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When drama was king
Most deserts undergo a remarkable transformation after rainfall. A multitude of flowers dot the landscape mile after mile. But a few days later, as the harsh sun wreaks havoc again, the blossoms wither away, leaving behind nothing but bare sands.
It is the same with Pakistani television dramas. There was a time when plays blossomed like flowers on screen, but then the freshness and fragrance was abruptly taken away. Sans creativity, the scene became harsh and barren, with even the occasional flurry of colour in spring time no longer noticeable. The question that has been asked a million times and still remains unanswered today is: why is it that Pakistan TV drama today is not as good as it was in the 1970s and the ’80s?
On investigation, the revelations are startling. One finding is that the Pakistani producer — who was the undoubted leader in producing high-quality plays — became the follower. When this happens, it means that s/he has surrendered and stands vanquished, and the vanquished can never hope for glory.
On probing further, one finds that around the ’80s, there was a perceptible change in the ethics and outlook of the personnel in PTV, the only stakeholder in producing TV plays in Pakistan. This change in outlook had a pronounced effect on the quality of plays as technicians, actors, set designers, etc, no longer gave it their best shot. The breed of the ’70s and the ’80s, that believed in giving their last ounce of blood to achieve high results, now shunned any kind of sacrifice. Real life had taught them a harsh lesson and their priorities had changed forever.
A revolution had occurred in their thinking. The creative man, whether a technician, photographer or a producer, needed more money for his efforts. He was a part of the society in which materialism had killed idealism. Simple living and high thinking gave way to high living and low thinking. He was no longer content with riding a scooter or a motorcycle. He also began to loathe riding public transport. Money was more important than anything else whereas high-class work would give him, at best, an award and a certificate and nothing more. Public appreciation was just not enough anymore.
If one surmises the quotes of artistes and the technical staff in the mid-80s and thereafter, one phrase is found remarkably common in all: “One can’t live on fame alone.”
“While people in the olden days loved their work and worked exceptionally hard, things had also gradually begun to change,” remembers veteran television actor, Qazi Wajid.
Discipline, the first essential to produce quality work, went the way of the dinosaurs, say many TV veterans. An ever-increasing number of PTV producers and technicians began to work outside to earn a little extra, with the result that there was a drastic increase in the number of applications requesting leave from work.
The frequent absence of employees from their offices over a period of time began to show its tell-tale signs. PTV, at one time the finest production facility in Asia, began its descent into deterioration and decay as the commitment of the technical staff and the producers wavered. There was yet another victim of this crass materialism — the writer. The quality and content of the story no longer remained the same.
“I’m worried that the storyline in our plays is getting thinner with every passing day.
The organic play, which had an authentic flavour of real life about it, is now long dead. The audience is now addicted to its newer version, much like people get addicted to fast food — they know it is bad for them but they turn to it again and again
Very soon it will disappear altogether,” the late veteran actor Hamid Wyne once told this writer while shooting a drama serial. Director Fahim Burney, perennially in search of a good story, says: “The glory days of drama have gone up in smoke, and in the ashes all one can see is glitz, glamour and sex.” Others sit back and sulk whenever there is a let up in their demanding shooting schedules, having lost their separate identities and become mere cogs in the production machinery.
Plays now come like loaves of bread on a production chain in a factory, leaving one to question if art can be mass-produced. Still, airtime has to be filled, often with crass with an outward appearance of class. The proliferation of channels also demands more output from the writers.
“A writer now gets paid a lot, which is a recipe for disaster,” says another TV veteran Anwer Maqsood. “He now knows he has to turn in his script fast. As long as writers were paid a paltry sum, they wrote great stuff. Back in those days they were in no hurry to make money.”
When one writes solely for money, standard is compromised. The tyranny of the dictates of commerce leaves little time to think, reflect and ponder. The organic play, which had an authentic flavour of real life about it, is now long dead. The audience is now addicted to its newer version, much like people get addicted to fast food — they know it is bad for them but they turn to it again and again, such is the pull.
How much and how fast a writer now has to write can be gauged by the fact that most soaps can be of 200 episodes each. Although production houses say they would be more comfortable with 500 to 600 episodes each, or even more.
Today, a production house may have as many as 100 commercials to show and the best place to do so is during prime time soaps. “Times have most certainly changed,” says actor-producer Humayun Saeed. “There was a time when an actor was afraid of the dirty looks he would get from his audience if he performed poorly. In turn, the audience was also duly committed. Today, with the TV remote control in hand, channel-surfing viewers have a non-serious approach towards drama. For his part, the actor also knows that no matter how bad he performs, he will not be held accountable.”
“The ‘do it whatever way you like, who watches it anyway’ approach has done us in. We have a cock-sure style of doing whatever we do, good or bad,” says Marina Khan. The fortunes of Pakistani television plays began to ebb with the thrust of satellite channels, when foreign channels were openly allowed to broadcast. In the rural areas of Pakistan, a revolution occurred as viewers were fed on a diet of a totally new set of values. It was censor gone berserk. For some time, the authorities tried to hide the show of flesh, but for how long?
This writer once complained to the owner of a wayside hotel showing images of skimpily-clad women on TV to the simple village folk. In turn, he said that if he didn’t do so, his competitor next door would. Who, then, would visit his hotel? It was shocking to learn that most among the rural male population had cast their votes in favour of nudity on screen.Says Fahim Burney: “In Pakistan, we have forgotten about content and concentrate more on glamour. We were initially not strong in many areas of production and then we compromised with content, which was our strongest point. Meanwhile, our counterparts across the Wagah border worked on content and made it strong. There is now a mad rush for glamour this side of the Wagah with one production house after another taking their shooting crews abroad. We, in turn, have become a classic case of half-partridge and half-quail. As far as entertainment is concerned, we are no longer original.”
“It’s true,” adds veteran actress Badar Khalil and wife of the celebrated PTV producer, the late Shahzad Khalil, “but who cares? Among many superficial things that matter now is how one will appear on screen. In the ’70s and ’80s, we never bothered about how we looked on screen. An hour-long session with the make-up artist was not on. Instead, we used to be so engrossed in the roles we played that no director would book us for at least 15 days after the shooting ended. He knew that it took some time for us to come out of our roles, which had become a part of our psyche and our system. Today, an artiste is in five different studios in the course of just one day. His only regret at the end of the day is why he didn’t make it to a sixth one.”
So is there any hope? “Yes there is,” says writer Noor-ul-Huda Shah, adding that newcomers eventually will produce good material. If they can’t do it now doesn’t mean that they never will. Their problem is that they are caught in a competition that is bigger than they are, but there is still hope.
Marina Khan agrees: “Some late entrants in the field have produced extraordinary work. With a bit of polishing, it can enter any international competition.”
The future, it seems, is not so bleak after all for our local TV productions for now.
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