Asim Abbasi is an artist of rare imagination. And Barzakh, Limboland — a liminal space between this life and the afterworld — is a magically crafted, slow-burning, intentional thing of beauty. Add a slate of astute actors and crew, and you’ve got poetry in motion.
Set against the staggering scenery of Hunza, place is protagonist in this series, creating a sense of continuous physical and emotional longing. We find the Valley shot in a way that it’s rarely been showcased in Pakistani storytelling before —each shade of the autumn leaves, silhouetted against rising ridges and hollow, cavernous peaks, contributing to the mystery and mysticism engulfing the Land of Nowhere.
The indoor cinematography is equally poignant and atmospheric, the wooden doorways, dimly lit staircases and interiors of the lodge contributing to the sense of yearning and strangeness abound.
Abbasi doesn’t dumb his audiences down and that is what sets Barzakh apart — which is why the show never veers into didactic tones or over-explains. This is not a lazy, clunky watch but rather, invites the viewer to co-create the story through the power of subtlety and interpretation. Silences often prevail, complemented by non-verbal expressions and here is where acting ability significantly elevates the series.
Watching Fawad Khan in the avatar of a seemingly broken, jaded and estranged son, yet a deeply committed and doting but confused single parent, is an intelligent, out-of-the-box juxtaposition that Abbasi creates — and Fawad doesn’t disappoint or make it about himself and his stardom — rather, he’s self-effacing often. There are moments between the father and son that force you to smile, contemplate, fill you with anguish, eventually reiterating the dance between simplicity and profundity in the bond between parent and child. Further, the fact that Khan green-lit a series that takes the path less trodden, in itself, signals his proclivity to be a part of projects that compel the viewer to meditate rather than openly take sides, those that advance Pakistani stories and cinematography to global standards of excellence. Such forms of storytelling are precisely the need of the hour.
Sanam Saeed and Salman Shahid’s characters make for an equally mysterious track, which they deliver with earnestness and gusto, chalking out a memorable equation between them. Saeed is witty and compassionate, yet partially obscure, adding to the allure of Scheherazade. As always, she’s such a dependable, clearly intellectual artist to watch, as is Shahid, in his despotic yet vulnerable attempt to hold on to love and faith.
Franco Giusti and Khushhal Khan’s roles are equally indispensable to the joy of viewing Barzakh; the scenes with their exchanges are catchy and meaningful but never literal.
Moments of magical realism invoke a lingering, Marquez-like vibe to Barzakh, as if Abbasi is contributing to post-modern literature and experimental art through his storytelling. Humans carrying large stones on their backs in the Land of Nowhere, their shadows and bodies wrapped against rising pink fumes and smoky contours; slithering blood-coloured creatures emerging from within the stony cliffs; mystical elements seated against graffiti-stricken walls, souls criss-crossing porous worlds, interconnecting humans with the supernatural, as each being tries to make sense of this fragile yet woven together existence. This appears to be a “first” for a series by a Pakistani writer and director — merging the narrative of a dysfunctional family, marred by intergenerational trauma, with fairies, ghosts and shamanism — and could not have been a simple feat.
But Abbasi is reputed for his originality and ambition and Barzakh is smacking virgin terrain for Pakistani storytelling. He expands his canvas, pushing the needle in multiple directions, yet at its core, Barzakh remains an intimate family drama, a haunting tale of turmoil, love, loss and longing, bringing us back to its original question of: “When all has withered, will love endure?” The question invokes a constant reminder that things can be imperfect and broken yet beautiful.
Overall, this is an endeavour that illustrates how powerful storytelling can tread the narrow line between “art house” and “commercial” and carve out a new realm for itself — this third way concentrates on unearthing deep-seated emotion, with no dearth of desire and is a real triumph in terms of Pakistani stories holding potential to be recognised and respected internationally.
It’s the sort of series one would instantly recommend when someone asks to sample Pakistani writers, directors and actors.
Abbasi, along with his cast and crew, appear to be trailblazing this third way of storytelling and are doing so with aplomb. This takes on added significance at a time when we find many stories relying on emulating popular trends, repeating what seems to be the flavour for that particular season.
On the contrary, Barzakh valiantly expresses the conviction to experiment, placing the onus on the viewer to solve the pieces of the puzzle, and distil from all the innuendo, the simplicity of a folk song.
Which is why, put another way, in a world of cookie-cutter cinema and narratives heavy with jingoistic “othering”, I would say choose Barzakh.
Saba Karim Khan is the author of Skyfall and works at NYU Abu Dhabi.