University.

“What I had suggested back in 2010 was that he was a guy uncomfortable with the social structure of college — feeling, as so many people do, that there’s a cool kids table somewhere and he’s not welcome at it,” Sorkin said.

“And so he created his own cool kids table, which he’s now the mayor of.”

In The Social Reckoning, Sorkin does not wrestle with what motivates 42-year-old Zuckerberg as he runs his Meta empire that now includes Instagram, WhatsApp and his faltering parallel online world called the metaverse.

“It can’t possibly be money. There’s nothing you can buy for $120 billion that you couldn’t buy for $119 billion,” Sorkin said.

Jeremy Strong told GQ magazine last month that he had reached out to the Meta supremo via email to say he had approached the role “very seriously” and “with respect”.

He did not reveal Zuckerberg’s response.

On screen, the Zuckerberg character is heard acknowledging his image problem, saying: “I know what people think of me.”

‘Tech bros’ on screen

The American tech billionaire class is inspiring a growing number of films, while also becoming more tightly enmeshed in the business side of Hollywood.

OpenAI CEO Sam Altman was set to be the subject of new biopic Artificial by Italian director Luca Guadagnino until it was dropped by producers Amazon MGM Studios — shortly after Amazon entered into a partnership with OpenAI.

Independent film distributor Neon has stepped in and is set to release the movie next year.

Elon Musk was seen as inspiration for the space-faring main character in black comedy Mickey 17 starring Robert Pattinson last year, while the Tesla and SpaceX boss is the subject of a new documentary by Oscar winner Alex Gibney.

British comedy writer-turned director Jesse Armstrong made Mountainhead for HBO last year that imagined four tech billionaire villains stuck in a mountain retreat.

Given the deep pockets and powerful lawyers available to Zuckerberg, Sorkin’s script was picked over at studio Sony Pictures’ behest.

The West Wing creator also re-shot two scenes, but has denied legal fears were to blame.

“Under normal circumstances when you’re doing non-fiction, there is a thorough legal vet that happens. In this case, they decided to hire an outside law firm just to handle this,” Sorkin explained.

“There were some, not many notes from the lawyers and those notes did not affect (the film),” he said.