But that’s okay. This adaptation of Michael’s life — directed by Antoine Fuqua (Training Day, The Equaliser), written by John Logan (Gladiator, The Aviator), and produced by Graham King (Bohemian Rhapsody, The Departed) — is a perfect recap-cum-balancing act.

A film that’s neither ‘Dangerous’ when it comes to pushing narrative boundaries, nor ‘Bad’ when it comes to storytelling, nor a ‘Thriller’ when it comes to keeping you hooked on unexpected plot turns, nor just ‘Black or White’. It gives you just enough “best of” moments to keep you engaged, but plays it safe by toning down the creativity.

Michael is a harmless, good enough film about a musical icon who didn’t care to be just ‘good enough’

For the most part, the way Fuqua, Logan and King tell the story suggests that their priority is to present the most dramatic, mellow and generally palatable representation of Michael’s life. It is a straightforward account of what people already know, presented in a way where the drama doesn’t shatter the ceiling, or introduce the kind of human frailty and fallibility that might sully Michael Jackson’s image.

Like I said earlier, it is a balancing act — one that only delves into the first half of the pop icon’s life; a story about a young man freeing himself from his father’s shackles. It is a hard sell, let me tell you, because the angle is all bark and no bite.

In 1966, we see Michael as a young prodigy (Juliano Krue Valdi) whose ambition is kept in check by his dad, Joseph ‘Joe’ Jackson (Colman Domingo). Joe, a steelworker from Gary, Indiana, is an enterprising, hard man who wants his children, The Jackson 5, to be a perfect music band. That means late-night rehearsals on school nights without a peep. When Michael, the shining star of the group, objects, he gets the belt.

The young Michael — though he loves his family — bides his time and, within two years, his charisma and talent lands the band at Motown Records, the biggest label for African American artists. Success comes quickly, and the family quickly moves from their small house to a mansion.

Michael grows up, now played by his real-life nephew, Jaafar Jackson, who blurs the lines between sincerity and parody with a committed performance. We see his quirks (he calls his pet giraffe, llama and his chimp, Bubbles, his friends), some human depth (he visits terminally ill children in hospital wards), his yearnings (he fancies the infantile escape from reality that Peter Pan represents), his technical and creative ambition, and his soft, diabolical side.

We see his ‘Smooth Criminal’ ways when he uses his new record label power to fire his dad. By the time the film nears its two-hour runtime, one wonders how it will culminate Michael’s journey, when there is just so much left to tell.

You won’t like the answer: with an ending card that reads, “His story continues.”

One film, in this case, isn’t enough. The better, darker parts of Michael’s life are definitely just around the bend in a sequel that has already been greenlit. Perhaps that one will have the guts to not be this sterile or merely stick to the surface.

Despite the lack of daring storytelling-wise, the production is top-notch, and the songs force you to involuntarily swing back and forth in your seat, but that goes without saying — this is a harmless, good enough film for a man who didn’t care to be just “good enough.”

Released by HKC and Universal, Michael is, unsurprisingly and perhaps amusingly — given the studio-rated ‘U’ (Universal) — suitable for audiences of all ages.

Originally published in Dawn, ICON, May 10th, 2026

For the uninitiated, the drama centres around Zeba, who is stuck in a toxic marriage for over 20 years and has four children (how two people who can’t stand each other end up having four kids is a whole other drama for another day). The early episodes are set in the ’80s, if not the ’90s, before we’re suddenly brought to the present — where the kids are all grown up.

Warning: Spoilers ahead as this piece is mainly about the last two episodes.

When Zeba finally chooses to leave Jami (after what feels like an eternity), it should be a triumphant moment. Instead, you mostly just think: it’s about time. To give credit where it’s due, Sanam Saeed’s brilliant and nuanced performance makes you believe in her and root for her, even when the script falters. Such as when secures her khula — a major victory — around that time, almost on cue, Jami 2 (or is he Jami 1?) appears and proposes — while she’s still in iddat.

The good part is that for once, her children — especially her son — and even her mother and siblings urge her to consider the proposal. Zeba, however, stands her ground and says no, making it clear she refuses to leap into another marriage where she must answer to someone else. We’re mercifully spared the tired “how can a woman remarry?” clichés, which is a breath of fresh air. In fact, the fact that her remarriage is treated relatively normally says a lot about how audience attitudes towards divorced women remarrying are slowly changing. So far, so good.

But then, in what feels like the blink of an eye — after just one encounter with Jami 2’s late wife’s mother, whose acting is so awful that you’d expect the opposite effect — Zeba is suddenly persuaded to say qabool hai, qabool hai, qabool hai.

It’s a letdown, because this was the moment the story needed to pause and breathe. Zeba deserved time to reflect, to hesitate, to truly consider what a second marriage meant after all she’d endured. Instead, decades of pain are swept aside in a single scene. 

It feels less like a genuine and well-thought-out decision and more like the drama just needed her to say yes so it could quickly move on to the next wedding. (More on that later.)

Ultimately, Zeba’s journey, which should have been given the most importance, gets diluted in the rush to wrap everything else up.  

The same hurried logic hits Saif and Varda’s storyline. Varda, sulking at her mother’s house, suddenly has an epiphany because her mother leaves her a lone slice of bread to eat and heads out to dinner. That’s all it takes for Varda to realise how cherished she was by her husband and his family — so she returns to her hubby’s and indulges in sasu maa’s dinner. (Foodpanda, anyone?) 

Back to Zeba — she remarries, and suddenly her beloved son Subuk decides he can now marry Daneer, despite all his earlier detailed and lengthy protests about being poor and unable to provide for some of her ‘isstatus’. What changed? Did he just assume his new daddy-ji would foot their bills? And while we’re on that note, isn’t Gen Z supposedly delaying marriage and concentrating on themselves? Kafeel clearly didn’t get that memo!

Interestingly, writer Umera Ahmed later clarified that the original time lapse in the script was actually 27 years, with the children meant to be fully grown adults. According to her, casting changes compressed the timeline, which explains why viewers were left wondering whether the drama was marrying off people who still looked like teenagers.

What’s also missing is any reaction from Jami 1 — her now ex-husband. And honestly, after all his constant comments about how she’d end up alone, miserable, or “out on the streets” without him, the audience earned the right to watch him suffer a little.

We deserved at least one scene of him properly seething at the sight — or at least the thought — of Zeba happily remarried and moving on without him. Instead, the drama skips over his reaction completely, which is ridiculous given that he was ever present in all the previous episodes.

Ultimately, Kafeel falls into the same trap many Pakistani dramas do: dragging on for months, only to rush through the resolution at record speed. Characters spend episode after episode crying, arguing and suffering, but when the emotional payoff finally arrives, it’s squeezed into a hurried finale.

Roughly translated as someone who is mischievous or meddling, the term sharpasand barely does justice to Farasat because he is much more than that. He is intrusive, calculating, dishonest and manipulative — a man who interferes, schemes and consistently causes more damage than good all under the guise of someone who is moralistic and religious. He is married to Ruby (Nadia Afghan) and has three children — two daughters and a son — two of whom are reflections of him. 

At the beginning of the drama, a couple moves into the neighbourhood: Sanam (Hareem Farooq) and Fida (Affan Waheed). Farasat is quick to butt into their lives, and is successful as Fida is not particularly bright and is gullible enough to fall prey to Farasat’s machinations. Fida’s inability to see through him becomes central to the drama, making him the perfect target for Farasat’s manipulation. Sanam, meanwhile, is smarter and sees through Farasat. What adds to the deterioration of their marriage is the fact that the couple is unable to conceive.

Another important character is Shazmain (Hira Mani), a widow who lives alone and holds an important position at a bank. She quickly befriends Sanam and she too is one of the few people who sees through Farasat’s guise to the sleaziness beneath the surface. Unsurprisingly, Farasat badmouths her in the neighbourhood, painting her as an immoral woman who entertains men. The sheer ease with which this accusation spreads is both disturbing and, frustratingly, still relevant in this day and age.

Another household in this interconnected mohalla belongs to Begum Ali (also referred to as Shagufta), played by Seemi Pasha. She is a widow with two children: Wali (her son, played by Ahsan Afzal Khan) and Hafsa (her daughter, played by Sabahat Sheikh). Then there is Shama and her son Hammad (Hassam Khan), whose lives become entangled in the larger emotional web of the drama.

And then, of course, there is the soap element — because SharPasand is definitely a soap. Emaan, Naumaan Ijaz’s daughter, is in love with Hammad; Hammad, meanwhile, is connected to Hafsa; and Hafsa herself is emotionally tied to him as well. Wali meanwhile is the love interest of Farasat’s other daughter Minahil. Without giving away too much, Farasat, his wife Ruby, and to an extent his children, actively work to ensure that Hammad and Hafsa are not able to get married. At the same time, Farasat preys on Fida’s insecurities and slowly attempts to break apart Sanam and Fida’s already fragile marriage.

What follows is a tangled web of lies, deceit, emotional manipulation, and constant interference — all stretched across 52 (!) episodes. At that length, forward movement often feels extremely slow.

However, the drama does bring to the fore several important issues. It touches upon the way women are treated, whether married or widowed, and how easily their reputations can be controlled or destroyed by social perception. It also highlights the power — and danger — of uploading videos and how quickly they circulate within mohallas. Though, admittedly, it becomes slightly hard to believe that certain videos shared within the neighbourhood can suddenly become “viral” and cause a myriad of consequences, including suicide. Some of these transitions feel underdeveloped or unconvincingly handled, leaving certain story arcs underexplained.

Despite these misgivings, the performances largely save the drama. Ijaz, Afghan, Farooq and Mani all stand out, bringing weight and conviction to their roles. What is particularly interesting is that you end up not fully hating the villainous characters, despite their vile acts. 

Another strength of SharPasand lies in its refusal to flatten its characters into stereotypes. There is a noticeable lack of rigid gender stereotyping. Not all men are toxic — some are weak, some are foolish, and some are vulnerable. Similarly, not all women are portrayed as helpless or weepy — some are strong, some are intelligent, and some are emotionally complex. 

The way the stories interweave also keeps the drama watchable. Even when individual arcs falter, the interconnectedness of the neighbourhood ensures that something is always happening. 

However, there are moments of inconsistency that are hard to ignore. At times, continuity errors are quite obvious. For instance, a character claims she needs to go somewhere urgently in the middle of the night, yet when she opens the door of her house, sunlight seeps in. In another instance, a man arrives at his home’s exterior wearing a shirt, but in the next shot, he is suddenly wearing a coat indoors. These details might seem small, but in this day and age they are jarring, especially given the higher budgets of such dramas.

Still, despite these flaws, SharPasand manages to hold attention for the most part. It remains engaging, even when it is repetitive or stretched. The narrative momentum may falter at points, but the performances and interpersonal dynamics keep it afloat. And there’s always the option to fast forward!

The ending, however, feels almost deliberately cynical. Bad people do not necessarily get what they deserve, and people’s natures do not really change. There is no neat moral resolution. Instead, the drama leans into something more uncomfortable — the idea that interference, manipulation, and emotional damage often linger without clear consequences.

But then again, perhaps that’s a truer reflection of society — although it may not be the best for the moral police and those who believe that good always triumphs over evil.

We have been taught to consume such stories as masala — something to cry over and then forget once the next episode airs. But what if I told you that millions of viewers are not just watching the protagonists Jami (Emmad Irfani) and Zeba (Sanam Saeed)? They are watching their own fathers, their own mothers and echoes of their childhood selves. Kafeel is not a drama; it is a mirror of the dysfunctional family system hiding in plain sight across our homes.

At its core lies one narcissistic, self-absorbed, and irresponsible father — Jami. His emotional unavailability isn’t passive; it’s destructive. He doesn’t just make mistakes, he weaponises irresponsibility. His wife Zeba, a victimised mother trapped in learned helplessness, becomes the silent enabler. Together, they create a pressure cooker that warps each of their four children in profoundly different ways. From parentification to phobias, from internalised guilt to behavioural mimicry — let’s take a mental health deep dive into Kafeel.

The father – Jami (The malignant source)

Jami is the epicentre of the family’s pathology. He perfectly fits the archetype of the “covert narcissist” — lazy, entitled, deeply insecure, yet charming in public. His gaslighting is textbook: he blames Zeba for his own failures and makes her feel responsible for his inability to work and provide for his family. He doesn’t need to be physically violent; his emotional and financial abuse is enough to trap and damage the entire family.

But here is the nuance Kafeel bravely offers: Jami himself did not emerge from a vacuum. His own patterns are the result of a dysfunctional family setup that he was born into. His siblings used him as a caretaker for their ageing parents, while they provided financial support from abroad. He was never pushed to complete his education or pursue a career and this turned him into an entitled, stunted adult. This does not excuse his behaviour — but it explains it, which is the first step away from blind hatred and towards breaking cycles.

The mother – Zeba (the victim and the enabler)

Sanam Saeed’s portrayal of Zeba is heartbreaking because she plays her character not as weak, but as exhausted. Zeba was conditioned to be ‘sweet, obedient and naïve’ and her silence is not passive — it’s a trauma response called learned helplessness. After years of being oppressed, she has given up fighting back. Her decision to stay with Jami “for the children” is the very thing that damages them the most.

Yet Kafeel offers a quiet, powerful arc: her midlife enlightenment. This makes sense, as midlife is often when early-life trauma knocks again, begging to be resolved. Zeba’s slow awakening is a gift to every woman watching Kafeel who still believes it is too late for her.

The four wounded children – A psychological breakdown

Each child is a unique case study of how a child adapts to survive a narcissistic, abusive parent. It’s a masterclass in the ripple effects of a dysfunctional family system.

The eldest son – Subuk (Aashir Wajahat): the parentified child

Subuk was forced to grow up overnight and become the emotional and financial support his mother needed and the father figure his sisters lacked. His low self-esteem doesn’t come from failure but from the immense pressure of holding a broken family together. This is called role reversal trauma — and it often follows children into adulthood in the form of chronic anxiety, an inability to relax and a compulsive need to fix everyone around them. No one in the drama ever tells him that he is just a child or that he shouldn’t have to carry such a burden.

The eldest daughter – Javeria (Nooray Zeeshan): the blame sponge

Javeria has learned that the only way to feel safe is to over-control herself and take responsibility for everything. She blames herself for the family’s fights, financial problems and even her father’s moods. This is a classic survival mechanism: if she can fix what’s ‘wrong’, maybe the chaos will stop. She becomes a people-pleaser with zero self-worth — hallmark signs of growing up with a volatile, unpredictable parent. In therapy, we see Javerias everywhere: brilliant, kind women who apologise for existing and believe that love is something they must earn through suffering.

The middle sister – Zoya (Haya Khan): confident but phobic

Zoya shows us how trauma can become somatised — locked into the body’s nervous system. Her fear of sharp objects (aichmophobia) is not irrational; it is a conditioned response to her father, who threatens the family with a knife frequently. Her confidence is a mask. Underneath, her body remembers the terror. This is one of Kafeel’s most brilliant threads: trauma does not always look like sadness. Sometimes it looks like a strong, sharp, seemingly put-together daughter who cannot hold a kitchen knife without her pulse skyrocketing.

The youngest daughter – Tania (Hania Ahmed) — the mimic

The youngest child is the most chilling example of how abuse normalises pathology. Tania has learned that, in this family, there are no real consequences for bad behaviour, because her father models it daily. By using “my father does it too” as an excuse, she is not being inherently manipulative; she is mirroring the survival tactic she has observed. If the most powerful person in the house can get away with anything, why can’t she? This behaviour is a learned adaptation to a dysfunctional environment, and it highlights the danger of normalising toxic traits. Without intervention, Tania is at the highest risk of becoming like Jami in her future relationships — not because she is evil, but because she associates power with this way of being.

Intergenerational trauma

One of the most upsetting moments in the series is when we see Subuk begin to mimic his father’s aggressive behaviour. In that moment, we see the future. The abused becomes the abuser. The drama masterfully shows that, without intervention, children will carry their parents’ patterns into their own relationships, perpetuating the cycle for another generation.

This is why Kafeel is so important. It is not just a story; it is a warning. It is a call for self-awareness, for breaking the cycle and for prioritising mental health over societal pressure. We cannot heal what we refuse to name.

But here is the truth that Kafeel doesn’t show — or hasn’t yet — because dramas rarely do: the cycle can be broken. A narcissistic father does not have to define your future. A victimised mother does not have to be your blueprint. Parentification, guilt, phobias and mimicry are adaptations, not life sentences. With the right support — therapy, self-awareness and healthy boundaries — each of these wounded children can reclaim their mental health.

Intergenerational trauma is powerful, but not necessarily a destiny. Healing begins by naming the wound and choosing to stop passing it down. Kafeel warns us, but your life can prove that your story ends differently.

Why Kafeel is essential viewing

Kafeel is not a drama; it’s a psychological case study disguised as entertainment. It shows that abuse is rarely just a slap. It is the slow, silent erosion of a person’s will, and the insidious poisoning of the next generation.

This drama is a mirror for every household where one broken parent created four differently broken children. Kafeel exposes the mental health legacy of a toxic father. It forces us to ask a difficult question: how many of our “family dramas” are actually multi-generational trauma centres?

None of this analysis would be possible without the bravery of writer Umera Ahmed, the brilliance of director Meesam Naqvi, and the courage of ARY Digital for airing this raw and uncomfortable story. Mainstream Pakistani dramas often romanticise toxic relationships or resolve complex trauma with a single emotional scene. Kafeel refuses to take that shortcut. It trusts its audience to sit with the messiness, to recognise the subtle signs of narcissistic abuse and to understand that healing doesn’t happen in one episode.

This is not just good television. This is responsible storytelling. And it deserves recognition.

Originally published in Dawn, ICON, April 26th, 2026

The latest television drama to join the list of storylines with implausible informational ‘gaps’ in content is BJ Production’s Humrahi (2026) on Geo TV, written by Zanjabeel Asim Shah, directed (and story penned) by Babar Javaid and starring Danish Taimoor (Sayhaan Ghazi) and Hiba Bukhari (Elif).

Currently being hailed as “the biggest love story of the new year”, the much-anticipated serial has opened on a note of excitement witnessed in the high numbers of its YouTube viewership. Much of the reason for this initial positive reception is Taimoor and Bukhari’s onscreen chemistry in previous hit series such as Deewangi (2020) and Jaan Nisar (2024) as well as Taimoor’s enthusiastic fan following, which allows him to pull off repetitive, at times mediocre, drama scripts.

And certainly, in episode 1, an introductory shot of Sayhaan places focus on Taimoor’s biceps and a later swimming pool scene on his upper torso to tap into the actor’s powerful screen presence and popularity among female viewers.

Yet, in spite of its attractive features: the Taimoor-Bukhari pairing, the burgeoning, ever popular, romantic love story and the promise of being shot on location abroad (the OST reveals wonderfully shot foreign settings indicating both the production’s generous budget and attention paid to cinematography), Humrahi’s initial storyline makes the narrative a bit unconvincing. The opening episodes present us with gaps in information that do not manage the delicate balance between suspense and incongruity.

As a result, for the viewer, it is not curiosity that manifests but frustration to make sense of what has transpired. Accompanying this sentiment is a feeling of déjà vu: character roles and situations we have seen all too often in Pakistani television dramas. A quick comparison with Taimoor’s recent dramas will suffice to draw parallels. In Sher (2025), the male protagonist Sher’s (Taimoor’s role) love interest is Dr Fajar (Sarah Khan) and so is the case in Humrahi where the male protagonist is cast opposite a female doctor protagonist. The male lead returns home from abroad to face family enmity and business rivalry in Sher, Mann Mast Malang (2025) and Humrahi. A question that arises, then, is that are such repetitive creative choices due to a shortage of ideas for Pakistani television drama scripts? Or are they a manifestation of a well-worked formula?

Eight episodes into Humrahi, the plot seems to be the more or less formulaic rich boy meets the not-so-rich girl who, after a series of coincidental meetings, and sufficient number of obstacles, fall in love, and presumably, live happily ever after. Taimoor as Sayhaan is presented in a role that we have come to identify him: a ‘sultanat ka jan nisheen’ who is living a charmed yet emotionally deprived life as (Humrahi, ep. 1). He is the only son of Ghazi Yusuf (Shahzad Nawaz), the chairman of the GYT group, a character whose portrayal — threatening unsuspecting individuals into selling or giving up their properties, sporting and firing guns while moving around with a small band of weapon-laden guards — takes him closer to a criminal don than a business magnate.

Surrounded by the usual accessories (the palatial home, SUVs, threatening armed guards) that depict the lifestyle of the very wealthy in Pakistani dramas, Sayhaan is also presented as generous and compassionate to individuals who are less privileged — a macho male figure with a sensitive side. Bukhari is the assertive doctor daughter of a lady with links to Turkey who owns and manages a restaurant.

The impetus for later action is an accidental road encounter (with a powerfully depicted moment of impact) between the two protagonists in the drama’s first episode where Sayhaan drives his car into Elif’s, putting them at loggerheads right from the start, and in subsequent meetings where Elif asserts her right to compensation for injuries incurred to her vehicle.

Also witnessed in these early episodes is how the motherless hero with father issues finds solace in two motherly figures, the maid Nishat aka Chanda (Salma Zafar) who brought him up in the absence of a mother and Mariyam (Laila Wasti), the restauranteur friend of his deceased mother who is now his dear friend and with whom he seems to spend an extraordinary amount of time. So far, so good. 

But several incongruities of dialogue, action and storyline plunge the viewer into a state of dissatisfaction. Most notable among the jarring elements in the drama’s narrative is the presentation of relationships. In spite of the suggested bond between Mariyam and Sayhaan, viewers are expected to believe that he does not know Mariyam’s daughter Elif, even by sight, and Mariyam has no idea that her former friend’s husband, and Sayhaan’s father, is Ghazi Yusuf, or presumably, anything about Sayhaan’s family background.

Ghazi also does not seem to know that the lady he is sending his henchmen to harass for the forced purchase of her restaurant was once his wife’s friend. It is only in episode 5, when Sayhaan turns up at Elif’s house to find her mourning her mother’s death, that he discovers that Mariyam was her mother. The absence of rationale behind the presentation of relationships means that the viewer has to engage in a certain amount of suspension of disbelief to continue watching comfortably.

In its initial episodes, the show also reminds us that medical scenes are another area that can be improved in Pakistan’s television dramas. Lapses of knowledge related to the medical field and the monotone, at times rushed, and far from empathetic, responses to distressed family members that do not match expectations of the clinical detachment necessary to maintain professionalism, are common in Pakistani television dramas. In the case of Humrahi, however, while Mariyam’s doctor is more compassionate than other medical professionals in Pakistani dramas, the serial errs in the presentation of his professionalism.

During a moment in episode 5, a highly emotional Elif, wanting to save a mother with a deteriorating heart condition, tells the doctor that had her blood group matched her mother’s she would have donated her heart to save her mother’s life. But what are we supposed to make of the doctor’s rather absurd response “Kash aisa ho sakta beta”, meaning “if only that were possible”?

Is he suggesting that had the blood groups matched, he would have let Elif die to save the mother? Afterall, the organ in question is a heart not a kidney. The dialogue given to the doctor is surely enough to make any responsible doctor cringe. And in spite of another doctor’s insistence, it remains unconvincing that Chanda needs to be admitted to the hospital for a fractured foot.

Later hospital scenes after Elif is shot with a bullet intended for Sayhaan further demolish doctor depictions in the show. The barging into the ICU by a group of the heroine’s doctor friends and their subsequent inquisitive interrogation of the hero, followed by his reminder that they need to observe hospital protocols, is one such painful moment. Added to the affronts against hospitals and doctors is how the hospital management and security are effectively disabled in the drama: Ghazi is able to stride into hospital premises with his thugs in black; Sayhaan is able to position guards in hospital corridors and bully (with and without the help of a gun) both hospital personnel and doctors into meek compliance. In a drama with clear emphasis on the medical field, and a doctor protagonist, it is disappointing that more careful thought has not been put into its medical moments.

The good news, however, is that the series does offer signs of interesting plot development. It hints at a possible double role for Bukhari with the inclusion of details that suggest a twin sister and Elif’s imminent death. In particular, the emphasis laid on her decision to register her heart for donation upon her death, which also has a philanthropic message. Ghazi’s business rivalry and historic enmity with another mafia don-like figure Lala (Ayub Khoso) is another plot development waiting to unfold.

In addition to this, episode 8 closes with the possibility of further entanglements in the love story with the entry of a new male character, Aurangzeb (Azfar Rehman). The moment Sayhaan is ready to pop the big question to Elif, his hopes are dashed by her exuberant greeting of who now appears to be a potential rival in love. 

While there is much to anticipate in the show’s upcoming episodes, we can only hope that plausible reasons for the omission of early factual details will be incorporated into the script and there will be less reliance on hard-to-digest elements simply to further the plot. If so, later episodes will prove less taxing for viewers. In the meantime, viewers will have to fend for themselves, with consolation provided by Taimoor’s magnetic charm.

It stars Sehar Khan and Nameer Khan in the lead roles as Pakeezah and Faraz. Pakeezah is a lawyer; Faraz, an engineer. They are not engaged, but fate brings them together in a private space where a villain abuses and records them. That video then goes viral and they’re left suffering the repercussions.

This is a show everyone should watch. It has multiple messages — some subtle, others direct — but all of them serve as stark reminders of reality and how to navigate the challenges that come with living in this society. The drama doesn’t attempt to sugarcoat anything — it doesn’t romanticise suffering, nor does it rely on melodrama for effect. In fact, it is anything but conventional entertainment.

Instead, it stands as a lesson — on women’s rights, on the cost of fighting for them, and equally, the cost of remaining silent. It portrays, quite realistically, that neither path is easy; both come with their own discomfort and consequences.

Masterfully written by Bee Gul and directed by Kashif Nisar, Aik Aur Pakeezah concluded this week, leaving audiences with a mix of tears and quiet satisfaction. It reflected on everything that went right, everything that went wrong before that, and the emotional weight carried through the journey.

Pakeezah and Faraz ultimately pursue — and secure — justice for the crime committed against them. The court rules in their favour, but only after a long and emotionally exhausting process for everyone involved. The writing captures human emotion with striking authenticity; messy, conflicted, and often uncertain. The characters hesitate, question themselves, and wrestle with difficult decisions, mirroring the reality that conviction isn’t always innate, and often arrives after navigating doubt and uncertainty.

Needless to say, the entire team performed flawlessly, although a personal favourite would undoubtedly have to be Nadia Afghan who was an absolute star. She outshone everyone, commanding attention in every scene she appeared in. Her screen presence was powerful, her delivery controlled yet deeply expressive. There was a quiet authority to her performance that was hard to overlook. Despite not being the main character, she left the most lasting impression — proof of an actor who elevates every role she takes on.

That said, even a show as impactful as this is not without its shortcomings. The middle, in particular, suffered from repetition, especially in dialogue that was not always supported by corresponding visuals. For instance, multiple conversations between Pakeezah and Faraz revolved around the impending media trial and character assassination they were likely to face. The audience did not get to see any of that until the last episode, whereas the warning began much before that. Repetition implying importance without its depiction felt like a part of the story is missing.

The courtroom scenes, another personal favourite, were something to look forward to. However, they appeared much later than expected, with the first substantial hearing only shown around episode 21. This may have been a deliberate choice — to focus more on the emotional toll of seeking justice rather than the legal process itself — but it did leave a noticeable gap for viewers anticipating that dimension of the story.

In terms of performances, Sehar Khan as Pakeezah and Nameer Khan as Faraz were compelling both at the beginning and at the end of the series. However, the middle stretch felt less dynamic; their delivery slipped into monotony, like they had only one expression to offer, especially when contrasted with consistently strong performances throughout the show by Namra Shahid and Muhammad Ali Jan.

The latter, despite limited screen time, left a strong impact, particularly in a scene where he walked out of the courtroom in handcuffs, visibly shaken. Shahid, on the other hand, was a remarkable addition to the cast. From her accent to her body language, she fully embraced the character effortlessly — which is, unfortunately, a rarity in most actors in the entertainment industry. Her performances were a lesson in art itself.

A special shoutout goes to Bee Gul and Kashir Nisar for their restrained yet effective use of symbolism. It appears sparingly, but always lands with purpose. Two moments, in particular, stood out. The first was Pakeezah wearing teapink in the final scene — a quiet but powerful callback to an earlier moment when she spoke excitedly about wanting a teapink lehenga for her wedding. The second was when she finally used the key to her home. It was a small gesture, but loaded with meaning, suggesting return, acceptance, and perhaps, a reclaiming of space that was once denied to her.

Perhaps the only real complaint in this otherwise thoughtfully-crafted journey was the resolution of multiple narrative threads in the final episode. The middle of the drama occasionally felt stretched, even stagnant, as though the story was holding back, waiting for everything to fall into place at the very end. That said, given the intent and gravity of the subject matter, this is a flaw one can overlook — especially since it remains a recurring pattern across the industry, rather than an isolated misstep.

Her latest novelistic endeavour, Boleyn Traitor, focuses on the life of Jane Boleyn, Viscountess Rochford, who was married to Anne’s brother George. Jane was suspected of having betrayed both siblings, who ended up losing their heads due to the wrath of Henry VIII. One of the most educated women in Tudor England, thanks to the encouragement of her learned father, Lord Morley, Jane used her skills and wits in order to survive in an increasingly unstable royal court.

Gregory situates the action of her novel during the eight-year period from 1534 to 1542, which saw the beheading of Anne Boleyn, the death of Jane Seymour, the annulment of Anne of Cleves’ marriage to King Henry, and the execution — for committing adultery — of the young Queen Katherine, who was originally a scion of the powerful Howard family.

Jane had also served as one of Katherine of Aragon’s ladies, so her remarkable stint at court involved service, in total, to no fewer than five royal queens. Gregory presents a sympathetic portrayal of Viscountess Rochford, implying that it would have done her no good to attempt to defend her husband and Anne from the charges of incest. One message that clearly emerges from Gregory’s writing is that Henry VIII pulled no punches when it came to casting aside anything that got in the way of his capricious desires. He went from being a spoiled prince to becoming a tyrannical king.

Jane’s own downfall lay in the fact that she was not only sympathetic to Katherine Howard’s passion for the young and handsome courtier Thomas Culpeper, but she actually aided and abetted their courtship. However, given that Henry was a very ill and deranged individual by that point, Viscountess Rochford was by no means the only person at court to sympathise with Katheryn Howard’s predicament and desperation.

Nevertheless, in spite of her considerable political expertise, Jane Boleyn ended up pushing her luck too far in this case. So incensed was Henry at her role in the affair that he passed a special act through parliament that allowed him to execute Jane, even though his personal physician (Doctor Butts) had declared her insane and unfit to be condemned to death.

While there is most likely a whole lot more, historically speaking, to explain why Henry bounced from one wife to another with impunity, readers in general — and feminist readers in particular — will find this book to be a refreshing addition to the genre of historical fiction. In a day and age when a childless and widowed noblewoman (whose husband had been disgraced and executed) could barely make ends meet, Jane survived this traumatic period by becoming an effective spy at court for the brilliant lawyer Thomas Cromwell.

Although Cromwell had been instrumental in engineering the downfall of Anne Boleyn, he acted in Henry’s best interests by allying England with the Protestant powers of Germany, by encouraging the king to marry Anne of Cleves (following the death of Henry’s third wife, Jane Seymour).

Whimsical, egotistical and capricious, however, Henry didn’t care for the sensible German princess. She may have ended up suffering the same fate as Anne Boleyn had Viscountess Rochford not urged Anne of Cleves (at the instigation, and with the cooperation, of Cromwell) to accept an annulment of her marriage, along with the gift of a couple of rich palaces and an extensive staff of 8,000 noblemen and ladies.

Jane Boleyn was, in many ways, the ideal courtier. Superbly discreet, sympathetic, sensible and never easily ruffled, she did her best to serve her female bosses as honourably as possible without ruffling the feathers of the increasingly unstable Henry. Her closest relationship was with Thomas Cromwell, in that (although it was never sexualised) their friendship was a liaison of well-matched minds.

Jane held a low opinion of her uncle, the Duke of Norfolk; this was somewhat justified since he was a selfish and self-serving man, unlike Cromwell, who generally had the nation’s best interests at heart. Most of the other male figures in the novel do not shine in contrast to Jane, probably because Philippa Gregory wanted to create a shrewd and experienced central character in this book, who — had it not been for her gender — might theoretically have risen to a much higher post than that of a lady-in-waiting.

But part of Jane Boleyn’s survival skills was her ability to make the most of what she had, and to play the cards that she was dealt by fate to the best of her ability. Although able to mask her true feelings at court on a regular basis, her grief at Katherine of Aragon’s death, as well as at Thomas Cromwell’s, was sincere.

She prevented Anne of Cleves from losing her head and managed to run each queen’s household with ostensible propriety, efficiency, and a strong sense of diligence. She did not allow herself to be embroiled in a second marriage, which would have left her at the mercy of some nobleman’s moods and whims.

Instead, thanks to Cromwell’s assistance, she managed to obtain for herself the residence of Blickling Hall, along with a regular monetary allowance at court. Had Katherine Howard been a less foolish woman, Jane herself might have outlived Henry VIII (who died shortly after he married his sixth wife, Kathryn/Katherine Parr).

But as the grim, senseless and sordid execution of an old woman like Margaret Pole proved, Henry was not above executing anyone whom he perceived to be a threat, even if they had previously served the royal family well. Margaret had been the king’s late mother’s best friend, but that did not prevent Henry from tossing the old lady into the Tower of London, and then getting rid of her permanently when it suited his purpose.

Perhaps Jane’s ultimate victory lay in the manner in which she lived her life. Given the dangers prevalent and rampant in the treacherous Tudor court, her rapid imprisonment and death were simply a matter of time. But even if one’s luck may eventually run out, the legacy of one’s name may live on through the ages.

Five centuries after her demise, Jane Boleyn is regarded not as a traitor but as someone who, in our world, would have merited the compliment of being called a consummate professional.

Originally published in Dawn, Books & Authors, April 5th, 2026

Riz Ahmed’s new Amazon Prime show Bait released last week to critical acclaim. It tells the story of a young, struggling Pakistani-British actor, Shahjehan, whose name literally translates to ‘king of the world’. Despite the regality of his title, Shahjehan is always ironically one step behind in his goal to play the famous James Bond 007.

His desire to play the glamorous character traditionally essayed by white British actors reflects the longing to assimilate in Hollywood. He is often humorously mistaken for another actor of South Asian descent, Dev Patel.

His pursuit of the role is driven by the trauma of being an immigrant; he carries both psychological and physical wounds by virtue of being in the West. Consequently, his desire alienates him, hinting at the price one has to pay for assimilation in a predominantly white culture. It is only after fixing his relationship with his family and coming to terms with his traumatic past that he gets the role.

However, his eventual win comes with a twist; the hero disavows the archetypal James Bond representation. Bait resists assimilation by inventing a new character and chiseling an alternative text for the traditionally marginalised South Asian diaspora.

Despite having a name that is an unusual mix of a Mughal emperor and a Sufi poet, Shahjehan Latif (often known simply as Shah) is a nobody. He is not white enough to be called British and does not speak good enough Urdu to act with Mahira Khan, as his father, played by Sajid Hasan, takes a jibe at him for.

Once a recipient of the Rising Star Award, Shah is now in debt and feels compelled to sell his award watch. There’s a peculiar method to the madness that is his acting process — he converses with a pig’s head. The severed head is thrown into his house by racist trolls, and Shah carries it around in a bag like a secret badge of honour.

Overall, like the perfect protagonist of spy thriller, he is a flawed, traumatised, morally ambiguous, transgressive yet deeply humane character with a purpose.

When it comes to Hollywood and mainstream British cinema, South Asian representation has been reduced to either romantic or monstrous figures. So far, only two South Asians have bagged small supporting roles in Bond films. British-Indian actor Zaheera played a brief role of an Indian girl in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service (1969), and Lahore-born Indian actor Kabir Bedi played the silent servant of the villain in Octopussy (1983). Shah wants to make a difference by playing the usually white British MI6 agent.

As a British South Asian, the opportunity will allow him to make a statement: this is also what being British looks like. At the same time, it will catapult him into the world of overnight stardom, status, and much-needed financial success. His vision is directed towards encouraging people to look at his community with respect and dignity instead of calling them “Paki”, a common slur hurled at South Asians in the United Kingdom.

Alienation ensues as he seeks to assimilate into white culture. He is dismissed by his family for being much shorter than other actors who have played Bond. His ex-girlfriend mocks him for using a white filter on his IMDb profile picture. He is essentially stranded on an island while he dreams of building bridges between cultures.

Spatially, he exists in liminal spaces of dressing rooms, streets, nightclubs, airports, and garages. At times, he has a ghostly yet comical presence like the mimic men of Naipaul’s London. Other times, he is chased by his stoic James Bond alter ego in the style of a satirical espionage thriller.

As the show progresses, he gets more desperate about his goal, and his estrangement becomes more pronounced. During one episode about Eid, Shah experiences physical and emotional distance from his family. Everyone is busy with the usual celebrations while he searches for an empty room to make an apology video for a fan whose arm he fractured by mistake.

In the fifth episode, after wandering aimlessly all night and failing to reconnect with his ex-girlfriend, he enters his parents’ house and does not find anyone. He concocts a plot about local terrorists kidnapping his family, only to later find them at the hospital.

Following a series of absurd events and eventually overcoming his alienation, Shah aces the audition. He is no longer threatened by his alter ego, as he mends his relationship with his family and comes to terms with his childhood trauma.

In the last scene, he disregards the trademark line: “The name is Bond… James Bond.” He looks at the audience in the final shot, pauses for a moment, and says, “The name is…. Shahjehan.” This gaze, as African American feminist scholar bell hooks would say, is not merely a look of resistance or reaction but a creation of an alternative text in the form of Shahjehan, a desi James Bond.

This offers new possibilities and creates a new avenue of representation and belonging for Shah’s community.

For the South Asian community, this invention is a call to create and celebrate characters and visuals that are not imitations of colonial masters. Imitations demand assimilating and ironing out the wrinkled parts of the self. For instance, ever since Partition, Pakistani cinema has felt the need to catch up with the technical superiority of Hollywood and later the artistic mastery of Iranian cinema. Instead, it should be working on representations that are free of other imitations and focus on its own peculiar realities.

By creating Bait, Ahmed joins a distinctive group of contemporary filmmakers such as Jean Pierre Bekolo (Aristotle’s Plot), Jordan Peele (Get Out and Nope), Boots Riley (Sorry to Bother You), and Cord Jefferson (American Fiction) who engage with the politics of racial representation. These creators empower people of colour by providing new ways of being on screen, resisting assimilation, and defying colonial desires.

Starring Bilal Abbas and Hania Aamir — two of television’s most bankable stars — the drama definitely had star power in its favour. Combined with Musaddiq Malek’s direction and Radain Shah’s script, it seemed like a guaranteed hit.

However, in many ways, MZHT becomes a case study in how even the best ingredients — stars, solid director, big budgets and hype — cannot make up for weak narrative discipline and ethically dubious storytelling. It also raises questions about what our television industry is choosing to glorify.

The rise and rise of the toxic hero

MZHT continued the trend of toxic male heroes in Pakistani TV.

Radain Shah had earlier bucked the trend for wholesome heroes with Shamsher (Danish Taimoor) in Kaisi Teri Khudgharzi (KTK), a character defined by privilege, entitlement and emotional instability. The drama, despite heavy criticism, became a ratings phenomenon, proving something very important: audiences will watch — obsessively — stories about obsessive men.

With blockbuster ratings and a devoted fanbase, the recently concluded drama should have been a cause for celebration. But behind the glamour and viral moments, it shows how Pakistani television increasingly rewards moral equivocation, sensationalism and toxic masculinity

Some of this rebel-without-a-cause character template was perhaps ‘inspired’ by Indian films such as Arjun Reddy and Kabir Singh. Pakistani television added its own spin to this trope: wealthy, emotionally damaged men whose misdeeds are forgiven because they “love deeply.”

For example, in KTK, Shamsher hounds, threatens and coerces the obviously unwilling female lead, Mehak (Durrefishan Saleem), into a relationship. This would normally have been characterised as villainous or dangerously negative behaviour, but was instead rewarded with blockbuster ratings.

The success of such characters revealed something important about audiences: toxicity sells, not complexity, subtlety or nuance. And once a formula works, it is repeated — and MZHT is no exception; in fact, it takes the formula two steps further.

The problem is not that television shows flawed men. The problem is that television repeatedly rewards these men without demanding genuine accountability and the male protagonist is almost always emotionally unavailable, psychologically damaged, rich, powerful and cruel — until he falls in love. Love then becomes redemption, justification and absolution, all rolled into one.

Wealth, power and no accountability

Another defining feature of this genre is that the hero is almost always wealthy and powerful and consequently, accountable to no one. Wealth is depicted not as earned but as a licence for moral freedom — even moral immunity.

The protagonist Kamyar’s main defence in MZHT is his wealth. It enables him to act carelessly, make disastrous choices and still win over the audience. The degree to which this has become normalised is deeply concerning. The affluent, poisonous hero is now the hero rather than the antagonist. His actions are never questioned, his behaviour is always excused, justified and even romanticised and he is usually redeemed at the end of the drama.

Class snobbery and a lack of consequences seem to attract and excite audiences rather than repulse them, at least when wielded by rich, well-groomed and good-looking young actors, as well as the spirited (but eventually compliant) heroines they chase and usually attain. In a country where arranged marriages are the norm, the idea that a man might want nothing but one woman, without the usual qualifiers, seems to have tapped a nerve.

This new urban fantasy, rooted in materialism, contrasts sharply with traditional South Asian folklore, like Heer Ranjha or Umar Marvi, where love triumphs over power and wealth and earlier Pakistani dramas that celebrated moral, family-oriented heroes.

Kamyar: trauma without responsibility

In MZHT, the male lead, Kamyar (Bilal Abbas), is an emotionally damaged and broken individual shaped by his bickering, unforgiving, bitter parents (Adnan Jaffar and Arjumand Rahim) and a home that is, for the most part, devoid of warmth or connection.

He struggles with alcohol, drugs and an empty social life, using and discarding women without remorse. His only deep connections are his close friend and ex-girlfriend, Fariya (Vardha Aziz), and his grandmother (Shameem Hilaly). His household is modern, materialistic and secular.

For fans of Indian and Turkish serials, this is a familiar pattern: the disconnected young man from an elite family, who is attracted to a strong yet largely conservative girl, who will reconnect him to family life. MZHT follows this formula but also uses trauma as an excuse rather than an explanation.

Violence as romance

Kamyar’s first interaction with the comfortably upper-middle-class Dr Ayra (Hania Aamir) shocks him, as he is not used to getting pushback from anyone.

His next move: setting fire to her brand-new car, a gift from her father (Alyy Khan). The burning car in a respectable, well-lit street, with him casually standing by, making zero attempt to hide, would have chilled a normal woman. However, instead of cowering, Ayra slaps Kamyar and her ridiculous bravery causes him to fall in love with Ayra.

This mirrors what we saw in KTK in which Mehak slaps Shamsher. This “slap and fall in love” moment is increasingly becoming a recognisable trope in many television romances — where conflict and harassment are portrayed as chemistry.

In the real world, setting a car on fire would result in a police report and a psychiatric evaluation, but the makers of MZHT give us an intense visual spectacle, a dopamine hit so high that we forget the danger and inherent violence of Kamyar’s behaviour and begin to root for the romance.

This is perhaps the most revealing moment in the drama, because it shows how dramas are increasingly confusing intensity with love. Grand gestures — even violent ones — are framed as proof of passion. Calm, respectful behaviour, on the other hand, is often depicted as boring.

Television has repeated this formula so often that it has created its own emotional logic: cruelty first, love later; humiliation first, devotion later; violence first, redemption later. The audience is conditioned to expect this pattern — and increasingly, to accept it.

While the sensible Dr Ayra wants nothing to do with him, Kamyar tries everything he can think of to bring her closer to him. His immature mind cannot comprehend how a respectful relationship works and every mind-numbing, foolish attempt he makes is thwarted by his behaviour.

This is where the script takes a turn for the better: Kamyar tries to improve himself. He finally takes an interest in managing the company left to him by his grandfather and takes on a corrupt union. Much to the audience’s joy, Ayra finds this new, subdued Kamyar attractive and, to the team’s credit, we get a beautifully acted and presented, low-key confession of love at a squash court.

This shift should have marked the true turning point of the drama — where growth replaces obsession — but the story soon returns to old habits.

The plot twist: crime without consequences

The roller coaster of romance seemed to have hit an early high, with a wedding planned and a newly reformed Kamyar. However, the path of true love is never easy and the villains play their part in destroying this newfound happiness.

Here, the drama takes a darker turn, exploiting sexual assault and cybercrime in a sensationalised manner, perhaps to drive viewership.

Fariya and Khawar (Ali Rehman) — another aspirant for Ayra’s hand — persuade one of Kamyar’s formerly jilted girlfriends to drug him and film an inappropriate video with him. Through some miracle, the video is released on every guest’s cell phone, moments before the nikaah.

The fallout from this is completely believable, as any woman in her right mind would back out of a wedding after a sexually explicit video of her fiancé with another woman is taken a day before their wedding. Kamyar is publicly disgraced and deeply hurt, but this is where the script takes an off-ramp from reality.

When the truth of his “innocence” comes to light, even though he is upset with the perpetrators, his anger remains focused on Ayra, whom he continues to demean and punish for not believing in him. On the other hand, he spends a lot of time with Fariya, despite learning that she was the brains behind the video and even helps the woman filmed with him relocate to Dubai.

Unfortunately, serious issues such as sexual exploitation and digital blackmail are sensationalised rather than addressed meaningfully. Instead, they are used as shock devices — plot twists designed to trend on social media and generate YouTube views.

The serial Aik Aur Pakeezah, playing concurrently on Geo TV, explores the consequences of a leaked video far more effectively. The protagonist, Pakeezah (Sehar Khan), is forced at gunpoint to record a video with her fiancé, Faraz (Nameer Khan), by Yaseen (Ali Jan). Writer Bee Gul and director Kashif Nisar carefully draw out the victims’ PTSD, their agony at the loss of privacy and their crumbling trust in relationships. Excellent performances capture every trembling nuance.

Ali Jan as Yaseen presents the epitome of banal evil: the average young man next door whose mediocrity masks a cruel disposition. Contrast this with Fariya, who commits the same crime but is portrayed as a jealous, lost soul — another woman excused for her tragic backstory. Yaseen faces no excuses; his choices define him.

Fariya: the other woman trope

However, it is safe to say that Fariya’s character is an essential part of this trope. Despite every advantage in life, she has no self-respect. Ignoring rejection after humiliation after humiliation, she keeps clinging to Kamyar and plotting against his true love.

Similarly, Haya (Sabeen Farooq) from Tere Bin and Sofia (Shehzeen Rahat) from KTK were both intelligent women from well-to-do families who spent their lives chasing a man for a mythical status they already possessed.

This brings us to another new and recurring trope in Pakistani dramas: the educated, wealthy woman who becomes obsessive when rejected. Clearly, obsession is the order of the day.

As mentioned earlier, Kamyar renews his friendship with Fariya even after he finds out she is responsible for the video. This gives her another chance to create another misunderstanding between the lead pair. MZHT did not have to take this route, but once that decision was made, the production team should have balanced ethics and logic with the need to achieve ratings.

Kamyar’s continued association with Fariya after her crime highlights the script’s core weakness. His behaviour makes little emotional or moral sense.

But it makes perfect sense if the goal is to prolong the drama, create more confrontations and keep audiences clicking on to the next episode.

The rise of YouTube-driven metrics has fundamentally changed how Pakistani dramas are written. Episodes are now structured around “moments” — confrontations, reveals, slaps, breakdowns — that can go viral as clips. In this structure, narrative coherence becomes less important than momentary impact. Stories no longer build; they spike. MZHT increasingly feels engineered around viral moments rather than organic storytelling. The result is a drama that moves constantly but evolves very little.

Quite a few writers have spoken out about the changes producers make to their scripts, prioritising viral, commercial moments over the integrity of the story or unnecessarily lengthening the drama to increase advertising revenue. It seems that dramas are now written and edited with “viral moments” in mind — scenes designed to trend on social media rather than serve the story.

The actors save the day

No matter how crazy the plot twist or weak the ending, our actors carry the public’s interest by taking their roles seriously. Bilal Abbas and Hania Aamir’s screen chemistry is one of the biggest reasons for the show’s success and, despite the earlier mentioned flaws, the drama remains watchable largely because of its two leads.

Bilal Abbas brings vulnerability to Kamyar, making him more sympathetic than the writing sometimes deserves. Hania Aamir brings warmth and emotional intelligence to Ayra, grounding the drama whenever it drifts into melodrama.

Even when the script reduces Ayra to a self-sacrificing heroine, Hania manages to give her dignity, warmth and emotional strength. Ultimately, both excelled in their emotional scenes of connection and romance and their screen presence made up for many of the random, illogical plot turns.

The supporting cast, including Adnan Jaffar, Arjumand Rahim, Alyy Khan, Javeria Abbasi (who plays Ayra’s mother) and Shameem Hilaly, delivers excellent performances, keeping the audience tuning in.

Shameem Hilaly brought quiet strength as the grandmother navigating the burden of supporting the relationships of two generations. Alyy Khan also stood out as an, at times, bewildered but always loving father of two daughters — Ayra and her sister Falak (Meher Jaffri) — who thought he had immunised his daughters from the whims of fate that women face in a conservative society.

In many ways, the actors rescue the script from itself, creating emotional continuity even when the writing does not. This is not easy to do, especially in a drama where characters are often required to behave inconsistently in order to sustain the plot. However, most of the actors manage to maintain audience investment even when the narrative falters — which perhaps explains why the drama remained so popular despite its flaws.

A romance that (almost) worked

What should have been an amazing emotional ending was somewhat marred by a focus on keeping the romantic angst burning.

Instead of episodes of Kamyar punishing Ayra to give us a mazloom aurat (helpless woman) melodrama, why didn’t they show him navigating his way towards healing and accountability? That would have made for a much more compelling and interesting narrative rather than being rushed. However, the lead couple’s final resolution on an aeroplane was a pleasant surprise, made sweeter by Kamyar’s journey to humility and the true meaning of love.

For viewers rooting for their romance, the ending was a moment of healing and complete satisfaction. The only sour note was the strange and sudden rehabilitation of a Machiavellian villain like Fariya, who was seen once again at the couple’s finale celebration.

Director Musaddiq Malek’s finesse, the strong performances and high production values made the drama visually and emotionally engaging. However, Radain Shah’s premise had the potential to explore trauma, obsession and redemption in more meaningful ways. Instead, the drama gradually seemed to have been driven by ratings pressure, viral moments and the commercial appeal of a toxic romance.

This is perhaps the most important takeaway — MZHT is a reflection of where mainstream television stands today. An industry once known for strong storytelling is now increasingly driven by algorithms, advertising and audience metrics.

Toxic heroes thrive, consequences disappear, trauma becomes spectacle and love — somehow — redeems the toxic hero no matter what he does while the initially spirited woman becomes docile, subdued and quietly surrenders.

The drama may be a blockbuster. But it is also a warning sign.

Originally published in Dawn, ICON, April 5th, 2026

Having recently sat through Spaceman — a film about a man and a spider-like alien — one could be forgiven for assuming that Project Hail Mary would tread familiar ground. Watching the film one realises, almost immediately, how wrong that assumption is.

Phil Lord and Christopher Miller — writers-producers of Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse and directors of The Lego Movie and Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs — working from Drew Goddard’s tight adaptation of Andy Weir’s novel of the same name, deliver a far richer experience than one might have anticipated. A film with a brain and a heart, both beating in tandem.

Ryan Gosling — radiating old-school magnetism befitting a leading man — plays Dr Ryland Grace, a science teacher and former biologist who wakes up, disoriented, aboard a spacecraft a light-year from home. As the only surviving astronaut of his craft, his mission — one he did not choose to accept — has sent him on a one-way journey to Tau Ceti, a star system 12 light-years away. The sun, we find out, is slowly being consumed by a microorganism known as Astrophage and, in 30 years, the Earth will be no more.

The narrative shifts between the past, set on Earth, where Grace’s reluctant journey begins, and the present, at Tau Ceti. It is here, in the far reaches of space, that he encounters Rocky — a faceless, multi-limbed, spider-like alien realised through practical effects rather than AI or pixels. The visual effects (VFX) are, overall, as pristine as they come.

Like Grace, Rocky is a traveller on a desperate mission. At first, the two cannot understand one another but, when they do, Rocky reveals himself to be a mechanic and the sole survivor of his own failed attempt to stop the Astrophage. Together, they discover an organism that could be their salvation — though not without complications, the details of which I won’t spoil here.

Suffice it to say, the emotions crafted by Goddard, Lord and Miller feel genuine, and they help the viewer in looking past the film’s predictable trajectory.

Goddard, of course, has experience understanding and adapting Andy Weir’s works; he last adapted The Martian for Ridley Scott. As directors, Lord and Miller are no less assured or commercial. In the film’s best moments, one can see the texture of an old Steven Spielberg adventure underneath — and, if anything, that’s a major win.

However, at two hours and 36 minutes, the runtime may test some viewers’ patience. One need not fret, because the film moves with such nimble-footedness that one can look past the fatigue of sitting in a cinema chair for 156 minutes, and just enjoy the show.

Released by Amazon-MGM and HKC, Project Hail Mary is rated U and is suitable for everyone

Originally published in Dawn, ICON, March 29th, 2026

It is within this tricky space that Aag Lagay Basti Mein, directed by Bilal Atif Khan and written by Bilal, and Naeem Ali, arrives. The film does not aim to deal with a heavy subject; instead, it keeps things simple, loud and unapologetically comedic, focusing on the clash between good, bad and morally grey characters.

One of the film’s biggest talking points is the casting of Mahira Khan as Almas. Known for playing polished and composed characters for most of her career, Mahira appears here in a completely different avatar; loud, cunning, street-smart and often abrasive in her language. Seeing her in bright, mismatched clothes, crooked lipstick and delivering insults without hesitation is genuinely surprising. It’s the kind of performance that will clearly divide audiences — some will appreciate the risk she has taken, while others may struggle to accept her in such a raw role. Nonetheless, she fully commits to the part.

Opposite her, Fahad Mustafa plays Barkat, a man so honest and kind that at times he borders on being irritating. Fahad stays in his familiar comic space and does what he does best, though there are moments when you half-expect him to jump on a car and shout his famous Jeeto Pakistan catchphrase. His innocence and vulnerability make the character engaging. At the same time, there is a noticeable echo of the Nabeel Qureshi style of film and acting; a style that has worked in the past but now risks feeling repetitive, and perhaps is ready to evolve into something fresher.

The film also features Javed Sheikh as Marble Seth, reminding viewers once again that he is an actor made for the big screen. Tabish Hashmi, introduced with considerable flair and flamboyance, plays the villainous Chota Marble. While his personality is designed to feel threatening, there is also an underlying innocence that shines through, and Hashmi handles that contrast well, making the character quite engaging.

The story revolves around Barkat, a goody-two-shoes man, and his wife Almas, who is constantly looking for ways to save and steal money so she can one day escape to her dream destination: Dubai. In today’s reality, with visa complications and changing international circumstances, that dream is more complicated than the film lets on, though within its world, it remains her driving motivation.

Their opposing personalities drive the film’s chaos, leading to a series of misunderstandings, petty crimes and exaggerated situations that keep the narrative moving. Amid the comedy of errors, the film also touches on familiar social realities from street crimes to child beggars painted in gold — details that feel recognisable to anyone living in a city in Pakistan.

The director described the film to Images as a situational dark comedy, where the humour comes from the circumstances rather than characters trying to be funny. That approach is visible in scenes where tension builds first and the laughter follows.

The film also incorporates several social media comic performers, including Hafiz Raza Ahmed, Khizr Ansari, Ali Abdullah Durrani, Osama Ateeq and Samra Shehzadi. Though their screen time is brief, they bring familiar internet-era humour to the story. Scenes involving kidnapping exchanges, exaggerated misunderstandings and moments where characters attempt to communicate using only hand gestures, their mouths full of paan (betel nut) feel instantly recognisable, particularly for Karachi audiences.

When asked about the choice of these performers, Bilal said his team was already watching their reels like everyone else. They enjoyed their acting and comic timing, so if they fit the roles, it made sense to cast them.

On the technical side, the film shows clear effort in visual planning. Creative director Salman Noorani brings a stylised look to the film’s world, while production designer Hira Mansoor and 3D artist Ozair Mansoor help translate that vision into detailed sets, particularly in the house where Barkat and Almas live. Cinematographer Abid Rizvi captures the streets and interiors with a certain grit that makes the entire experience feel raw and real. Bringing all of these elements together is the young director Bilal, who, in his debut, manages to coordinate a large ensemble cast, a mix of performance styles and a stylised visual approach.

The film unfolds as a series of comic situations rather than a tightly interwoven narrative, allowing individual scenes to stand out. Many of these moments land effectively with the audience, creating a lively viewing experience even when the story itself takes a back seat.

At its core, Aag Lagay Basti Mein is made very clearly for a Pakistani audience. Its humour, references and situations are rooted in local culture. Some may argue that the film should cater to a larger audience and that viewers from outside should be able to enjoy it too, but its priorities remain firmly local. The strongest indicator of its success comes from the cinema itself, where bursts of laughter and whistles suggest that the film achieves what it sets out to do — entertain.

At a time when global news cycles and local realities are overwhelming, a film that allows audiences to switch off for a few hours and simply laugh can serve a purpose of its own. Aag Lagay Basti Mein may not aim for narrative complexity, but it understands its audience and leans into its chaotic energy.

The humour, however, occasionally leans into adult territory and some moments may feel slightly excessive. The film is best suited for audiences aged 15 and above. For those willing to embrace its loud, chaotic and unapologetically Pakistani style of comedy, it offers a chance to simply sit back and laugh; something Pakistani cinema has not consistently provided in recent years.

Linda Liddle (McAdams), a dorky, unkempt financial strategist, is very hardworking and very, very adept at her job. However, her new boss, Bradley (O’Brien), the son of the former CEO of the company who inherited his father’s top seat, doesn’t see it that way. In fact, he’d rather not see anything at all from Linda.

Bradley is repulsed by her very existence. Linda, on the other hand, is very attracted to him. The relationship dynamic is strained and painful to watch in the best way possible; one just can’t take their eyes off the screen for one second.

The strain amplifies when Bradley is forced to take Linda on a boys’ business trip — all of them just as cruel to her, with Bradley playing the top douche — until the plane hits turbulence and cracks open mid-flight.

Linda washes up on an island and soon, so does Bradley. Thus begins the most warped war-of-the-roses between man and woman since Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner turned savages in Danny DeVito’s The War of the Roses.

Linda is a survivor who always had the guts and acumen to tame the environment. Bradley, on the other hand, is an incompetent wimp whose privileged upbringing would have made him a dead man as soon as he hit the island.

Linda, of course, is also a good soul. The script by Damian Shannon and Mark Swift never forgets that part. However, living with a man who hates your guts turns a woman scorned… and you know how that saying goes.

Send Help reminds me of Drag Me To Hell — another fun, Raimi horror movie where the scares happen in cheap pop-ups and not jump-scares. Raimi’s strict adherence to staying true to his Evil Dead roots, while keeping the film light and fun and serious at the same time, gives the film’s core half of its strength.

The other half comes courtesy of the screenwriters, McAdams and O’Brien. Both actors, in tune with their characters, nearly commandeer the screen with that lost Old-Hollywood charisma — though, there is never any doubt about who is running the show.

Seeing a director stick to his trademark is a rare feat these days; rarer still is delivering a fast, fun, campy experience that covers the price of the cinema’s popcorn and drinks three times over.

A 20th Century Studios and HKC release, Send Help is rated ‘A’ for adult audiences for gore and gruesomeness. I’d say for anyone above the age of 15 it’s good to go

Originally published in Dawn, ICON, February 22nd, 2026

Written to perfection by Bee Gul and masterfully directed by Kashif Nisar — a director who hardly requires further praise — the drama is produced under the banner of the Kashf Foundation and airs on Geo TV. It stars Sehar Khan and Nameer Khan in the lead roles as Pakeezah and Faraz. Pakeezah is a lawyer; Faraz, an engineer. They are not engaged, but fate brings them together in a private space where a villain abuses and records them. That video then goes viral — an all-too-common tragedy in today’s digital age.

The urgency of this story lies in its relevance as a large portion of Pakistan’s population now owns a smartphone equipped with a camera.

According to Data Portal statistics, internet use in Pakistan stands at roughly 45 per cent, while approximately 26pc of the population maintains a social media presence as of 2025. In a country where the literacy rate hovers around 60pc — putting aside, for a moment, the complexities behind what “literacy” truly entails — and where anybody’s sin is everybody’s business, the consequences are swift and undeniably brutal. A single click can dismantle reputations, relationships and futures.

The drama follows the lives of Pakeezah and Faraz — two educated individuals with their whole lives ahead of them — after their video goes viral. They are hurried along into marriage as damage control and to save “honour”. Their families sever ties with them, but the fallout is predictably gendered. While both lives are disrupted, it is Pakeezah who experiences isolation more acutely.

She struggles to comprehend the fact that Faraz continues to have access to his family while she remains ostracised. Months after the video goes viral, she gathers the courage to file a legal case against the perpetrator — a decision met with resistance rather than support. Her only ally is Saman, a lawyer and acquaintance, who is played by Amna Ilyas. She convincingly embodies a fearless lawyer, visibly frustrated by the very justice system she serves.

Thus far, the drama is tightly paced. With the tenth episode recently aired, viewers have witnessed the emotional and societal hurdles faced by a victim seeking justice: the hesitation, the fear, the resistance from family and the moral policing that follows.

What initially appears slightly perplexing — Pakeezah’s family cutting ties with her while entertaining the perpetrator — gradually reveals itself as deliberate commentary. The hypocrisy is not accidental; it is diagnostic. A man’s transgression is negotiable. A woman’s perceived “dishonour” is not.

Performance-wise, the cast delivers with commendable restraint. Sehar demonstrates notable growth, bringing vulnerability and quiet strength to Pakeezah without tipping into melodrama. Nameer matches her intensity with emotional sincerity. At times, however, the lead pair struggles to forge a deeper emotional connection with the audience.

Meanwhile, Nadia Afghan delivers yet another nuanced performance. The role of the protagonist’s mother is often sidelined, but Afghan transforms it into something authentic, memorable and difficult to ignore.

Zubair, a formidable barrister who later marries Saman, is played by Gohar Rasheed. He is shown to be competent, composed and seemingly the ideal partner. His character appears almost too perfect, hinting that there may be more complexity yet to unfold.

Beyond its performances, what truly distinguishes Aik Aur Pakeezah is its dialogue and direction. The drama is rich with lines that strike like a punch — sometimes in gut-wrenching scenes and sometimes through moments of humour. It forces the audience to pause and contemplate, to think and question.

Moments such as Saman’s assertion that women need not rush into marriage — thereby ensuring better choices — serve as necessary reminders. Another standout moment occurs when Zubair places the lawyer’s coat on Saman’s shoulders before she reciprocates. It is a quiet yet powerful visual of mutual respect and equality. Equality here is not preached; it is enacted.

As the drama transitions into its courtroom arc, anticipation builds. If executed with the same nuance shown thus far, these sequences have the potential to extend the conversation beyond individual shame and into institutional accountability.

Ultimately, Aik Aur Pakeezah exposes a system. It serves as essential commentary on harassment and cybercrime, offering not only awareness but guidance — something particularly crucial for a young, impressionable audience navigating an increasingly digital world. In a landscape often dominated by regressive tropes, this drama insists on asking difficult questions.

And in 2026, that insistence feels necessary.

After last week’s episodes of Meri Zindagi Hai Tu cumulatively garnered 30 million views on YouTube, viewers are torn between a quest for logic and protest against unacceptable plot twists. This disastrous narrative that is grasping for the elusive straws of rationality has created a buzz for all the wrong reasons.

Here’s a closer look dissecting all the effectively bizarre elements that have contributed to the “success” of this drama serial. Written by Radain Shah, Meri Zindagi Hai Tu has surprisingly managed to create a horror series masquerading as a romantic drama with an inexplicable world and unfathomable women.

The Kamyarverse

To their credit, Shah and director Musaddiq Malek have managed to build a solid world around one man, Kamyar (Bilal Abbas Khan). In this universe, every character’s world revolves around this one rebellious, promiscuous, alcoholic drug addict who is notorious for his wealth, frivolousness and good looks. All the other characters in this serial can be boxed into three categories: people worried about Kamyar, people harassed by him, and last but not least, people obsessed with him.

Colossally failing the Bechdel test (to pass this test a scene must have two named women characters talk to each other about something other than a man), Shah and Malek manage to build a universe so unbelievable that even viewers are now wondering what made actors like Hania Aamir and Bilal Abbas Khan sign on for this show.

Love him or hate him, you can’t escape him: in this world everyone is terrified of Kamyar, even the women who care deeply for him. In one scene Ayra’s sister (Meher Jafri) even exclaims “Jaldi sojao warna Kamyar phir ajayega (quickly go to sleep or else Kamyar will show up)”. Doesn’t that remind you of the djinns our elders us told stories about at night to scare us?

Ludicrousness aside, we must laud the makers for creating a catchy original soundtrack (OST) sung by Asim Azhar for forlorn lovers.

‘Woh larki’

In case you’re wondering who ‘woh larki’ or ‘that girl’ is, this anonymous woman played by Hani Taha, agrees to drug Kamyar and features in an intimate video all in an effort to end his marriage, assuming her face will be blurred. In case you thought she was hired and paid millions, she wasn’t and did all of this pro-bono.

She agrees to do all of this simply to be ‘seen’ and be ‘felt’ by Kamyar. When asked why “woh larki” went through all this trouble for a man who brutally spurned her, she confesses,“Main humesha se Kamyar ke qareeb ana chahti thi, bus chahti kisi tarah mera naam Kamyar ke naam ke saath jurh jaye [I always wanted to be close to Kamyar, I just wanted my name to be attached to Kamyar’s somehow]”.

As asinine as this may sound, what may surprise you is how Meri Zindagi Hai Tu successfully goes five episodes with this character (also referred to as ‘patient’) without a single character taking her name. We never learn her name, even as she goes viral in a video with Kamyar, is in a coma, is subsequently hospitalised, unconscious, and being treated by Hania Aamir’s Dr Ayra, then wakes up and features in a second (this time solo) viral video.

When “woh larki’“ wakes up, she is loyally devoted to redeeming Kamyar, who then rewards her with a new identity, a plane ticket and accommodation in Dubai. What made Hani Taha, a theatre actor and producer who recently returned to Pakistan from the UK with a graduate degree from the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts, choose to play this character is baffling to say the least.

The marriage wrecker ex masked as a best friend rises from the dead

Fariha (Vardah Aziz) is one of the most twisted characters in the story. Although some may classify her as the modern, stylish and mean vamp, she embarks on a new trajectory in last week’s episodes. Her initial activities in this story include smoking, drinking (in the very first episode she chugs a champagne bottle after being snubbed by Kamyar), dancing, partying, self-medicating, crying, scheming and otherwise pining for Kamyar.

Right from the start you know Fariha is spooky and something is off about her, because in her otherwise expensively-decorated room with paintings and high-end furniture, there is a large, rather prominent figurine, which is a leitmotif. This figurine is neither human nor non-human; it’s a stark red, with a large silver crystal ball appearing in half the frame in most of Fariha’s solo scenes in her bedroom.

This leads us to believe that she gets her darkest ideas when the crystal ball is active. Red magic anyone? For those more curious, red magic broadly represents a blend of opposing forces, combining elements of passion, destruction, and action, thus often acting as a bridge between white (healing/order) and black (destruction/chaos) magic.

Fariha partners with Ayra’s brother-in-law’s America-returned cousin — really, Fariha, could you have found anyone more dumb and distant to team up with? — to end her best friend’s marriage. She invites Kamyar to a fake party staged with paid actors a few days before his wedding with Ayra, drugs him with rohypnol, films an inappropriate intimate video featuring “wo larki” and then dumps him at his fiancée’s house.

Once Kamyar learns that Fariha engineered this entire scandal and circulated this video on purpose, he poisons her and locks her in the drawing room of her house. We watch her choking and gasping for breath, and are led to assume that she has died.

Lo and behold, in the very next episode Fariha reappears, lusting yet again after Kamyar by his hospital bedside at 4am right after he attempted to murder her. No explanation as to how Fariha reappeared after being poisoned is given to the viewers, so the only possible explanation we could think of is supernatural powers.

The doctor who needs urgent medical help

Ayra is supposedly the lead opposite Kamyar, as well as his love interest, but there are no redeeming qualities that make viewers want to support her. She is a final-year medical student and presents herself as someone who is in dire need of medical intervention and psychological help herself. She first stalks a guy like Kamyar and ruins his Cybertruck, slaps him when he burns her car in revenge mode, then beats him with a stick in public at her university after he gets her sister’s rishta called off, and then slaps him again when he asks for her hand in marriage.

However, she takes no steps to combat his harassment and stalking. If this was not enough, once he does finally leave her alone, she then goes and tells Kamyar that she now likes him. Ayra calls off her wedding to Kamyar but soon after he has an accident and is hospitalised, prompting her to urge him to marry her again, much to the dismay of her family.

We would have hoped that Ayra’s father (played by the talented Alyy Khan), who is also a doctor, would have been able to cure his daughter. Unfortunately he is one of those doctors who is never once seen practicing medicine or even stepping foot in a medical facility, so we have to assume he is not equipped to treat Ayra or even deduce that there is something  fundamentally wrong with her.

What immediately draws one’s urgent attention is the appalling state of women with tangible agency — they’re either posing helplessly, pining over Kamyar or lamenting his existence.

Amidst all this mayhem, we need to give a special shoutout to the most commendable dialogue on screen by an extra in the history of Pakistani television. In a split second scene in which Kamyar orders clothes for Rs350,000, his helper (butler?) misreads the bill as Rs35,000 and when Kamyar insults him shouting “Don’t you know how to read?!” he responds with, “If I knew how to read and write, why would I be here working as your servant?”

Watch out (or not) for this horror drama featuring the most memorable debut by a Cybertruck, a slap that somehow triggered love, obsession and harassment at the same time, and a helper with the smartest comeback.

All photos via ARY Digital/YouTube

Right from the outset, the show delved straight into its main theme, devoting minimal screen time to the wedding of Qais and Laila, portrayed by Talha Chahour and Mawra Hocane. The show began with Qais and Laila showing interest in marrying each other and convincing their families. The resistance from both sides felt strikingly authentic.

Laila’s mother, played with grace and conviction by Tazeen Hussain, opposed the match out of concern for her only daughter, fearing the emotional cost of adjusting to a large joint family and the inevitable compromise of her career.

On the other hand, Qais’ family dismissed the idea of him marrying a woman of his own choosing, believing that ‘modern’ girls are incapable of shouldering the responsibilities of marriage and household life.

The narrative unfolded at a measured and effective pace. Once the essential conversations were established, the marriage took place and the story immediately settled into its true premise. The director made exemplary use of screen time, holding the audience’s attention — an unfortunate rarity in today’s shows. Staying true to its theme, the show remained relevant, devoid of filler scenes, excessive slow motion, repetitive flashbacks, or a close up of an aesthetic heroine weeping to a background score.

Beyond issues of privacy and autonomy, Jama Taqseem also addressed the often-hushed up subject of sexual harassment. This particular arc — from Laila’s initial doubt to her confiding in her husband, his instinctive dismissal rooted in loyalty to his family and men’s habitual disregard of their wives’ opinions, and finally his realisation upon witnessing it himself — was handled with exceptional sensitivity.

The entire scene was remarkable — the performances of each actor, the manner in which it unfolded, and the way it was dealt with. It is a scene that ought to be treated as a teaching aid for actors, directors and writers. It wasn’t high on drama or theatrics, but was nevertheless powerful.

As the story progressed, the three brothers’ families moved out, and the narrative shifted to their individual struggles with independence. For the average Pakistani man, living away from his parents can be deeply unsettling, having grown up surrounded by constant care, protection, and dependence. Hameed, the older brother always in the shadow of the patriarch played by the evergreen Jawed Sheikh, found it hard to make business decisions and spiralled into his bad habits the minute he got a whiff of freedom. The middle brother, often overlooked and underestimated, fared relatively better once given space to prove himself. Qais, meanwhile, found it hardest to cope with the silence and emotional void of a home stripped of constant company.

The show also thoughtfully explored the evolution of both sets of parents — Qais’ and Laila’s — as they gradually learned to respect each other’s experiences and perspectives. More importantly, they began to understand the importance of not centring their entire existence around their children’s lives, instead finding purpose beyond constant involvement, a very important lesson for the older generation who more often than not, tend to make it their life’s purpose to meddle in their children’s married lives.

That said, the show did falter slightly toward the end. Zeeshan’s return to Sidra, where he attempted to justify his harassment in the guise of love, undid the writer’s earlier, more responsible handling of the issue. Similarly, Qais’ extramarital involvement felt unnecessary. However, the writer did use it to raise some very valid questions and the double standards for how acceptable it is for a man to freely engage with his female colleagues versus how a woman is always faced with more scrutiny the minute she is seen interacting with the opposite gender.

Overall, Jama Taqseem succeeded in asking the right questions, challenging deeply ingrained stereotypes, and initiating much-needed conversations. It was a thoughtful, socially relevant drama that resonated precisely because it dared to remain honest.

​If it were a joke, no one laughed in the sparsely attended show at Nueplex Askari (24 others with me in a hall of 224). Also, the ‘pervert’ isn’t really one, and the blind girl isn’t really stricken. Like the many questions Neelofar flings our way — and their answers — none satisfy the intellect. Every narrative feels trivial and devoid of gravitas.

Written and directed by feature debutante Ammar Rasool, the film is a product that leans heavily on personal preferences and not the audience’s. It poses as a love letter to Urdu, heritage, nostalgia and soft romance. One might have been fooled, too, if it weren’t for the muddled story.

Actually, I’d be happy if there had been a story. Or a conflict. Or even a credible romance. Or just simple logic.

​Is it any wonder then that those who bought their tickets are relating to the film’s viral clip in which Mahira Khan is seen slapping herself silly out of grief?

Mansoor Ali Khan (Fawad Khan, charismatic, mostly okay-ish) is a respected, well-off writer of one popular book — Udhaar Maangay Alfaaz — which supposedly put Urdu literature on the world map. According to a rival, evil poet Tanveer (Rashid Farooqi), the book is about the (not really) indecent ways Mansoor describes his love for his dead wife.

​Mansoor is labelled a devilish Casanova, but we never see that side of him. So, what makes him bad? Apparently… nothing. Between his bemused smirks, we note that he is an old soul advocating for modern Urdu’s integration into literature. He dislikes PR junkets, the press, social media celebs, and the spotlight. A man who once chased fame now hides behind a newsboy cap (his words, not mine) — though with his handsome, boyish looks, the cap adds more flourish to his appearance rather than disguising it.

Pushed by his publicist-cum-handler Sarah (Madiha Imam, quite good in a flat role), who has romantic feelings for him (we’re never shown how), he visits the eye doctor and bumps into Neelofar (Mahira Khan, intermittently good), a visually impaired young woman full of zest, life and schoolgirl frankness, who is waiting for an eye donor.

​Neelofar chirpily brands Mansoor a pervert, creep and jerk and, despite this, they become fast friends — she is a sweetheart who is easily enamoured by strangers. Mansoor, stuck in a creative rut, is quietly allured by Neelofar, who leads him into low-key adventures. She dances with abandon near the railyard tracks, then yanks him aboard a moving train, mischievously searching for no one in particular; apparently, it’s the most ‘alive’ thing to do (also, she has a thing for trains).

​Neelofar introduces him to the world of sound: he closes his eyes, his human sonar kicks in, and the world turns black with semi-squiggly white outlines. To preserve the feeling when she regains sight, she records the world’s ambience on an old cassette recorder! Analogue, of course, is tactile and better (Neelofar’s perspective, not mine), though one wonders: if she regains her sight, couldn’t she just close her eyes and feel the world the way she taught Mansoor?

​But what am I saying? Vintage is cool — as are the alleyways of old Lahore, glimpsed whenever the film ventures outdoors. Like Lahore’s depiction, the professed love for heritage, language and character depth — especially Neelofar’s — is full of faux superficiality. Characters speak in a throwaway manner because it’s easier than crafting meaningful action or conflict. The film even ruins clichés.

​Imagine this: discussing movie romances, Mansoor claims he hates the hero-rushing-to-the-airport trope. Once he says it, we know he’ll be sprinting through airport security before the climax. Except he does and doesn’t.

Driven to the airport by Fahkru (Behroz Sabzwari — excellent in a small role), he simply sits on a bench outside the gates. An airport staff member informs him that Neelofar’s flight has already taken off, and the girl we followed was a literal nobody, a red herring. In filmmaking terms, that’s a very bad payoff. Why do something half-heartedly and not fully commit?

What about poetry and language? Characters only recite Jaun Elia or Munir Niazi (filmmakers, please let ‘Hamesha dair kar daita hoon’ [I’m always late] rest — it’s been done to death in Parey Hut Love, Love Guru and now Neelofar.) Mansoor’s own verses are few and forgettable. Rather than write strong, distinctive dialogues, the lines feel wan, perfunctory and unexciting for a film about writers.

And that is Neelofar’s biggest deficit. It never commits, emotionally or in terms of its narration. Immersion doesn’t require pompous displays, but conviction and connection, not the semblance of it. That connection, that belief, that magic of romance is missing.

The only feelings we see are Mansoor’s, even though the film is titled Neelofar. The story moves through him, and one assumes his beliefs mirror a good deal of Fawad Khan’s own perspectives (he is the executive producer). He is tired of the press and the obligatory public appearances and has a preference to work with India — Mansoor’s dead wife was Indian and he lived in Dubai, which sparks public outcry. Notice the parallel?

Rather than face the accusations, Mansoor becomes dejected, and Neelofar leaves because he didn’t reveal his ‘real identity’. Is that really a major conflict — she not knowing that he is a known figure in the literary world and that their relationship is shown in a negative light — especially when Neelofar has known all along that he is a good man? How is that even logical?

Mansoor’s knight in shining armour is Shehryar, a young poet he once stood up for (Gohar Rasheed, another excellent performer), who defends him on a news show. It doesn’t end well. Rasheed walks off mid-telecast, defeated. The dramatic high point remains unresolved, lingering mid-air without conclusion. Nonetheless, the film veers towards a happy ending.

By this point, one wonders: what good is a happy ending, or a soft, somewhat appealing (but mostly invisible) soundtrack, or beautiful, wide anamorphic frames with waterfall bokeh, or two of the biggest stars — Mahira Khan and Fawad Khan — if there’s no story, no space for supporting characters (Atiqa Odho, Faysal Qureshi, Seemi Raheel, Samiya Mumtaz, Adeel Hashmi, Sarwat Gilani, and even Farooqi and Rasheed appear in cameos), nothing beyond play-acting and, most importantly, no real story to entice?

I think this is the last time the audience — whatever is left of us to be cajoled — will be hoodwinked by the promise of star power.

A Distribution Club release, Neelofar is rated U, suitable for all ages, and runs for the longest two hours of your life.

Originally published in Dawn, ICON, December 7th, 2025.

He then asks the audience to put their phones on silent, including alarms, and refrain from recording. The play runs for less than an hour, he adds. “Pachpan minute mein yeh azaab tal jayega [in 55 minutes, this torment will be over].”

What follows is a disorienting journey anchored primarily in conversations between two unnamed characters, whose dialogue explores the intricacies and contradictions of human nature and the fragile, shifting idea of ‘home’.

I went into the play not quite knowing what to expect (the description was as confusing as the production itself), but left wholly impressed, struck by how much depth and humour could emerge from such a deceptively simple setup. For someone who counts The Sunset Limited among their favourite movies, the play hit all the right notes; a reminder that the right words, delivered with precision, can resonate just as much as any visual spectacle.

Directed by Sonil Shanker, written by Khan, and translated into Urdu by Kulsoom Aftab, Dreams of Ithaca is described by its creators as an “absurdist odyssey through dreams, nightmares, and strange trams and signals”. The play premiered on Wednesday night at the World Culture Festival 2025, held at the Arts Council in Karachi.

The first scene opens with the two characters (the man, played by Shanker, and the woman, played by Aftab) bickering over nothing in particular. Shanker’s character pleads for her to listen, but she curtly tells him not to disturb her, insisting she’s “busy doing nothing”. Their trivial back-and-forth creates a push-and-pull rhythm that is both absurd and captivating.

Initially puzzled by the aimless argument, the audience is soon drawn in by sharp dialogue, sly humour, and the occasional profanity that makes every exchange unpredictable. Shanker’s character desperately tries to share his dreams and his sense of never feeling “at home”, while she brushes him off with vague deadlines she barely remembers, insisting that nobody feels at home anyway.

The next scene (referred to as the “signal scene” by Khan) shifts the atmosphere, reminding the audience why the creators issued a warning at the start.

Here, the two characters are strangers. Shanker’s character is trapped at a pedestrian signal, pacing anxiously as he runs late for his flight, only for the light to remain red. Each time he tries to cross the road, he’s blocked or hit by passing vehicles, leaving him baffled as he struggles to make sense of the absurdity around him.

Meanwhile, Aftab’s character remains mostly silent, smirking and offering the occasional word at long intervals, which only fuels Shanker’s growing frustration. As his anger mounts, Shanker’s character becomes violent, and what began as a mundane wait erupts into sudden, unsettling chaos. It is a darkly comic, absurdist moment that keeps the audience unsure whether to gasp, laugh at the profanity, or feel a creeping sense of unease.

By the end of the 55 minutes (which felt much longer, thanks to the play’s immersive experience), you’re left with more questions than answers. While not everything is resolved, one thing is certain — Dreams of Ithaca is not for the faint of heart.

Dubbing it as one of Khan’s most controversial plays, Aftab spoke to me about the compromises involved in performing such work; deciding when to tone down, when to tone up, and negotiating the many challenges that arise during the performance.

“People often laugh at scenes where women are attacked,” she said. “You must have noticed today as well. But this audience learned, by the time the play progressed, that they couldn’t just laugh at women’s victimisation.”

She described the performer’s experience as a constant tension: terrified before going on stage, thinking only about whether the audience would connect, or feel ashamed, uncomfortable, or responsible. “Usually, out of 500 people, maybe five really engage in that way,” she said.

Khan shared that the inspiration for Dreams of Ithaca came from his own experiences after moving to Ireland. He found himself constantly grappling with questions of home: what it means to belong, where home truly lies, and the sense of leaving or losing it.

“Overall, there’s a consistent running theme in the play of being home or leaving home or defining home,” he said. He added that gender is also a key theme, woven throughout the story and closely linked to the idea of home.

Khan has been working on the play for quite some time and described it as an ongoing project. Even the performance staged in Karachi was not based on the final script. Originally written in English for a Western audience, the play included references to Ithaca (the homeland of Odysseus from Homer’s Odyssey).

The Urdu translation was completed recently by Aftab, who also helped adapt parts of the script for a Pakistani setting. For instance, the signal scene, originally set in the West, was rewritten to take place at a local pedestrian signal, making the absurdist scenario more relatable to a local audience, Khan explained.

He also noted that the characters were deliberately left unnamed. Regarding audience reception, he said he intended the play to be absurdist, dark yet comic, and that, to some extent, this was achieved. “People were laughing, people were disgusted at some moments.”

Photos: Arts Council of Pakistan Karachi/Instagram

The HUM TV Network drama, still in its initial phases, follows a narrative which is sadly very familiar. Navigating the toxicity that runs rampant in joint family systems, writer Sarwat Nazir has put together a motley crew of characters in a story that is well-paced and hard-hitting.

Talha Chahour and Mawra Hocane play a newly married couple — Qais and Laila respectively — and a bonanza of veteran actors play their family members. Javed Sheikh, Beo Raana Zafar, Hassan Ahmed, Madiha Rizvi, Amna Malik, Saad Azhar, Deepak Perwani and Tazeen Hussain, as well as some very talented child actors, come together to enact characters that wreak havoc in the lives of the newlyweds.

It’s a hard watch. But somehow the writer, along with director Ali Hassan and the actors, have put together a story that’s hitting a chord with quite a widespread audience. The toxicity is often very painful and, yet, a vast majority of people are watching Jama Taqseem because, sadly, it seems to be their own story.

When Mawra Hocane’s character, who does not know how to cook, is judged by her domestic capabilities in her new home, women in the comment section relate to it despondently. Her MBA degree is of no interest to her in-laws, who may be well-off but take great pride in the fact that their daughters-in-law cook the food in the house instead of the hired help.

Laila’s fumbling first steps in domesticity are watched with resignation; she is enlisted to make 40 rotis, figure out how to cook dinner and find her way around a washing machine. Any suggestion she makes — such as the purchase of an automatic washing machine — is looked upon as an act of rebellion. She is taunted about being disrespectful, of trying to break the family apart — and the audience nods in agreement. Been there, done that.

The story only gets worse, scene after scene. Favourite foods are hidden away in joint family systems so that others may not have access to them. Things that are purchased have to be snuck in so that the rest of the family may not see them. Even in an affluent home, like the one in this drama, tussles can take place over basic grocery items such as milk.

A husband cannot help his wife out with tasks at home because that is seen as going against his male stature. A daughter-in-law from a wealthier family is given preference over the other. Love marriages and women who aspire to work are looked upon with suspicion.

On an even darker note, cousins bunched together and perceived by elders to be part of one big, happy family may be hurting each other. Sexual harassment may be taking place in a home with no one even realising it!

It’s a big, toxic mess. And ever since Jama Taqseem started airing some weeks ago, scenes continue to be shared and reshared on popular social media platforms — Facebook, Instagram, X and YouTube — with viewers adding their own commentaries.

There are, sadly, many women across Pakistan who have been reduced to servitude with their personal ambitions dismissed because the elders in the home take pride in putting the daughters-in-law to work. There are entire clans sandwiched into small rooms in a single home just because it keeps the extended family ‘united’. There are many mothers, so burdened by domestic tasks, that they haven’t realised that their children are unhappy and are being bullied in their homes.

All across the country, it seems, there are women reduced to depression and married couples in distress due to the unrealistic demands of an overpowering, suffocating joint family system.

All of a sudden, sermons by renowned Islamic scholars have also started surfacing on social media, highlighting that, contrary to popular belief, living in a joint family is not a religious duty. It is, in fact, a norm that has become so ingrained in Pakistani society that young people choosing to live separately are looked upon as sinners.

Jama Taqseem has evidently triggered a lot of people — it is also making people think. But what is so different about this drama? Saas-bahu tussles are a dime-a-dozen on TV — they haul in reviews but never generate such avid commentaries.

For one, director Ali Hassan is making sure that the story doesn’t drag. Scenes and incidents keep changing and while a lot that is happening in each episode is extremely triggering, the pain is not prolonged.

So far, the drama has eschewed the usual painful tropes employed to prolong a serial in order to gain more viewing time and, thereby, profits. There have been few flashbacks and no long, melancholic scenes where the heroine only cries and the title track wails out interminably.

“I think the drama just resonated with a lot of people, which made me happy as a writer but it is also something that is unfortunate,” observes Sarwat Nazir, the drama’s writer. “A lot of the incidents included in the drama are true but, while writing it, I didn’t realise that so many people would see their own stories in what Laila goes through.”

She continues: “In our culture, a lot of times, the joint family system is romanticised and I deliberately set out to write this story, to show how sometimes it could also be very difficult. There is no point at which my characters are disrespectful towards their elders but, then, elders should also behave responsibly. A lot of couples are victims of the patriarchal mindset that is prevalent in such families, where control is exerted unnecessarily by elders, just to retain their power.

“There may be times when joint families are a source of comfort and the economic instability in our country often makes it necessary for large clans to live together. But it is important to also spread awareness about the negative impact such living arrangements can have, as it isn’t even a part of our religion!”

And what better medium than television, with its massive, all-pervasive reach, to send out a strong social message? Sarwat Nazir, of course, is a writer who is renowned for her socially relevant, nuanced narratives and Jama Taqseem is testament to that expertise.

But will the drama, hooking its audience with its first few episodes, continue to retain its viewership? This depends on its pace and overall treatment.

Should Laila’s travails get prolonged far too much, over 20 or so episodes, it is bound to turn off an anxiety-ridden audience. But if the story refrains from celebrating the miserable bits and moves on quickly to Laila taking a stand for herself, it will keep its audience interested.

As long as the heroine emerges strong, sooner rather than later, Jama Taqseem will set itself apart in the TV drama-scape. The message it gives out will also be more impactful, as long as the narrative remains watertight. It’s a tough watch — but it is well-directed, well-written, well-performed and, most importantly, it mirrors society, which is why the audience can’t stop watching.

Not that this is anything to be happy about.

Originally published in Dawn, ICON, October 12th, 2025

Written by Zafar Mairaj and directed by Badar Mehmood, Biryani is a love story with all the right ingredients — two tablespoons each of romance and heartbreak, a pinch of comedy, a dash of elaichi, and a final dum of powerful performances.

The story follows Nisa, played by Ramsha Khan, and Mir Meeran, portrayed by Khushhal Khan. Nisa, a senior student in a BBA programme, is assigned to mentor a freshman — Mir Meeran. What begins as a reluctant mentorship gradually blooms into a friendship.

Meeran, hailing from a conservative feudal background, is desperate to break free from its confines — a rebellion he begins with Nisa. However, it’s clear that breaking away isn’t easy. Enter Gul Meher, played by the ever-graceful Sarwat Gilani, a pivotal figure in Meeran’s life who helps ease his transition. Gilani’s portrayal of Gul Meher is nothing short of spectacular; she is the epitome of grace and elegance.

From the outset, the nature of Meeran and Gul Meher’s relationship is shrouded in mystery. He seeks her guidance at every step, and while the show keeps viewers in the dark initially, those who remember Noor Bano (2010) may have picked up on the hints. This week’s episode finally confirmed their relationship.

The show is off to a strong start, but the storytelling has had some uneven moments. One questionable instance is when Gul Meher and Maheen imply romantic tension between Nisa and Meeran after just one interaction — despite no visible cues from either character. It felt premature and unearned.

Viewed simply as a romantic drama, Biryani works. But the writing occasionally falters. Ramsha’s character is portrayed as image conscious, keen to maintain boundaries and avoid labels. She even insists that Meeran glue his eyes to his notebook or his laptop. Yet, soon after this, she visits his home for a change of clothes and ends up wearing his. This abrupt shift undermines the character’s earlier convictions. The progression feels rushed — unless there is much more to the story that’s why their romance is cooking on high flame instead of a slow simmer.

Another inconsistency appears in this week’s episode when Gul Meher mentions marrying Meeran at the age of 35, and that it’s been four years to their union. That would make Meeran at least 35 himself — odd, considering he’s portrayed as a freshman in a bachelor’s programme. Whether this is a writing oversight, a dialogue delivery issue, or a hidden twist remains to be seen. But it raises eyebrows.

After episode 15, social media has been buzzing — particularly criticising Meeran for leading Nisa on without revealing his marital status. However, one can’t ignore that Meeran has always leaned heavily on Gul Meher. Perhaps she has a larger role in the narrative than what the writers are making it out to be. One hopes this is more than just another typical love story.

Despite its flaws, the performances in Biryani are the highlight. Both Khans fully immerse themselves in their roles. Viewers forget Khushhal and Ramsha — they only see Meeran and Nisa. This marks their second project together — they starred in Duniyapur earlier this year — and their chemistry is undeniable. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to call them the Mahira and Fawad of 2025.

A standout moment comes when Nisa realises she’s falling for Meeran. Ramsha captures the internal conflict of a high-achiever who fears losing control — an emotionally charged scene that blends stellar acting with thoughtful writing. Khushhal, too, brings an authentic rawness to Meeran. His edgy vulnerability that is innately his breathes life into the character.

Styling is another win for Biryani. While many female stars have stuck to a similar look for years — front bangs, or long, straightened hair — Ramsha constantly reinvents herself. From her Baloch styling and accent in Sinf-e-Aahan, to her breezy, casual look in Hum Tum, to the regal elegance in Duniyapur, and now a bare-faced simplicity in Biryani, she nails every look with finesse. Paired with consistently strong performances, she’s solidified her place in the industry.

Khushhal’s styling also comes as a pleasant surprise. Though he plays a university student, he’s not reduced to baggy jeans and graphic tees. Dressed sharply, shot with intention, and performed with conviction — he has made it clear; he’s here to stay and slay.

His big-screen comeback came two years ago with The Legend of Maula Jatt, an action drama that shattered records. But Aabeer Gulaal marks something different — his return to Bollywood in a rom-com, fans’ favourite genre of Fawad Khan films.

After months of anticipation, controversy, and delays, its September 12 release was clouded by politics. It ended up releasing worldwide, except for Pakistan and India.

Being a fan myself, I made the trek across Dubai to catch it, because let’s be honest — if Khan is on the big screen, you can’t miss him!

Warning: Spoilers ahead!

The film opens with Gulaal (played by Kapoor) getting ready for her engagement. Mid-preparations, a friend in the UK calls to tell her to check the newspaper: Aabeer Singh (played by Khan), a celebrated UK-based chef, is in Jaipur hosting a cooking competition where the winner gets a job at his restaurant, Rasoi.

Gulaal convinces her grandmother to abandon her engagement ceremony to go participate in this competition. Once she gets there, we see her dancing, in full engagement attire, to the song ‘Angreji Rang Rasiya’, instead of watching her sweat it out in front of a stove. Her eyes meet Aabeer’s. They have dinner, move to his hotel room, drink, flirt, and the next day, Gulaal wins the competition.

Abeer is surprised that this is the same girl he met the night before — charmed and slightly amused by her carefree attitude.

Conflict arrives quickly: Gulaal’s father, played by Parmeet Sethi, refuses to let her go to the UK. But Gulaal convinces him, invoking her late mother’s wishes (somewhat abruptly introduced via a letter), and boards a flight to the UK, where, as luck would have it, she sits next to Aabeer again. Coincidence? Bollywood magic? You decide.

If the beginning feels abrupt and choppy, the rest of the film doesn’t get any better. Timelines blur, and transitions are abrupt. The two-and-a-half-hour runtime feels even longer, and while Bollywood films are known for stretching well beyond two hours, Aabeer Gulaal stretches patience more than story.

Technically, the film struggles: the colour grading is patchy, the lighting is flat, and the overall look lacks the gloss you’d expect from a big-budget Bollywood production. Having said that, the cinematography is lovely, and the choice of locations is picturesque and on point.

The soundtrack is enjoyable too. ‘Angreji Rang Rasiya’, ‘Khudaya Ishq’, and ‘Tein Tein’ stand out, though it’s hard not to think about how much more impact it would have had if Khan himself had sung ‘Tein Tein’. After all, he isn’t just an actor, he’s also a gifted singer.

We are also subjected to some unnecessary remakes of old Bollywood numbers, shoehorned in as if to inject nostalgia. A dance sequence, rain-drenched romantic interludes, and tributes to Yash Raj classics (Kuch Kuch Hota Hai) might have worked if the film had stronger bones. Here, they felt like desperate attempts to cover cracks in the storytelling.

And now to the heart of it all: the performances.

Khan is, without exaggeration, the soul of this film. His screen presence is magnetic. He slips back into the romantic-hero avatar with ease, reminding audiences why he’s cherished on both sides of the border. Watching him on the big screen doesn’t feel like a comeback; it feels like a reminder of what we’ve been missing.

Kapoor does what she can with a role that’s been played countless times before: the bubbly, carefree heroine. From Sridevi to Kareena Kapoor to Sajal Aly, this archetype has been played over and over, and unfortunately, Gulaal doesn’t bring anything new to it. She looks great on screen, but the writing lets her down.

The biggest letdown, though, is the missing chemistry between the leads. In a rom-com, that spark is absolutely non-negotiable. Khan has a history of electrifying pairings — from Mahira Khan in Humsafar to Sonam Kapoor in Khoobsurat. Here, despite his best efforts, the connection with Kapoor never quite takes off. The result? I was left uninvested in their love story.

Supporting characters are a mixed bag. Parmeet Sethi as Gulaal’s father delivers as the stern, disapproving parent. Farida Jalal is lovely as the grandmother, bringing nostalgia and warmth. Ritti Dogra and Lisa Hayden, in supporting roles, unfortunately, don’t leave much of an impression.

The wardrobe in Aabeer Gulaal is puzzling. Kapoor looks glamorous, but many of her outfits feel over-sexualised for no narrative reason — skimpy and uncomfortably tight.

One scene does deserve special mention, though. When the first teaser dropped months ago, Khan and Kapoor were in a car, listening to the old Bollywood song ‘Kuch Na Kaho’. Fans, myself included, fell in love instantly. On the big screen, it’s magic: Khan humming along, his quiet charm filling the frame, and then Kapoor asking, “Are you flirting with me?” and Khan replying with effortless charisma: “Do you want me to?” For that one minute, the film reminds us exactly why Khan holds a special place in our hearts.

So, what do we make of Aabeer Gulaal?

As an overall cinematic experience, it’s inconsistent, too long, and technically weak. The first half holds your interest, but the second half drags unbearably. A needless new character in the later stretch makes it worse. And while the backdrops are breathtaking, they’re not enough to hide the flaws.

As a Khan fan, Aabeer Gulaal is worth heading to the cinema for, just to be captivated once again by his endless charm. He single-handedly saves a sinking ship.

But did he deserve a better comeback? Absolutely! His fans deserved a tighter, smarter film that matched his stature as a superstar. And until that comes along, Aabeer Gulaal is worth watching for one reason, and one reason only — Fawad Khan.

The truth is, Gen-Z is often just a punchline in our dramas. A group of funny-talking, junk food devouring, entitled brats who can’t take their eyes off screens if their lives depended on it. Parwarish showed young people, just like those around me, as people, not just as comic relief.

Wali (Samar Jafri), the ambitious dreamer. Maya (Aina Asif), the girl who’d been taught nothing but compromise all her life. Ania (Nooray Zeeshan), the young girl carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. Amal and Sameer (Reham Rafiq and Abul Hasan), the perfect embodiment the experience of having Pakistani cousins. These weren’t just characters in a drama; they were people you’ve met at some point. They were excellently written, and the acting was absolutely on point.

So, before I dive into the last episode, here are some thoughts on the series as a whole. Be advised, there are major spoilers ahead.

A love letter to family

The drama starts with Jahangir (Naumaan Ijaz), a Pakistani businessman settled in the US, deciding to bring his wife, Mahnoor (Savera Nadeem) and their children, Wali and Ania, back to Pakistan to give the kids a “proper, Pakistani upbringing”. Ask any overseas Pakistani and they probably know someone who disappeared in the eighth grade after their parents decided to move back all of a sudden.

In Pakistan, they move in with Jahangir’s brother, Suleman (Saad Zameer), his wife, Panah (Saman Ansari), and their two children, Amal and Sameer. Jahangir and Suleman’s parents, played by the evergreen Arshad Mehmood and Shamim Hilaly, complete the newly-formed joint family.

There is a second household too. Maya, her sister Mashal (Haleema Ali) and their parents Shaheer (Nazarul Hassan) and Sadia (Bakhtawar Mazhar). Compared to Jahangir, Suleman, and their upper-class household, Shaheer is a middle-class, white-collar worker. Where the former crave security, the latter guards his honour.

The rest of the story is based on contrasts. Jahangir is stern and unyielding, while Suleman is soft and nurturing. Mahnoor then embodies many of Suleman’s qualities, while Panah is more akin to her brother-in-law. This all comes to a head in one scene where the four of them get into an argument and Mahnoor and Suleman end up on the same side based on instinct.

As an earlier review said, there are no villains in the show, just people. While Jahangir can be seen as the primary antagonist in Wali’s story for most of the show, he really just wants the best for his son. The situation is nearly identical in Maya’s house. Jahangir’s redemption arc was actually a bit of a surprise, but a welcome one, showing the sometimes complex relationships between Pakistani fathers and sons.

Mothers similarly are shown to love their children beyond question, even if it manifests in different ways. Whether it is Mahnoor pacing around, worried about her kids, or Sadia standing between her husband and daughter when Shaheer tried to hit Maya, mothers in the show went to great lengths for their children.

Love and loss

Another aspect remarkably well done by Parwarish was the depiction of young love in the digital age. Maya and Wali were a great on-screen pairing and their soft interactions speak of a love that isn’t “I’ll bring down the moon and the stars” but rather “How was your day? Have you eaten?” Even the singular fight they managed to fit in towards the end made a point about ego, compromise and how a relationship is a two-way street.

Then there’s Amal and her one-sided feelings for her cousin. The portrayal of unrequited love without it altering their existing relationship — despite Jahangir’s best efforts — was well done. It must be said, however, that Amal’s later character arc, particularly her budding romance with a teacher’s assistant, seemed forced.

There’s also a different kind of love altogether, not familial or romantic, but the platonic relationship between student and teacher. Parwarish has had its fair share of call outs for “defying societal morals”, as does any show that dares to be different. However, with Wali and ‘Boss’ (Meesam Naqvi), they showed that a good teacher can be a father figure; a nod to our values going back to the Sufi saints of yore, if not further. This, I would argue, is especially relevant when other dramas are portraying teachers as romantic interests, but that’s a story for another review.

Boss’ death in the second-last episode visibly shatters Wali in what was a powerful performance from Jafri. The fact that his teacher left him all his worldly possessions and how his death eventually led to Wali reconciling with Jahangir only reinforces the earlier idea.

Difficult conversations

Parwarish was first and foremost a drama that showed young people with autonomy. That means they can think for themselves, make their own decisions and defend their choices in front of their parents when prompted — what we’d call jawaab dena (answering back) in Urdu — it also means they’ll make the wrong decisions sometimes. The drama shows that there is a day after scenario for all of this, where parents and children can sit together like adults.

Narcotics played a key role in the plot and the show explored ways to deal with drugs. True to its theme of contrasts, Jahangir uprooted his entire family when his daughter was found to be taking them, while Suleman talked his son out of it in a similar situation. The latter gained the love and respect of his son, while the former lost quite a bit of it from his own children. Parwarish is clear on how to have difficult conversations with love, kindness, and clear communication.

There was also emphasis on another great Pakistani taboo — mental health. The show portrayed things we seldom talk about, panic attacks, self-harm and suicidal tendencies. The message was very clear on this front as well: get help. The role of therapy in helping Ania overcome her guilt — and in mending Jahangir and Mahnoor’s marriage, as briefly shown in the last episode — was clear for all to see.

The last episode — half-baked and scattered

In what was otherwise a powerful narrative with strong performances all around, the last episode didn’t pack the punch it should’ve.

Some parts, like Wali’s tense reunion with his father, were overdone. It was an emotionally charged scene, the tension was palpable, but then they dragged it for way too long — the scene lasted over 10 minutes — leading to viewers saying, “JUST HUG ALREADY”.

Other parts, like the scene with Jahangir and Mahnoor going to couples’ counselling or Amal’s courtship of her research partner, were underdone and not given enough time — the latter was already unnecessary; this just made it awkward.

The scene where Wali receives Boss’ final message led to a few tears, but the creators fumbled in the last lap after an almost perfect drama that captured the youth and their shot-up attention spans. Now that we have tasted representation, we’ll be looking forward to the next such portrayal. Till then, it’s back to Netflix.

James Gunn’s Superman is a refreshing and heartwarming return to form for the character, especially amongst the other gritty and inauthentic portrayals we’ve gotten these past few years. Gunn, as well as actor David Corenswet, seem to be men who truly understand what makes Superman Superman, who and what the character is at his core, giving us one of the most sincere live action portrayals to date.

The key to understanding Superman, you see, is recognising that it’s not a fantasy about having unimaginable power, but a fantasy about what it would be like if a truly good person had imaginable power. That’s Superman. And no Superman story would ever work without understanding that. Trust me when I say Gunn understands it very well, especially with how he handles Clark’s parents.

With endearing performances from Neva Howell and Pruitt Taylor Vince, Ma and Pa Kent are the reason Superman, or more importantly Clark, is as good of a person he is. He is the kind of hero who prioritises saving innocents over defeating villains because that is the kind of man he was raised to be, the kind of person he was shaped into by these two kind farmers who themselves, before everything, are sincerely good people.

Superman doesn’t save humans (or squirrels) because it’s “the right thing to do,” but because it’s the human thing to do. He believes and embodies humanity in a way that, ironically, nowadays feels inhuman. With an unwavering hope in the best of people, he is a character that has always embodied how kindness is strength in a world where many claim it to be naive, and this movie is proud to represent that truth.

That is what makes this film stand out amongst the rest of the failed movies in the superhero genre in recent years; its willingness to believe in its own heart. There’s no trace of embarrassment in how earnestly it approaches its truth, with few attempts to try and hide its ideals behind unnecessary layers of self aware banter or edgy revisionism. It simply is, and allows itself to be the story it is. One not focusing on not the Man of Steel, but on the Symbol of Hope.

That is, perhaps, an accurate summary and description of this blockbuster — authenticity and sincerity. Authenticity when it comes to Clark, in terms of who he is and what the world of Superman stands for, and sincerity in trusting its audience to understand and reconnect with the roots of the superhero.

Compared to how recent Hollywood releases feel the need to undercut or undermine any emotional or complex moment on screen with a (frankly often unfunny) joke or sarcastic quip, Superman respects its audience enough to assume they have an emotional capacity greater than a teaspoon

Now, I’m not going to pretend this film is revolutionary. Quite honestly, it’s not even Gunn’s best, but that isn’t a very fair standard to set considering just how acclaimed the man’s work is (Guardians of the Galaxy, The Suicide Squad). However, this film is special not because it is Superman reinvented or reimagined, but because it is a return to what makes the character as beloved and impactful as he is. Rather than prioritising fleeting relevance, Gunn re-centres the film around what makes the character timeless.

The standout performance is undoubtedly from Corenswet as Clark Kent and Superman — whatever name you want to assign him. He embodies the character in a way that would make even Christopher Reeve proud. However, Nicholas Hoult’s Lex Luthor certainly is a close second; we haven’t had a true hater-coded villain in years. We love to hate them, and Lord is Lex Luthor asking for it. A man-child in his truest form, but I can’t deny how well Hoult pulls it off.

Other notable performances include Rachel Brosnahan’s Lois Lane with a rather refreshing plot line, Edi Gathegi as Mr Terrific helping wonderfully to balance tone, and, of course, Howell and Vince shine as Ma and Pa Kent. Nathon Fillon’s Green Lantern was also a comedic highlight and Wendell Pierce is wonderful as Perry White.

Other under appreciated highlights include just how well the soundtrack immerses the audience into not just the world but the ideals of the movie, which is unsurprising considering that’s Gunn’s thing. With directing and vibrancy that feel like a comic book come to life, Superman knows exactly what it wants to be (and is).

It’s also impressive when you consider that Superman is the kickstarter to the DCU (DC Universe), modelled after the masterpiece that was the DCAU (DC Animated Universe), and for a movie carrying a whole cinematic universe on its back, it did quite well.

Now, spoiler territory; let’s address the elephant in the room.

I did NOT expect such explicit Israel-Palestine references in a major Hollywood blockbuster, but God was it wonderful to see.

To summarise, the ambiguously European(esque) and militarily advanced country of Boravia is invading the neighbouring ambiguously Arab nation of Jarhanpur under the guise of “freeing them from a tyrannical rule” when in actuality they intend to invade and take the land for themselves and split it with primary antagonist, Lex Luthor.

The film starts with the general American discontent with Superman’s involvement where he stops Boravia’s first attempt and attack. Clark explicitly states how just because Boravia has traditionally been “a US ally” and Jarhanpur had traditionally “not” doesn’t make anything justified. The final battle of the film is Boravia reattempting its attack while Superman is occupied in a different battle with Lex Luthor and the scene could be taken straight out of any attack on Gaza. Even the direct imagery and parallels of children as the face of the conflict wasn’t subtle.

While I was originally extremely happy and excited about this portrayal and such a blatantly pro-Palestine plot line, I also think it’s important to think about how this really helps the people who actually need it. Yes, there’s awareness, and yes, it’s a milestone, and I will never not be a fan of everyone working on the movie for it, but what has it actually done? This has gotten the movie a lot of attention and publicity, and in Hollywood these types of tactics aren’t rare. It would be wrong of me not to acknowledge the possibility of there being not the most genuine intentions behind it, but if I’m speaking based off my personal opinion I do think just the directness of the critique is impactful.

Regardless, please do watch Superman. It’s a film, and superhero, who isn’t embarrassed about actually caring. Everyone who has worked on this knows, and everyone who leaves the theatres understands, Clark’s powers aren’t his actual strength. I highly recommend experiencing that yourself.

That’s exactly what Parwarish taps into. A joint family setup, the push and pull of different generations, a little chaos in the kitchen, and all the small, fleeting moments that quietly carry emotional weight.

From the trailer, I had my doubts. The world looked nostalgic, sure, but the cast was mostly young and unfamiliar. Truthfully, I’m a bit of a cast snob, and I wasn’t sure if this cast would hold up, but just a few episodes in, I was sold. Not because of big twists or dramatic reveals, but because of the emotional truth at the drama’s core. Parwarish’s strength lies not in what it dramatises, but in what it observes and delivers — the silences, the shared spaces and the love that sits quietly under frustration.

Up-and-coming actors Samar Jafri, who plays Wali, and Aina Asif, who plays Maya, star as the romantic leads of the show, with Abul Hassan as Sameer and Reham Rafiq as Amal portraying Wali’s cousins.

At the heart of it are two brothers — Suleman (Saad Zameer) and Jahangir (Naumaan Ijaz). Suleman lives in Karachi with his wife and two children, while Jahangir has returned from the US after years away, bringing with him a wife and kids who weren’t entirely on board with leaving the life they had built abroad. That resistance still lingers in their communication, quiet tensions, and unspoken regrets.

The two brothers are poles apart as parents — Suleman is present, warm and emotionally available, while Jahangir is more controlling and often manipulative, his authority masking a deep need to maintain control. Both families now live under the same roof, and naturally, the dynamics are tense.

The wives are different too — the elder (Savera Nadeem) doesn’t believe in fitting into the traditional setup, while the younger (Saman Ansari) is more accepting of that daily routine. And between them all, something is quietly taking shape; a new kind of coexistence, with everyone figuring out how to make room for each other.

Initially, the cousins barely knew how to share a space, but as the show has progressed, we’ve watched them grow into a perfect balance of teasing, supporting, and standing up for each other, the kind of bond that feels very familiar if you’ve grown up surrounded by cousins as many Pakistanis have.

It’s a dynamic we don’t often see onscreen — young, Gen Z characters with real, evolving relationships. In the middle of all this are the elders — Arshad Mehmood as the grandfather, with his soft-hearted warmth, and Shamim Hilaly as the quietly commanding grandmother who holds the home together in her own gentle way.

But Parwarish doesn’t just focus on one household. There’s a second, more modest home where the emotional weight feels heavier, a middle-class, white-collar family that lives under the constant pressure of maintaining respectability.

The father, played by Nazarul Hasan, is rigid and conscious of his surroundings, raising two daughters with one goal: to get the elder one, Maya (Aina Asif), married off. It’s the kind of home we see all around us — quiet sacrifices, emotional silences, and societal expectations that weigh heavier than anyone admits.

Maya, an MBBS student, agrees to get engaged to someone who isn’t her love interest, Wali, because it’s the only way to continue her education. Her decision is one of those quiet emotional bargains many girls make, sacrificing a little freedom for a bigger dream, however, her engagement breaks off in a later episode.

The class divide here is more than a theme; it’s part of the emotional terrain. One of the most unforgettable moments is when Maya’s father visits Wali’s house and says, “Hum aap logon ki tarah iss society say nahi belong kertay jahan yeh baatien do teen dinon mein dab jaati hain [we don’t belong to this society like you do, where matters die down in a few days].

That line and the pain behind it are a truth many families live with but rarely say out loud. Parwarish excels in writing that feels real.

Writer Kiran Siddiqui doesn’t try to be poetic or profound for the sake of it, she writes how people actually speak. There’s brilliance in the ordinariness, in how siblings tease, in how silence sits in a room, in how the words that go unsaid often speak the loudest.

Family dynamics — no villains, just people

What I love most about Parwarish is how natural everything feels. There are no overdone villains, just regular people with everyday tensions, quiet biases and personal struggles. The grandmother (Hilaly) prefers her wealthier daughter-in-law, who has just returned from abroad. She uses desi totkas or home remedies and old-school parenting wisdom, something that’s all just so real and something many go through with their own grandmothers.

The tension between the two daughter-in-laws played effortlessly by Ansari and Nadeem is equally authentic. Their silent glances, struggle for acceptance, and emotional distance are all true to the reality — nothing over the top or dramatised.

The cousin bond is also something special. Parwarish is perhaps the first drama that truly captures Gen Z cousin dynamics — the teasing, the fallouts, the under-the-table alliances. If you’ve grown up in a big family, you’ve lived these scenes your entire life.

In the most recent episode, we have entered a new chapter: Wali, alone, trying to figure out love, identity, and whether he can live on his own terms. Both households are holding their breath, unsure of what comes next.

The scene that truly leaves a lasting impact is when Maya’s mother (Bakhtawar Mazhar) finally finds her voice. Her husband raises his hand at their daughter, and she steps forward, not just to stop him, but to stand by her child. Her voice trembles, but her belief doesn’t. She chooses to believe in her daughter — something so many mothers want to do, but often lack the strength or confidence for.

That moment was not just about defiance; it was about love. It was about breaking generational silence. What followed, when Maya’s father barged into Wali’s home in frustration, was another standout with Nazarul Hasan and Mazhar saying so much in those unsaid words and expressions. Their performances in these scenes are a masterclass in restraint and power.

Richness in details

Speaking of restraint, the show’s romantic subplot — Maya and Wali’s budding connection — is sweet and young. But here’s where it gets tricky. Aina Asif is only 16 years old in real life. Her character is meant to be around 19, a first-year MBBS student. While romance at that age is natural and real, centring the emotional weight of the show on such young characters, especially one portrayed by a minor, needs careful balance.

These are kids, and when a drama is called Parwarish, it’s important that its heart remains rooted in parenting, growth, and generational complexity, not just young love. The romance can be sweet, but it shouldn’t become the main act. Otherwise, the core identity of the show starts to shift.

And then there was that attempt at Gen Z lingo in episode 13 — ‘skibidi’, ‘sigma’, and other trending words awkwardly stuffed into dialogue. It barely lasted two minutes, but it felt like a Google search for ‘how Gen Z talks’ come to life. These moments can be fun, but only if they come naturally from the characters. Otherwise, it just sticks out like a hashtag that doesn’t belong.

Visually, Parwarish is thoughtful and beautifully crafted. Director Meesam Naqvi builds a rhythm into every scene, letting moments stretch, giving space to silence, and allowing emotions to breathe. Whether it’s someone sitting alone on the stairs or a quiet glance exchanged in the kitchen, every frame feels intentional.

The production design is rich in detail, from the roti maker to the mortar and pestle, everything in that house feels real, lived-in, and familiar. The colour palette is soft and earthy, like a memory.

And then comes the acting, which is the heartbeat of the show. Ijaz and Zameer bring a deep, unspoken history to their roles as brothers. Mehmood is the gentle, loving father figure, while Hilaly is quietly commanding, holding her family together with grace. Mazhar and Nazarul Hasan deliver some of the most emotionally layered performances. You might not agree with the characters, but you feel their pain.

Asif is brilliant — composed, authentic, and emotionally present. Jafri is entirely natural, his expressions subtle and honest. Reham Rafiq, Noraay Zeeshan, and Abul Hasan make for a relatable and well-balanced cousin crew, with Abul especially bringing comic timing and charm that never feel forced.

Nadeem and Ansari as the two daughters-in-law are outstanding. Whether they’re sharing glances across a table or navigating the silent politics of shared household work, they bring quiet power to every scene.

Parwarish started as a comforting family drama, but it’s grown into something deeper — a drama about identity, class, parenting, love, and the unspoken stories we live through.

It speaks to everything millennials have grown up navigating the expectations, the unacknowledged pressures, the relationships that fracture not from fights, but from silence.

And above all, it reminds us of the one thing that holds families together: communication, because when that breaks, everything else slowly follows.

If Parwarish continues with the same sincerity and emotional honesty, it won’t just be a drama people watch. It’ll be a drama they remember in conversations, in quiet reflections, in moments they never thought they’d see on screen.

Directed by Rafay Rashdi, Deemak is a slow-burn thriller built on tension, silence, and cultural fears. The film opens with a large, aging home, its wooden railings, heavy drapes, and shadowed corners hinting at what’s to come. The story focuses on a family navigating personal tensions while unexplained phenomena begin to unravel their everyday life.

Jawed Sheikh plays Mehmood, the deceased patriarch, while Faysal Quraishi takes on the role of Faraz, a man caught between his wife Hiba (Sonya Hussyn) and his paralysed mother (Samina Peerzada). Bushra Ansari makes an appearance towards the tail end of the film when the situation is out of control, with commentary and presence that adds weight. Each member of this ensemble brings years of experience to their roles, which is essential in a genre that can easily become exaggerated if not handled with control.

The film’s central conflict lies in the strained relationship between the daughter-in-law and the mother-in-law. Hiba is a new mother trying to settle into her role, while the elderly Dado has lived through decades of trauma and emotional neglect. A fall on the stairs leaves Dado bedridden and cared for by a home nurse, Iqra, until she also leaves without informing the family after witnessing strange things happening with Dado.

It is Covid time and nurses are few and far between so Hiba is left to tend to the house, children and now Dado as well. Soon, it’s clear that the house is no longer just a home, and that something far more sinister has begun to take hold.

The children are the first to notice it. Rafay, the younger son, first senses something is off, followed by his older sister Rumaisa. Their observations are dismissed, as often happens in such films, but their unease becomes the audience’s cue to pay closer attention.

Deemak uses horror not just as a scare tactic, but as a lens through which to examine emotional decay. The termite metaphor — destruction from within — is carried through both the house and the relationships within it. Abuse, guilt, resentment and denial are the real ghosts here, and they leave a stronger impression than the jump scares.

The visual effects are handled well, especially considering the limited history of high-quality horror visuals in Pakistani cinema. The film’s CGI, done in collaboration with a Canadian team, allows for believable yet understated supernatural elements, floating furniture, shifting shadows, and flickering lights. More than that, the sound design plays a major role: quiet sobs, laughter in empty rooms, and distant screams keep viewers on edge without overwhelming them.

Peerzada delivers a strong performance, despite spending most of the film motionless. Her expressions do the heavy lifting, watching her eyes shift and her mouth twitch is more unsettling than any makeup or special effect. Quraishi holds the middle ground well, trying to balance loyalty and logic. Hussyn’s portrayal of a reserved, quietly terrified woman feels grounded and adds to the film’s tension.

Deemak arrives at a time when Pakistani horror is gradually evolving. Films like Zibahkhana (2007) and Aksbandh (2016) explored slasher and found-footage territory, while In Flames (2023) brought psychological horror into the arthouse realm. Deemak continues this shift, offering a genre film that focuses more on emotional and psychological realism than on spectacle.

The film ends on a quiet, grim note, suggesting that trauma doesn’t just haunt us, it settles in. Like termites, it lives inside walls and bodies, feeding off what’s already broken. If there’s a message here, it’s this: houses, like families, can fall apart not because of what’s outside, but because of what’s ignored within.

Deemak may not reinvent the horror genre, but it stays committed to its story. It’s restrained, atmospheric, and unsettling in ways that feel personal. And sometimes, that’s enough.

The drama, written by Nooran Makhdoom, directed by Ali Faizan and starring Danish Taimoor as Kabir Khan (Romeo) and Sahar Hashmi as Riya Asghar Ali Khan (Juliet) in the lead roles, gives a specific reason for the feud between the families of Kabir and Riya. That reason, however, is a little hard to digest. In fact, what we witness in this drama is a complete reduction to absurdity of the family feud in Romeo and Juliet. Action, dialogue and plot are all unfavourably affected by this absurdity.

To sum up, as a 10-year old, Kabir accidentally, or at the very least innocently, shoots dead Riya’s father, Asghar Ali Khan (Salman Peerzada), when he sees him with his hands around his mother, Saba Hamid’s throat, apparently in an attempt to strangle her. The moment occurs during a flashback scene in episode seven that reveals that an enraged Asghar Ali Khan had come to defend the honour of his other daughter (Riya’s older sister) Asma, played by Uzma Hassan, who while married to Kabir’s older brother Mobin Khan (Kamran Jilani), has been accused of infidelity by her in-laws.

After Asghar Ali Khan’s death, Kabir is sent abroad by his mother Ma Bina so that he does not fall victim to Sikander Khan (Adnan Samad Khan) and Asma’s revenge for their father’s death. Kabir returns after a 10-year family-imposed exile to fall back in love with Riya (who he was engaged to in his childhood). The rest of the drama’s action concerns itself with the developing love between the Kabir and Riya amidst the enmity of the two families.

In Shakespeare’s play the onus of the tragedy rests, for the most part, on the feud between the families of Romeo and Juliet. The ensuing unacceptability and intolerance of their love ultimately becomes the main cause of their tragic deaths. But what is tragic in Shakespeare’s play is rendered ridiculous in Mann Mast Malang. The intensity of hatred and revenge as shown in Mann Mast Malang and based on an accidental killing by a young child is not very convincing.

With continuing episodes, this rationale becomes more and more absurd. In fact, Mann Mast Malang reveals how a word or idea if repeated enough, loses its intensity and even its meaning. The word ‘dushman’ or enemy is reiterated to such an extent in the dialogue that the word, the concept, and the ‘dushmani’ or enmity between the families becomes almost nonsensical. The result is that the enmity comes across as little more than something being carried on due to a lack of something better to do.

Mann Mast Malang actually helps explain why Shakespeare may have chosen to maintain a quick pace for his play — the fast-paced action of Romeo and Juliet is spread over approximately four to five days. It reveals an understanding of audience tolerance of the subject matter. In Mann Mast Malang, the family feud stretches over so multiple episodes — 38 so far — and is prolonged, monotonous and tedious.

Yet, the drama challenges the viewer further when casting choices reveal an incongruity between casting and action. When Kabir returns after 10 years, if we take into account that he was 10 years old at the time of the incident and perhaps a few years older when he was sent off, he should be, roughly speaking, somewhere around 20 to 25 years old now.

Using a mature actor such as Taimoor, who is in his 40s, to play the role as well as the maturity of lines in the dialogue given to his character are just not in keeping with the character’s supposed age. In spite of the questionable creative choice, it seems that the casting decision has paid off. Certainly, the YouTube viewership of the drama suggests that the drama owes its success largely to Taimoor’s star power and his being cast once again in a role that he has become adept in; that of a passionately obsessive lover. Given the storyline and action of the drama, there is little reason to attribute the drama’s success to any other reason.

The repetition in both dialogue (’dushman’ comes to mind again) and action makes us feel as if the drama has lost its plot by repeating that plot all too often. It is a pity, because in its beginning, the drama did seem promising. It began well with the establishment of an important central conflict: the feud between the two families. It also gave us some special moments in its early episodes with touches of Bollywood in episodes two and three during scene when Kabir first sets eyes on a now grown-up Riya dancing at a friend’s wedding in a red dress and roses in her hair and again later when he is standing in the rain, allowing himself to register his new found feelings of love.

Love and conflict, proven factors of success in past productions, were both in the air. But 38 episodes on, they have been run to the ground.

While we may be able to forgive the drama makers for their negligence of fine details with regard to the content and presentation of the drama, it is more difficult to overlook the demolition of its female protagonist. Riya, presented as a grade 12 student who has unsuccessfully tried to pass the grade several times, cannot even recite her two times table. In contrast, Kabir, the hero, is endowed with superior intelligence and understanding, as well as an ability to teach multiple academic subjects (chemistry, physics, mathematics etc) to both Riya and her friend.

The viewer may be able to sympathise with Riya for not being academically inclined but her lack of intelligence — even common sense — cannot be entirely accounted for by her naiveté. There are moments in the drama, such as when she is talked into believing the worst about Kabir by her family, where she demonstrates little to no judgment or sense. It is a disappointing depiction of womanhood by a female writer and we can only hope for more inspiring female characters in the future from the channel.

Even if Mann Mast Malang was not intended to be an adaptation of Romeo and Juliet, and even if we were to totally disregard Shakespeare’s play, there is much to lament about in the presentation of this drama. It is painful how the drama’s creative choices ignore the intelligence of Pakistani television drama viewers. Mann Mast Malang’s storyline of young lovers struggling against family opposition is reminiscent of classic tales such as Laila Majnu, Heer Ranjha and, of course, Romeo and Juliet. But what makes such tales enduring is the element of the tragic.

It is precisely this element that is missing in Mann Mast Malang. The drama makes us want to laugh rather than cry. Whether this ‘Romeo and Juliet’ will eventually be given a tragic ending remains to be seen. There is a possibility, however, that when that happens the weary viewer will let out a sigh of relief that it is all finally over.

When I first heard that there was a show being made on two Pakistani brothers, I was sceptical. I’m not the audience for cutesy, family-friendly dramas and I don’t have much interest in actively watching them. Deli Boys was anything but the family-friendly, wholesome show I was expecting.

The 10-episode series on Hulu and Disney+ created by Abdullah Saeed is about two brothers, Mir (Asif Ali) and Raj (Saagar Shaikh) Dar, whose rich boy lives are turned upside down after the death of their beloved father (Iqbal Theba) — Baba to all — and the discovery that he was a drug lord. The brothers — one an overly eager to please pushover and the other an irresponsible drug-loving Lothario — are soon pushed into the world of drug peddling with the FBI hot on their heels. They need to lean on Lucky Aunty (Poorna Jagannathan) and Ahmed Uncle (Brian George) if they’re going to keep themselves and Darco afloat.

This is not a heavy watch by any means — with episodes of 25-ish minutes and a slapstick touch to the show, Deli Boys is comedy through and through.

The boys are out of touch with reality and are brought back down to earth in a way that elicits quite a few chuckles.

Something Tan France, who also makes a guest appearance in the show, said about it on Instagram got me thinking. He said to those who believe it’s a show solely for brown people, “It’s a show for everyone. If I could relate to white shows my entire life you can relate to this.”

He spoke about needing more diversity in television and more shows like Deli Boys. “We need people to watch it and talk about it otherwise we don’t get more shows like this.”

He’s right. The only way for us to get real representation, even of the variety shown in Deli Boys, is to make more shows like it and to watch the shows that have been created. And this is easy with Deli Boys.

One of the best parts to me about the show was that Mir and Raj didn’t require an introduction to Pakistani culture. We weren’t beaten over the head with it, nor was it stuffed down our throats. The culture was there, casually hovering in the background, from Raj’s necklace with Allah written on it to them calling Lucky ‘Aunty’ despite her not being related to them, Mir’s Mother-in-law to be giving him the one-armed hug signifying she didn’t want to be too close, one of the Maliks being a former minister in Pakistan or the good old Indian-Pakistani rivalry — there’s a lot but it’s so secondary that it makes you feel like it’s interwoven in the story rather than a glaring addition slipped in to force inclusivity.

The show itself is funny, especially the chemistry between the two brothers. Mir’s screams were almost like a character in and of themselves.

Mir is the one who has always been yearning for his father’s approval. The more strait laced of the two, he’s the more responsible and neurotic one. His world literally falls apart after Baba’s death, leading him to financial ruin and the possible loss of the high-flying lifestyle he and his fiancée Bushra currently enjoy.

Raj on the other hand has never had to work for anything — money, women or his father’s affection and approval. He’s the laidback, chill brother, who has no interest in working. All he wants to do is live his rich boy life free of responsibilities and dabbling in recreational drugs with his girlfriend and shaman Prairie.

I also liked how the two actors actually are Pakistani Americans, and have the pronunciations down. The star of the show for me was, of course, the murderous Lucky, who is a killer with a heart of gold — not 24 carat gold, mind you, but gold nonetheless. Some of my favourite one-liners in the show came from her.

There were quite a few funny moments, and the show is quite violent. It’s definitely not for kids with loads of profanity, mentions of drugs and other adult content.

In short, why should you watch Deli Boys? — it’s funny and the kind of fun content I wish Pakistan was able to make. From the fight scenes and gore, to the ridiculous situations and snappy one liners, Deli Boys is a fun show to binge watch about a couple of Pakistani-American guys who don’t need to prove they’re Pakistani. It also proves you can make content about non-white people without their culture having to be their entire personalities.

The cage is Ibby’s unshakable ego (that’s the name of Shaz’s character) — an impossible to escape character flaw that’s rooted naturally as part of his psyche.

Seeing Ibby’s self-destructive trajectory, I am sure this was a partially conscious decision between Shaz and co-writer Michael Ross Albert.

Ibby’s anger is spontaneous, and he navigates life with giant blinkers that cut out everything in one’s peripheral vision, other than, that is, the goal of being the best of the best in the MMA. But take a step back, and one realises that Ibby is seeing a boy’s dream — a boy who has yet to become a man, who is standing in a room full of mirrors that only show his own reflection.

As we see in the first fight of the ‘Extreme Combat Challenge’ — an MMA championship that streams digitally from the open plains of the Arizona desert — Ibby is proud of his skills as a fighter; he doesn’t cheat nor does he fight without compassion.

Yet, despite his good-guy persona, one doesn’t quite understand the reason for his constant state of disgruntlement. Why is he incessantly miffed at the world, the characters around him question (though not out loud). The answer evades them, just as it evades the audience.

Tragedy hits Ibby as it hits every lead character in every sports-underdog movie, but rather than confront it as a man, he lets his self-conceit burn the world to ashes. Four years later, his career is gone, along with his support-group: his girlfriend, brother and mother (Sanam Saeed, Babar Peerzada and Thesa Loving). Ibby then travels to a remote village in the mountains of north Pakistan where he learns new fighting skills under a wise Dada (Faran Tahir), along with a sense of inner tranquillity, humility, redemption and the will to walk the path of resurgence.

Shaz’s film, in its most simple state, is the story of a boy who is reluctant to become a man. It is, by far, the most interesting — if not the most original — offering this Eidul Fitr, though it is not without slip ups.

The film is, at times, a reflection of the glaring traits that define Ibby: a strong will and a lack of maturity.

The story, for instance, needs the touch of a seasoned writer — or at least a consultation from someone who could have guided the screenplay better, especially when it comes to the creative misuse of a major reveal that lands face first at an important juncture in the film.

Most scenes are too raw; they come and go without flair, nuance or emotional engagement. This feeling of distance is further augmented with unrefined, basic lighting setups and inexpertly placed transitions of the background score.

The last technical glitch hits as strong as any KO punch Ibby lands on the opponents he faces.

The film also feels like a trimmed version of a longer film; the serrated edges of the narrative shows that a bigger picture is waiting to be assembled from the bins (ie folders of footage) of the editing software.

But credit where credit is due: the cast — which later also adds the very appealing Shamayale Khattak — perform admirably…irrespective of the enterprise being a showcase of Shaz’s filmmaking and acting ability.

One can also see the sheer effort and skill in the fights and their choreography.

Although there are a total of two legit championship bouts (the film has two more brawls, though they only count as a means to push the plot forward), one notices that during the fights, the camera deliberately stays locked onto the actors, rarely cutting away from the lithe brutality of MMA combat.

The action and the acting help elevate a passionate, if undercooked — though never appalling — story that’s in dire need of a tune up.

Considering the line-up of movies waiting for the audience in cinemas, The Martial Artist could very well be the unrefined diamond in the rough; it stands tall in the slew of releases, but only because there’s nothing better out there this Eid.

Released by HUM Films, The Martial Artist is rated U (Universal) and is suitable for audiences of all ages.

I went in to it blind, knowing only that it was about a child accused of a serious crime. But while it begins as a standard police procedural, it evolves into an exploration of bullying and internet-fuelled misogyny that compels viewers to reckon with the toxicity with which children nowadays must contend.

The show begins with detectives Luke Bascombe (Ashley Walters) and Misha Frank (Faye Marsay) leading a frantic raid on the Miller family’s house to arrest the most unthinkable of suspects — a 13-year-old boy named Jamie (Owen Cooper). They take Jamie to the police station, where he and his family must navigate the bureaucracy of their surroundings while in a state of shock. The crime for which Jamie is suspected is only revealed in the final third of the episode, which concludes with a shock that obviates any curiosity surrounding whether he is guilty or not.

Episodes two, three and four shift their focus away from the specifics of the crime to deal with the sociocultural environment that led to it. In episode two, Bascombe and Frank visit Jamie’s school, and while they make headway in the case, they cannot help but be taken aback by the bleak environment of bullying and aggression in which the children are studying. The trip compels Bascombe to reflect on his relationship with his son who studies at the same school.

Episode three takes place almost entirely within the confines of the detention centre in which Jamie is being held and shows a conversation between him and court-appointed psychologist Briony Ariston (Erin Doherty). The exchange starts off amicably but becomes terrifying as Jamie flies into fits of rage during several moments in the discussion, which is a frank attempt at understanding male entitlement and rage.

Finally, in episode four, we are transported to a moment 13 months after Jamie’s detention. It is the birthday of Jamie’s father, Eddie (Graham), who wants to experience a normal day, but cannot as his neighbours and wider community keep reminding him of his son’s trial. In one of the show’s final moments, he and his wife Manda (Christine Tremarco) have a painfully honest conversation about their parenting and the need to monitor young boys’ internet activity in a world where manospheric influencers are preying on children’s insecurities about masculinity for views and followers.

Like Boiling Point, each episode of Adolescence takes place in one shot. If watched without breaks, the amount of time that passes during a viewing is the same in both the real world and the show’s universe. The result is that viewers feel immersed in the show. When the police are taking Jamie from one part of the station to another, you feel his disorientation and anxiety.

Viewer immersion is particularly important in Adolescence, because it is attempting to understand society’s role — including that of you and I — in allowing young men’s violence against women. Collectively, people are allowing adolescent bullying to be pervasive, while a lack of regulation and oversight means that influencers like Andrew Tate can easily spread unhealthy ideas about masculinity and women online. While the show mentions Tate, Jack Thorne — who co-wrote the show with Graham — has said they did not want to focus on him because he is a very small part of the manosphere.

After watching the show, I decided to search “What is masculinity?” on YouTube to see what sort of content appeared. I was expecting to find videos that engage with the concept of masculinity in an academic, or at least well-informed way, since YouTube is often a source of informative and thoughtful content for me. To my surprise, I learned that, much like Adolescence suggests, we live in an almost dystopian reality where most of the search results are videos in which manospheric influencers shared rigid and misogynistic ideas of men and women.

While I am old enough to reject such videos as unhealthy, I wonder whether young boys stumbling upon them internalise what they are being told and feel the need to act in a way that reflects the manospheric notion of masculinity.

If Adolescence’s intention is to serve as an alarm bell, it had its intended effect on me. Until a week ago, I thought that influencers like Tate existed on the fringes of society, to whom only a small fraction of disaffected young men paid attention. Surely the manosphere does not have wide acceptance? According to Adolescence, like Jamie’s unsuspecting parents, I remained unaware to the reality of the internet today. The manosphere features heavily in content targeted to young boys, and unless we address the issue now, more women will suffer.

Strong acting accompanies assured direction and thoughtful writing to bring the show together. Graham is excellent as Eddie, a father and husband who struggles to reckon with the changes in his life after Jamie’s arrest and contend with his own role in the actions of his son. Graham has consistently delivered good performances in challenging roles, and with the release of Adolescence, he can make a claim for himself as one of the best contemporary actors in English-language film and television.

The standout performance of the show is Cooper’s, who must be commended for his work. In his first acting performance, he managed to bring Jamie to life consistently during continuous, hour-long takes. Acting for the first time is difficult enough, playing the turbulent Jamie harder still, but add to it the need to maintain character for an hour? What we have is a masterclass in acting from a young boy who likely has a very promising career ahead of him.

Adolescence asks very important questions but ultimately leaves it to viewers to come up with answers. In the UK, where the show is set and I live, Adolescence has already prompted a conversation about male rage and violence against young women.

Prime Minister Keir Starmer has backed a proposal to screen the show in schools. Show co-writer Thorpe has called for a ban on smartphones for children, arguing that parents may not be tech-savvy enough to make use of internet parental controls. While radical, his call is similar to a relatively milder legislation approved in Australia in November 2024 which prohibits social media for children under the age of 16.

What Britain does during this moment of reckoning remains to be seen; that the show is encouraging such dialog is itself a monumental achievement. I hope that Pakistanis watch the show and reflect on the male rage and entitlement that is normalised in the country. While watching it is by no means easy, we are all the better for doing so.

This is what we see in the final nine minutes of Tan Man Neel o Neel, HUM TV’s hit mini-series in which a love story unravels into a cautionary tale on mob mentality and manufactured outrage.

The story revolves around Rabi (Sehar Khan) and Sonu (Shuja Asad), a young couple full of hope as they plan their future together. Their happiness is threatened by Rabi’s cousin, Kami (Usman Javed), who has harboured feelings for her since childhood. Kami is more than just a jilted admirer; he’s a professional agitator working for local politicians. When he learns of Rabi’s engagement to Sonu, his heartbreak turns to vengeance.

At a wedding where Rabi is the event planner and Sonu is performing, Kami airs a clip of Sonu’s classical dance in a temple courtyard, falsely claiming it’s inside a mosque. Kami whips the crowd into a frenzy, urging them not to stand idly by as their faith and places of worship are under attack, encouraging them to take justice into their own hands.

The hysteria reaches its breaking point in a scene that mirrors the lynching of Mashal Khan and Priyantha Kumara. As they run through the narrow streets of their neighbourhood, Rabi, Sonu, his best friend Moon, and Rabi’s father and uncle are no longer people — they are prey, hunted by a mob drunk on manufactured rage.

Then, Tan Man Neel o Neel does something unexpected: it ends. Abruptly. Brutally.

In an instant, most of the cast is gone. Moon, Rabi’s father, and her uncle lie dead in the alley. Rabi and Sonu’s fate is left to implication — we don’t see their bodies, just their belongings left behind like scattered wreckage. A dupatta on the streets where Rabi grew up. A jacket caught on a power line, falling from a rooftop where Sonu used to practice his dances.

As the credits roll, the show leaves viewers with images of real victims — people who, like Rabi and Sonu, were accused of blasphemy and paid for it with their lives. This isn’t just a cautionary tale. It’s a mirror held up to a nation where mob violence is law.

According to Usman Javed (Kami), this sleight of hand by show creators Sultana Siddiqui, Mustafa Afridi, and Saife Hassan, in which the drama stays on a straightforward trajectory with plenty of lighthearted moments, reserving the shock factor till the very end is what makes the show particularly impactful.

By maintaining a lighter tone for most of its runtime, the sudden shift to darkness is more emotionally resonant.

According to Javed, he filmed a few prison cell scenes, as one version of the ending had his character, Kami, going to jail.

Javed shared that even he was deeply moved upon seeing images of real-life victims, as the actors had been unaware that the ending would include them.

The actor, a graduate of the National Academy of Performing Arts, said that he deliberately avoided watching real-life mob lynching footage, wanting the play to be true to the script’s demands and his interpretation of the character of Kami.

When I reached out to viewers on X for their thoughts on the show, many pointed out the clever references and subtle callbacks peppered throughout the drama.

For instance, director Hassan plays the role of a powerful politician who — despite relying on mob mentality and manufactured outrage to further his ambitions — becomes the first victim of Kami’s mob attack in the end.

Others wrote about the incredible bond that forms between Sonu and Rabi’s mothers and how the images of them hugging each other and crying are that much more poignant, knowing that at the end, it’s just the two of them left — two women lose everything because of men with fragile egos who couldn’t handle a woman’s rejection.

Another powerful moment occurs at the end when we see director Afridi, who briefly appears in the show as a host at the event where the mob begins, sitting on a sidewalk, crying. In the background the show’s OST plays: “Hum khud hi apnay qatil, hum khud hi apni dushman, hum khud hi aag k sholaay, aur zadd main apna aangan [we are our own murderers, we are our own enemies, we are the embers of the fire, and we strike our own home.]”

One viewer notes how this scene echoes an earlier moment when Sonu and Rabi are planning the catering for the event, and he tells her, “Dedh sau log hain [there are 150 people].” The viewer reflects, “There were dedh sau log, but among them, only one was truly human.”

Another viewer shared a screenshot of the final scenes with expressionless women and children watching from their balconies as the mob chases Rabi and Sonu.

In our interview, Javed reflects on this moment. According to him, the drama reminds us how easily our society can forget and move on. Javed believes Tan Man Neel o Neel is having an outsize impact on us all because it made us fall in love with and deeply connect with the cast of motley characters, only to suddenly and brutally tear them away, which mirrors the devastating loss experienced by real victims’ families and friends.

As one viewer sums it up: “Just a single accusation and a life erased in moments. No proof, no hesitation, just blind fury taking over while the world watches and moves on.”

Tan Man Neel o Neel also boldly confronts other heavy topics.

At the start of the series, Sonu’s best friend Moon is raped by a local politician who wants to humiliate him for asking for full payment for a dance performance. The show uses the subplot of Moon’s sexual assault to do two things. First, it emphasises how there is no perfect victim. Whether you are a dancer or a doctor or from a certain religion or neighbourhood — a victim is a victim. Yet, Moon’s occupation and standing in society ultimately determine whether or not he gets justice.

Tan Man Neel o Neel also stealthily educates viewers on the importance of timely reporting of sexual assault, emphasising that victims have a window of two days to file a police report and that a medical exam can significantly strengthen a case. The cop tells Moon, “Case kamzor toh tum kamzor [if the case is weak then so are you],” encapsulating the harsh truth that, in Pakistan, police are the gatekeepers to the criminal justice system who frequently treat rape victims as shameless criminals for coming in and asking for their rights.

The series also effectively showcases how politicians manufacture outrage, keeping the public constantly distracted to advance their nefarious political agendas — something that plays out disturbingly often in Pakistan, where such tactics manipulate public sentiments and sway elections.

Ultimately, though, where the drama really shines is in the last 10 minutes, making it clear what we all subconsciously know: that the problem is not that we have blasphemy laws on the books — it’s that, in Pakistan, blasphemy has become a business.

Even if the Supreme Court were to clear every accused currently imprisoned on blasphemy charges, the threat of violence would persist because the real threat is not the words on paper but the mentality of the rogue actors who play judge, jury, and executioner. Who bypass due process. Who misuse blasphemy laws to silence opponents, settle personal vendettas, or for financial extortion.

As Tan Man Neel o Neel shows us, our society is morally and mortally wounded. In Pakistan, the state no longer administers justice — the mob does. We’ve convinced ourselves that we are above the law and alone can determine guilt and deliver punishment. This is more than lawlessness; it’s a moral transgression that no state or society can survive for long.

To quote Kami’s father: “Ye aag apne hi ghar tak aa ponchay gi [The fire you light on the streets will one day reach your home].”

We need more than legal reform; we need a societal reorientation — an unlearning of the hatred and intolerance ingrained in our communities. Without it, the cycle of violence will continue and the mobs will keep growing.

Meem Se Mohabbat is yet another example of this trend. Written by Farhat Ishtiaq and directed by Ali Hassan, the drama follows the lives of Ayat Suleman (Roshi), played by Dananeer Mobeen, and Talha Ahmed, portrayed by Ahad Raza Mir. The characters are polar opposites, and we find ourselves dropped into their overly dramatic and chaotic interactions. With unnecessary side characters, exaggerated performances, and a rather cliché storyline, the drama offers nothing fresh or memorable — ultimately fading into the realm of forgettable content.

The only redeeming aspects are the performances of the Mirs (Asif Raza Mir plays Ahad’s father in the series) and Naveen Naqvi. The real to reel father-son duo, along with Naqvi’s graceful presence, are the only elements that give any depth to an otherwise merely passable show.

Meem Se Mohabbat encapsulates everything that is wrong with contemporary Pakistani dramas. It highlights the Pakistani drama industry’s decline, characterised by predictable, overused characters, dragged out story lines, and cringe-worthy performances. The inclusion of a “modern” female antagonist, frequently dressed in Western attire, is a tired trope.

In one of the recent episodes, both the female protagonist and the antagonist chase after the male lead, completely disregarding their self-respect. The only good thing about that scene was Mobeen’s hair colour — and, of course, the fact that it ended.

The responsibility for the repetitive portrayal of the young, energetic character — whether it lies with the performer or the director — can be difficult to pinpoint. Mobeen’s portrayal of Roshi is too exaggerated to digest. She appears to be intentionally off-balance whenever she approaches Talha, and it seems as though she has a different expression and body language for every second spent in front of the camera. It is disappointing to see this performance from her, especially given she delivered such a strong performance in a somewhat similar role in Mohabbat Gumshuda Meri.

As for the hero, he is no different when it comes to stereotypes. A wealthy man single-handedly managing his father’s business at a young age, he is portrayed as both humble and principled. Despite his powerful position, he remains grounded and sensible. We find him pining for the innocent and bubbly girl, but refuses to give in to his whimsies due to the significant age gap.

While Talha is shown to be well-established in his career, Roshi seems to be fresh out of college, interning at his firm. It is a rare, refreshing take in a sea of problematic portrayals, particularly given the current trend of older men romancing younger women, which often feels both awkward and laughable. Since Talha and Roshi are the main leads and will ultimately be portrayed as a couple, it is commendable that the issue of a significant age gap crossed his mind.

There is one scene in particular that deserves mention. Note that it has not been aired yet. Yes, that one — the long-awaited confrontation between Talha and Roshi on the beach, teased in last week’s promotional clips. Viewers were led to believe it would feature in the current week’s episodes, but it was nowhere to be found. Are you wondering why? Most likely because the scenes have been unnecessarily stretched to fill more episodes. Alternatively, did the TV channel air the wrong teasers? Only the channel can clarify, but given the trend, the former seems more plausible.

It is safe to say that the days of quality content — stories told with precision, thoughtfully crafted characters, meaningful dialogue, crisp dialogue delivery and skilled actors — are far behind us. Now, we are inundated with poorly edited shows, irrelevant side characters stealing screen time, cringe-worthy humour, and overzealous “bubbly” female leads.

Today’s industry seems more focused on chasing TRPs and prolonging shows that are begging to end, rather than delivering a cohesive, engaging narrative. Need proof? Just take a look at the comment section of Jafaa on YouTube; a perfect example of a compelling story that could have gone down in history as a cult classic, ruined to increase the episode count.