The news hit the makers of Javed Iqbal: The Untold Story of a Serial Killer like a ton of bricks. Barely half-a-day had passed since their expensive, swanky premiere on January 25, when the permit to exhibit their film in cinemas was revoked by the Punjab Film Censor Board (PFCB).

Not to be outdone, the Sindh Board of Film Censors (SBFC) issued a similar revocation on the same day. The only missing member of the party was the Central Board of Film Certification (CBFC) — but only because the film had yet to be censored there before its release on January 28.

The swiftness and timing of this ordeal reeks of pressured collusion.

Javed Iqbal, a controversial film from the get-go, was recalled for a review by the PFCB because it allegedly violated Section 9 (1 and 2) of the Motion Picture Ordinance of 1979 — a law that sets up the regulatory authority, and instills decrees that gives the censor board powers to withdraw any film at any time “in the interest of the glory of Islam or the integrity, security or defense of Pakistan or, (goes against) friendly relations with foreign states, public order, decency or morality, or to prevent the incitement to an offence.” Specific details of what triggered the re-review weren’t given.

The film Javed Iqbal has run up against the arbitrariness and fecklessness of Pakistan’s censor boards — the same way Zindagi Tamasha and Verna did before it. This calls into question why Pakistani filmmakers have to contend with three censor boards in the first place

The notice issued by the Sindh censors board was more on point: it stated that scenes SBFC deemed to “remove, rescind, trim or mute”, were not properly carried out by the filmmakers.

The film, a fictionalised account of a real serial killer, was bound to irk some, if by mere superficial mention. It had a dialogue about Javed Iqbal’s presumed atheistic beliefs, where he questions God Almighty’s will. The film, however, doesn’t glorify the killer or his motives, absolve him of his crimes, nor voices support for anything un-Islamic. He was a bad man after all.

The SBFC had already issued Javed Iqbal an “A” (Adult) Certification on December 15 (an accompanying page stated that two dialogues were cut, some profanities in Punjabi were muted, and an anti-smoking warning was added). The PFCB had also followed-up with an “A” certificate on December 27.

So, the common sense-stumping questions are: were the two boards deliberately waiting for the film to premiere before making their decision to stop its release? And did they not notice the film’s issues before granting the certificates?

Javed Iqbal’s ordeal is the second of its kind in recent history — the three censor boards came to a unanimous decision two years ago to okay and then withhold Zindagi Tamasha as well.

Zindagi Tamasha (ZT), directed by Sarmad Khoosat, made its way to the Busan International Film Festival, where it won the Kim Ji-seok Award, and then to the Asian World Film Festival, where it nabbed two Snow Leopards (their highest awards) for Best Film and Actor.

In Pakistan, ZT passed the censors twice, but infuriated the political party Tehreek-i-Labbaik Pakistan (TLP) who protested its “blasphemous” content. TLP’s deduction was based on what they inferred from the teaser trailer of the film. Unnerved by threats of anarchy, the CBFC, the SBFC and the PFCB stopped the film’s release and approached the Council of Islamic Ideology (CII) to review Zindagi Tamasha, pacifying TLP’s red-hot temper.

The Senate committee for Human Rights, however, jumped in to trump these decisions: they barred the CII from reviewing ZT, reviewed the film themselves, and then cleared it for countrywide release. It has yet to release.

A similar case happened with the Shoaib Mansoor-directed Verna. Initially declined a censor certificate, the film went to a full board review (censor screenings have a minimum quorum of three to four members, full board includes at least half the board) and the same night, a private screening was set up for then information minister Mariam Aurangzeb and officials of the Ministry of Information who came to the film’s rescue. Verna was passed with a few trims and mutes.

Such instances question the very authority of the censor boards, especially when higher powers often have to take decisive actions to rescue films.

There are many tales of the inexplicable eccentricities of the censor boards — and frankly speaking, they are to be expected. The boards are made up of a hodgepodge of actors, directors and about as many (if not more in totality) officials from the media divisions of the military and intelligence. There is often a clash of ideologies, agendas, and an unnecessary state of heightened fearfulness.

If you ever wondered why Pakistani films sometimes feel inconsequential, even when they’re purportedly telling bold stories, this may be the reason why.

Filmmakers have told this writer time and again that they fear the internal rifts of the censors as much as they do film critics. Anything that veers away from safe, commercial topics is considered a national threat and, even if a decision is made in favour of a film, it can be — and often is — backpedalled at the first inkling of presumed trouble.

Lately, there have been serious debates in film circles about the role of the censors, and the conversation often boils down to the necessity of having three censor boards at all.

Devolved from CBFC after the 18th Amendment, the three censor boards were supposed to be independent from an overarching, centralised system. However, in their current state, they appear to be little less than adjuncts of CBFC.

In fact, a distributor once told this writer that he prefers to censor the film at the CBFC first, followed by Punjab and then Sindh. That way, if there are issues from CBFC — where bureaucracy reigns supreme — it would be taken care of first. Once the film is cleared from the Federal board, Punjab — which is often directly under pressure from CBFC because of geographic and political closeness — and then Sindh often follows suit without a hitch.

Given this de facto non-independence of the provincial boards, a single unified censor board would save the producers a world of trouble. Rather than appease three boards, contend with internal or regional politics, bear the expenditure of holding three screenings and pay for three certificates, a one-window operation sounds sensible and uncomplicated. At least, if there are issues with a film, filmmakers wouldn’t have to fight on three separate fronts.

Like every media-specific law and their regulatory divisions in Pakistan, the censors and their indecisions aren’t a new problem. Even in their current failed state, they could, potentially, still work…if, that is, politics — in censor-specific terms — is “removed, rescinded, trimmed or muted” out of the system.

Published in Dawn, ICON, February 6th, 2022