Saim Sadiq’s Joyland, a Pakistani film released in the year 2022, was banned in Pakistan by the Ministry of Information and Broadcasting on the pretext of “highly objectionable material which does not conform with the social values and moral standards of our society.”
Compelled by the intrigue surrounding its ban and the fact that the movie won several awards and nominations in some of the world’s most prestigious awards, I was compelled to watch it. Whatever the cited reasons for its ban, as a viewer I felt that the movie was probably purgeable of its objectionable content to qualify for an adult rating without qualitatively affecting its overall experience. The sexual intimacy is sparse and spread out; language at times is vulgar but it could have been handled with some strategically placed beeps and blurs.
So, what exactly is this "highly objectionable material" that supposedly challenges the social values and moral standards of our society? The religious conservative parties find the content related to LGBTQ to be the most offensive and against the ‘social norms of Pakistan.’ However, I feel it is the portrayal of men which is unsettling a particular segment of society.
The most significant issue may be the absence of a traditional male hero. The characterisation of the classical good and bad allows a sense of redemption, where bad men ruin things; good men step in to make things right. But here in the ordinary world of Joyland, there are no good or bad men. They are at best half men, incapable of deep meaningful mutually respectful relationships, driven largely by their fragile egos.
The story revolves around a typical urban low income family in Lahore – the Ranas – shown to be struggling with masculinity at several levels. Abba, played by Salman Peerzada – the alpha male, the leader of the family, the decision maker, the power wielder – has been relegated to a wheelchair and has even lost control over his bladder. In a very symbolic sequence of events, when the children all go out for an outing to “Joyland”, Abba is forced to accept the help of a widow neighbour when he soils himself. The neighbour widow, Fayyaz, played by Saniya Saeed, feels lonely and unwanted at her son’s home and derives small pleasures by offering hand cooked meals to Abba’s family; helping to take care of their children at times and having small talk with Abba. Since the kids do not return till past midnight, Abba insists that Fayyaz stays at their place for the night. Later, Fayyaz’s son confronts his mother in front of Abba and his family for ruining their reputation in the neighbourhood by staying at the neighbour’s house for the night, and tells her to move to Abba’s house. Masculinity is dwarfed when Fayyaz, being a woman, has the courage to challenge the societal expectations and accepts the sarcastically made proposition by her son; but, despite all that she has done for Abba, he tells her to return to her house in a stoic posture and passionless words.
Here in the ordinary world of Joyland, there are no good or bad men. They are at best half men, incapable of deep meaningful mutually respectful relationships, driven by fragile egos
The family is waiting for a male successor. The older brother has three daughters and though not stated, his wife Nucchi is pregnant with a fourth child, obviously in the hope of a boy. The hope is ended at the very beginning when Nucchi gives birth to a fourth daughter. The theme of endangered masculinity is set in a literal way.
The younger son, Haider, embodies another aspect of struggling masculinity. He is completely overwhelmed by his father’s overbearing personality and expectations. From the outset of the film, Haider’s inability to earn, slaughter a goat and his assignment to chores to help at home with his sister-in-law – are portrayed as his struggles to fulfil the traditional expectations of a man’s role within the family. Initially, his character could be perceived as a non-conservative man quietly embracing unconventional roles to support his wife’s career, fulfilling a promise he made when they married. But, as mentioned earlier, the film does not commit to any positive portrayals of men. After accepting a job as a background dancer for a transgender performer’s erotic stage act, in a family meeting led by his father, he passively stands by as his wife is asked to quit her job and stay at home to help her sister-in-law with the house chores and children in Haider’s absence.
Haider’s affair with a transgender woman, Biba, further complicates his character, leaving the audience conflicted. For some, the moral issue of infidelity is overshadowed by the film’s exploration of the third gender's right to love. Yet, this relationship is also problematised when Biba expresses her desire to undergo surgery to fully transition into a woman. Haider timidly resists, as if his fragile masculinity is only comfortable with a woman who, in some sense, remains incomplete.
The film’s acclaim largely comes from its bold portrayal of a transgender character, Biba. Yet, one might ask: what truly defines her strength! Biba is not like Rifee Khan – the transgender holding a double Master’s degree from Karachi; nor like Sara Gill – Pakistan’s first transgender doctor; or Nadeem Kashish, the activist from Multan who defied the typical roles assigned to transgenders, such as dancers and prostitutes, and now runs an NGO advocating for transgender rights. Biba is a dancer in an erotic theatre, a stereotypical role associated with transgenders. Her relentless pursuit of success, whether by offering sexual favours to the manager or sabotaging a rival's performance, along with her use of foul language to intimidate men mocking her sexuality, portrays Biba as a survivor, but not a hero. The image of Biba driving a scooter with Haider sitting behind her is arguably the most empowering moment of her character in the film. Therefore, Biba’s strength should not be seen as a representation of a strong transgender figure. Instead, her real value lies in exposing the fragility of masculinity, serving as a constant counterpoint throughout the film, thereby unsettling its conservative audience.
The film is said to celebrate the bond between women as a means of survival under the weight of patriarchal oppression. The relationship between Nucchi and Mumtaz, the two daughters-in-law of the family, is praised for its moments of joy, as they laugh, chat, and sneak off to visit the theme park, Joyland. Yet, despite these moments of light-heartedness, Mumtaz suffers in isolation—grappling with the depression brought on by being denied her career, the loneliness, and the sexual frustration caused by her unfaithful husband.
Nucchi's outburst after Mumtaz’s death reveals her deep guilt, as she holds herself, like the rest of the family, responsible for not recognizing Mumtaz's pain. Mumtaz’s suicide, with her unborn son still in her womb, delivers the final and most devastating blow to the family’s hopes of producing a male heir—a symbolic death of masculinity itself. The haunting message left behind is that in this society, men cannot be born because the very wombs that carry them are not allowed to survive. This chilling truth lingers as the camera zooms out, focusing on Mumtaz’s body wrapped in a coffin, her pregnancy belly still protruding.