The last time I walked into a cinema, there were eleven people in the hall. Eleven. I sat there in the dark, watching the work of dozens of crew members, months of effort, millions of rupees, flicker across the screen for an audience that could fit in a single van.
This is Pakistani cinema in 2025.
The Math That Doesn’t Add Up
Here’s what nobody wants to say out loud: even if you make a good film right now, you’ll probably lose money.
A modest Pakistani film costs anywhere from 50 to 150 million rupees to produce and market. To break even in our current market, you need sustained footfall across multiple weeks, strong word of mouth, and ideally some ancillary revenue from digital platforms. But when a family of four has to choose between spending on cinema tickets or feeding themselves for days, cinema loses. Every single time.
The economic crisis is eliminating the middle class that formed the backbone of cinema-going culture. The people who used to watch films on weekend outings now have YouTube on their phones and Netflix in their living rooms. Why spend money and two hours of travel time when entertainment is already in your palm?
The Catch-22 That’s Killing Us
Everyone agrees: we need to make good films to rebuild audience trust. The revival that started in 2013-2016 showed promise, but a string of disappointing films shattered the fragile faith we’d built. Audiences stopped giving us the benefit of the doubt.
So the solution seems obvious: make better films.
But here’s the trap: you need resources to make good films. You need experienced crew, decent production values, time to develop scripts, the freedom to take creative risks. All of that requires money. And money requires investors who believe they’ll see returns. And returns require audiences who trust you enough to show up.
How do you break this cycle when you’re already drowning?
The Questions That Keep Me Up at Night
I’m a director. I love this craft. I’ve spent years studying story structure, cinematography, editing techniques. I prototype video games in my spare time because I’m obsessed with interactive narrative and player agency. I know how to make something good.
But knowledge isn’t enough anymore.
Do I make the film I want to make for Pakistani audiences and risk financial ruin when they don’t show up? Or do I chase international festival circuits and OTT platforms, potentially alienating the local stories that matter most?
Do I compromise on budget and scope, shooting on phones and favoring intimate stories I can afford, even though audiences seem to want spectacle? Or do I bet everything on one big swing, knowing that one failure could end my career?
Do I pivot entirely? Should I be making content for YouTube instead, where the barrier to entry is lower and the audience is already there? But then am I still a filmmaker, or have I just become a content creator?
At what point does perseverance become delusion?
The Cost Nobody Talks About
“Just make good films and hope we’ll regain trust,” I tell myself. But hope doesn’t pay rent. Hope doesn’t fund the next project. Hope doesn’t explain to your family why you’re still chasing this dream when the industry is collapsing around you.
Every filmmaker I know is carrying this weight. We’re taking on debt, burning through savings, working other jobs to subsidize our passion. We’re getting older, watching opportunities in other industries pass us by. The opportunity cost of filmmaking in Pakistan right now isn’t just financial, it’s existential.
And yet, we haven’t quit.
Why We’re Still Here
I wish I had a neat answer to this. Some inspirational pivot point where I tell you about the innovative business model that’s going to save Pakistani cinema, or the breakthrough approach that makes everything viable again.
I don’t have that answer. Maybe nobody does.
What I do have is this: I still believe in the power of stories. I believe that Pakistani stories, told by Pakistani voices, for Pakistani audiences, matter. I believe that cinema, the communal experience of sitting in the dark and sharing a narrative journey with strangers, is irreplaceable by any algorithm or streaming service.
I also know that belief alone isn’t a strategy.
The honest truth is that I’m not sure what the path forward looks like. I don’t know if the solution is micro-budget filmmaking, hybrid release models, community-funded cinema, or something we haven’t imagined yet. I don’t know if the industry can survive long enough to find out.
What I do know is that there are dozens of us, maybe hundreds, still trying. Still writing scripts. Still scouting locations. Still believing that the next film could be the one that reminds people why cinema matters.
Maybe that’s foolish. Maybe we’re all refusing to accept that the era of Pakistani theatrical cinema is over, and we need to adapt to whatever comes next.
Or maybe, just maybe, stubbornness is the only currency that matters when everything else has failed.
The Question I’m Asking You
I don’t have solutions to offer in this article. What I have are questions, and I’m asking them to fellow filmmakers, industry stakeholders, potential investors, and audiences:
What would it take for you to believe in Pakistani cinema again? Not as a charity case or a cultural obligation, but as something worth your time and money?
What stories do you actually want to see? What would get you off your couch and into a cinema hall?
And for my fellow creators: how long do we keep trying? What’s the line between persistence and self-destruction?
I don’t know if anyone has the answers. But I think we need to start asking these questions out loud, honestly, without pretending we have it figured out.
Because right now, we’re all just making it up as we go along, hoping that passion and craft will somehow be enough.
I’m not sure they will be.
But I’m not ready to stop trying yet!