Zibahkhana (Hell’s Ground) is a horror movie made in 2007 and set in Pakistan. The story begins with swinging ’60s dance music, as we are introduced to a group of teenagers who are cheerfully preparing for a road trip. Little do they know that their happy lives are about to be cruelly truncated. What awaits them is a series of gruesome deaths that arrive at a cracking pace, each more grisly than the next. The plot has all the usual elements of a classic: simmering sexual tension, an empty petrol tank, a remote forest, narcotic laddoos, flesh-eating zombies, cackling witches and a killer in a burqa. Islamabad-based Omar Ali Khan, the director of Zibahkhana, talks to
Ajith Prabhakharan in this email interview about why there are no heaving bosoms in his film and how Bappi is our only hope for peace in the subcontinent.
A man in a burqa, with a whirling flail, hunting down pot-smoking cherubs in a jungle: “Burqaman” is truly a killer for our times. But what is he? And what are we to make of his maniacal mummy-ji?
As they say, mother knows best! My influences are the trash-splatter epic Mother’s Day and The Mother of Bates’ Motel. As far as I am concerned, Maa Ki Mamta reigns supreme; hail Nirupa Roy, Bahar Begum and their like. Jokes aside, the film is an ode to the masked slasher films of the ’70s and ’80s, among them Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Halloween, My Bloody Valentine, Friday the 13th Part II, Curtains and even Psycho. So, in a desi context (and specifically Pakistani context) if you were to attempt to mask your killer, I reckon the burqa would be the most natural kit. It’s a fantastically gothic and dramatic outfit, especially for a horror film, and manages to strip all expression, emotion and warmth from a human face.
So there you are, sitting around in Islamabad, and one day you get up and make a horror film. Tell us a about this Omar Ali Khan. Does he perform demonic rituals at home?
Well, yes. Demonic rituals are performed with regularity, and the dogs freak out at the heretical stuff they are witness to. Sometimes it’s a shrine to Govinda and his thigh-hugging mustard pants and matching muffler. I have pictures of myself performing certain intricate rituals in the Govinda shrine that would probably ruffle a lot of facial hairs in my part of the world. Lately, a new shrine has sprung up in a hidden corner of my home. A shrine for Bappi da – my very own King of Pop. Visitors seeking entry to this shrine have to prove their allegiance by singing Zoobie Zoobie and You Are My Chicken Fry. So, to answer your question, Omar Ali Khan is someone who should have been locked up long, long ago.
Why the marked absence of heaving bosoms, though?
It’s a fetching trait. The problem is that since all our films feature an endless assemblage of heaving bosoms, thighs, buttocks and various other body parts, the public lose their sense of size, among other things.
We must point out that Zibahkhana has no lewd fatties. Not a single one. Why?
Astonishingly enough, we don’t have a seductive rain dance, nor even a lurid gang rape scene (must correct this next time around). It used to be that the Punjabi village belle was expected to carry a little bit extra in the oomph department. As for Pushto cinema, the girls were a touch masculine and definitely rotund – and that’s putting it politely. But I report, sadly, that in Pushto movies today, we are trying to emulate the skinny rakes of Bollywood. Gone are the days of wonder girls with wonder bras like Mussarat Shaheen, Shahnaz and the amazing Sunita Khan. Three girls who could sink the Titanic with a thumka!
The music in the film is superb and evocative; brings to mind swinging people in smoky nightclubs. Wherever did you find it?
Growing up, I was the black sheep of my family, partly due to the fact that I was the only one bold enough to like cheap and vulgar songs, the earthy, gritty stuff that could only be found in Lollywood. I remember having fierce arguments with my siblings and parents, insisting that Madame Noor Jehan and Naheed Akhtar’s cheap songs had more sizzle and sauce than anything Asha or Lata could conjure. For cheap Lollywood had no match, or so I thought until I was finally exposed to films such Dakurani Talwarwali, Khooni Meena and all the Silk Smitha classics. I relish and worship cheapness. I think cheap people have so much class and character and I mean that sincerely. I was the guy in the audience who wanted the vamp to vanquish the goody-two-shoes heroine. I was always cheering Bindu as she plotted the downfall of some prissy, boring bimbo. Vamps are so much more fascinating then heroines; always were and always will be. The songs we used for the score of Zibahkhana were largely these cheap songs that I grew up worshipping.
How did the film do in Pakistan?
It played for ten weeks at the local cineplex here in Rawalpindi, and considering the state of affairs – with bombs going off and so on – this was a major achievement for an independent film with no star power. We had a screening at LUMS, one of the top universities in Pakistan. It was so oversubscribed that we ended up showing the film in five halls simultaneously with every seat and every standing spot taken. I listened from outside and heard uproarious laughter and a few screams; there were about a dozen occasions where the crowd broke into riotous applause. Similar screenings followed in Islamabad and Karachi. Young people have responded to the film very positively while the old school Lollywood-walas are finding it difficult to digest. Outside, it has been embraced with open arms and I am simply amazed. When I received an email from the RioFan Film Festival in Brazil informing me that Zibahkhana had won the award for “Best Film”, I honestly thought somebody was pulling my leg.
As far as Indian audiences are concerned, Pakistan might well be a cinematic wasteland, save for the enormously popular television soap operas of the late 1980s. Yet, there’s a lot out there. It’s just that we’re not seeing any of it.
To some extent, this might be because our own Urdu language films are pale imitations of Bollywood – though once in a while the plagiarism goes the other way too. Punjabi films have a different energy, vibe and style to them which sets them apart from the Urdu-Bollywood film, so perhaps they could become a curiosity.
But seriously, how could you expect Indian audiences weaned on some of the slickest films made in the world to accept the rough-and-ready bombastic sleaze and nonsensical violence of a Punjabi film?
Our Punjabi and Pushto films require viewers to be slowly sensitised by years of watching mindless violence and warped, fully-clothed porn. Don’t take this the wrong way, but, to a large extent, the arrival of Indian films hastened the demise of our film industry.
I hope that some of us might yet stand a chance of striking a deal with people in India who are willing to recognise the potential in small, crazy films. Is that a shameless plug or a plea for support?
One of the most refreshing things about Zibahkhana is that it’s not preachy. In fact, it’s A-grade pop, the kind that rarely gets made in either Pakistan or India.It’s a mystery, this desi hang-up. The way I see it, if people like to watch fat women being chased by grizzly bears wearing size nine rubber shoes, then so be it. If they want to watch Silk Smitha stylishly beating the crap out of some goons, then they should.
And lastly, in the quest for subcontinental peace, who is our single greatest hope?
Bappi-da. I feel it in my bones. Genuinely. Especially if flanked by B Subhash, Sam Fox and Mandakini. Let’s face it: if anyone can, Bappi is the man.
|
Click here for Time Out Bengaluru
Subscribe 
Register
