Aziz Jindani — call him the creative director, executive producer or the heart and soul of The Donkey King — doesn’t like calling animation production in Pakistan ‘an industry’; he’d rather call it a ‘tribe’ — one whose best days are still out there, in a hopeful future.

Aziz’s film has been one of the few animated movies Pakistan has produced. In fact, one can count the titles on their fingers: there are three 3 Bahadurs, two Allahyars, a Donkey King, Tick Tock, and now The Glassworker. Each title is novel and ground-breaking to a degree (and yes, one can count the abysmally animated Tick Tock as far as premises go).

The 3 Bahadur films showed how far one could stretch the rupee in production, and integrate product placements that could help turn a profit. Allahyar: The Legend of Markhor holds the distinction of being the world’s first animated film that is made entirely in Unreal Engine — a videogame engine that is currently all the rage in Hollywood for its quick and cost-effective photo-realistic rendering (ie output of frames) for animation and visual effects. The Donkey King proved that cute animals and witty socio-political commentary can lead to box-office gold.

The Glassworker, out now in cinemas — and apparently doing pretty good business-wise — defied conventions by being Pakistan’s first traditionally animated film, a practice that is considered too labour-intensive and unfeasible by Hollywood standards (that’s the way big-budget studios perceive hand-drawn animation since the Disney/Pixar CG-boom).

Animation is one of the most lucrative businesses in entertainment media worldwide. But in Pakistan, despite the periodic release of homemade feature films, its landscape is bleak and most animation studios have been forced to work as contractors for international clients. Is there any hope for the future?

Looking past the seemingly sun-lit aspirational success stories, one realises that things are far from hunky-dory when it comes to the business of animation.

There is a reason Aziz calls the business a tribe. “There are only a handful of animators in Pakistan — animators who know what they are doing, that is,” Aziz tells Icon during a late-night phone call.

“There is a difference between character animation, ‘dabba ghumao’ animation [flipping animated boxes in advertisements], and visual effects.” Pakistan has only a few professional animators, he clarifies, and their schedules are often taken up by producers such as Uzair Zaheer Khan (the producer and director of the Allahyar films), whose company, 3rd World Studios, works primarily on animated films and series. Since there is a waiting line, delivering quality work that stands up to global ‘A-tier’ productions is neither feasible nor practical.

Neither Uzair nor Kamran Khan, the animation director and writer of the 3 Bahadur films disagree with Aziz’s facts.

Uzair explains that the problem partly stems from inadequate education. “People have always learned on the job,” he says, citing Post Amazers and SharpImage’s contribution in developing raw talent when the animation business became the new ‘in’ thing during the early 2000s.

There are programmes that want to churn out new 3D animators in three months’ time. That time, he states, isn’t even enough to learn the programme. In comparison, an international animation-specific course takes at least a year of dedicated training — and even then it takes ages to be good at it.

“Universities and institutions would always provide rudimentary, at times superficial or even wrong education,” he says, pointing out that most graduates’ skill-sets — and their lack of interest in learning — limited them from becoming anything but software operators.

Kamran, who has taught in most universities’ education programmes and is a part of new education initiatives, couldn’t agree more. He says that there are programmes that want to churn out new 3D animators in three months’ time. That time, he states, isn’t even enough to learn the programme. In comparison, an international animation-specific course takes at least a year of dedicated training — and even then it takes ages to be good at it.

Kamran explains that 2017-18’s IT boom stole many aspiring animators from the business. “I just fail to understand how an IT company makes this much money,” he says. Animation graduates, who knew little about IT, were offered three times as much salary — how could an animation studio that has to deliver a project with highly constricted budgets match what was being offered, he exclaims.

“The human resource stopped, and those who were genuinely interested in the art of animation left Pakistan for greener pastures,” he says. Some talent he recently interviewed said that they would be happy working for nothing on weekends, but that is simply not feasible when it comes to production timelines.

Kamran used to head Sharmeen Obaid-Chinoy’s now-closed Vaadi Animation, and now provides animation services for most Pakistani and international studios. His current projects includes the Dubai-based Barajoun Studios’ series Ajwan, which was broadcast on MBC Shahid, Knorr’s web-series D-Land by Uzair’s 3rd World Studios, Team Muhafiz with ISPR and a lot of advertisement work.

He says that he isn’t too hopeful when it comes to Pakistani animated films. “There isn’t a market, so most studios have to shift their business strategy from creating original productions to providing services for international studios.”

Services that, one should clarify, are often sublet down the line by semi-major studios. Providing services on sublet does not guarantee credits, but it helps run the shop.

Aziz’s Talisman Studios, where he currently functions as a non-interfering executive director, has two specific wings: one for Pakistan’s feature-length projects and one that provides animation services for international clients.

Post-Donkey King — which has so far earned over 24 crore rupees in Pakistan, and around $300,000 worldwide (the film was released in South Korea, Spain, Greece, Turkey, China, Ukraine, Russia, Kazakhstan, Ecuador, Peru and Columbia) — Aziz says that, while the original intention was to create a studio that produces original films, he was left with no choice but to venture into the services industry.

Uzair’s 3rd World Studios and even Usman Riaz’s Mano Studios — which made The Glassworker — are providing services for international clients, because there is no business for animation in Pakistan.

Aziz, once considered one of the mavericks of the advertisement business (he was responsible for the co-creation of Commander Safeguard), estimates that Pakistani brands spend about three billion rupees annually for production of advertisements. In comparison, character animation work is somewhere around seven crore rupees. “Local studios cannot sustain themselves if the demand is [nearly non-existent],” he says.

Working for international clients may sound lucrative, but Pakistan hardly qualifies to top-tier work, Aziz explains. “Pakistan may be cost-effective, but the quality we provide is only suitable for tier-two or tier-three productions.” The lack of refinement, Icon is told, comes from a lack of experience on the talent’s part.

“Experienced animators are hired on salaries of around 300,000 rupees per month. So, on a gross-level, an animator is expected to deliver between five and ten seconds of work every day, otherwise the hiring would not be justified,” he says. “By this standard, if someone judges our work on an international scale, we would rate between three to five on a scale of 10. It’s as much a capability issue as it is an issue of circumstances.”

Uzair affirms Aziz’s point-of-view, and adds a cricket analogy to the thought. “An aspiring cricketer first plays in a gali [street], then local clubs, and then graduates to national and international levels. In Pakistan, the limited talent we have are playing in galis, and one cannot expect them to deliver quality that’s beyond their present skillset.”

Continuing that train of thought, Uzair adds that animation is a global business that accommodates different levels of quality, and so services become an important part of an animation studio — especially if the film one made for one’s own studio doesn’t return the investment. “However,” he adds, “making one’s own film does help get international jobs. If someone comes to me to make a film, they would have made a judgement based on the quality of what I’ve already made.”

Uzair, Kamran and Aziz had one unifying answer when I asked about possible solutions that could help reinvigorate the industry: the government.

“Government support and infrastructure is essential,” Uzair declares. “Animation as a medium could serve as one of the most lucrative exports of Pakistan,” he continues. “Live-action films are only watched by desis — and we all know how they’re received internationally — but one can dub the animation and that frees it from the label of Pakistan,” he says.

“The stories they offer are also universal,” he adds. “If you want to indoctrinate children, there is no better medium. Children are influenced subconsciously by animation. My son is inspired by Ben 10, as I was inspired by cartoons in my youth. Through animation, one has the means to deliver education to the children everywhere through the internet — one doesn’t even need television,” he says.

“Animation can overcome language barriers, because a majority of children in Pakistan do not speak Urdu [and again] several versions of an animation can be dubbed to accommodate more languages. And let’s not forget, mass-producing content would get more people attracted to the medium,” he continues.

Aziz, who is currently the edible oil brand Dalda’s CEO, finds a parallel between his two businesses.

“They’re both process industries,” he says. “Like the edible oil business, which goes through its stages of processing and refinement, an animated film goes through voice-overs, followed by storyboard, modelling, rigging, animation, lighting and rendering — there is an intricate pipeline,” he says. “And like all pipelines, the work needs labour. Labour that could only be supported if there is a continuity of production, and continuity of production can only be achieved through indigenous production. So, making indigenous content on scale is the way, even if done on the shoulders of bad animation.

“India has achieved that,” he continues. “Despite [atrocious] quality, the wholesale production of local content has developed businesses that will only get better as time passes — and only government facilitation can make that happen,” he says. “Until then, one can only make films on personal risk.”

Aziz’s sequel to The Donkey King is a few years away, he says. However, his new film, My Daddy My Hero, is now slowly ramping up its production. The film, which stars the voice of Fahad Mustafa, is made by a “lean staff” of 12 — an eight-person team in Pakistan, and a few international specialists (he has had enough of local modellers and riggers, he says). The Donkey King also had a staff of 12 as well, he says — a good production can only afford so much.

Although My Daddy My Hero is announced to be released sometime in 2025, they’re working at their own pace and deadlines, he says. Since the project is funded by Geo itself, there are no timelines.

Uzair, when free from professional commitments, plans to refine Allahyar and the 100 Flowers of God for its international release, before eventually starting a new film, while Kamran is looking for potential partners to produce one of his three scripts that are ready for production.

Despite the bleak, disheartening reality of the business currently in Pakistan, animation is still, by far, one of the most lucrative of businesses in entertainment media. All it needs is the right support to come alive.

This article has been corrected to indicate that My Daddy My Hero is funded by Geo and not personally by Mir Ibrahim, as originally stated in the print version.

Published in Dawn, August 4th, 2024