There are three distinct, interlinked worlds associated with The Glassworker, Pakistan’s first (and I hope to God, not the only) anime-inspired, traditionally drawn animated film.

There is the world of the quiet waterfront town of an unnamed country that’s braving the silent bedlam of a never-ending war. Then there is the world of composer-writer-producer-director-animator Usman Riaz’s imagination that runs parallel — and deeper — to the world of the film itself. And finally, there is the all-too-real world of us, the viewers, a diverse melting pot of incisive, ill-informed or intuitive opinions that sometimes shifts perspectives of even the most insightful of critics.

Case in point: two young women walking out from Nueplex Askari IV — a cinema that, with the closures of other venues, is the default caterer to much of the middle class audiences of Karachi (all other options are non-existent at this time). The time is after the first day’s first show — a near-housefull showing that included (I may be wrong), a smattering of youngsters who, from the sound of the chatter, were either vaguely or intimately associated with the film.

At first the two young women recalled the obvious: that the colours were fantastically vibrant, and the animation was breathtaking (we’ll discuss this later), but then came the unexpected clincher: at the end of the day, one of them mused with half-a-sigh, they had seen a melancholic romance-drama of a boy and a girl — an inescapable genre whose clasp dominates Pakistani television serials, films and now even animation.

The eavesdropping stopped me dead in my tracks because, irrespective of the sheer brilliance of the enterprise, the opinion of two lay-women, far removed from the technical and business matters of the film, highlights one of the chief questions The Glassworker raises: who is this film for?

Usman Riaz’s The Glassworker is a visually stunning but thematically heavy film about love and relationships that chooses reality over fantasy

Is it for Usman, a wunderkind who strong-willed the film into existence (and that’s no easy task)? Is it for global acclaim and personal triumph of achieving something that no one has even imagined to attempt? Or is it for the masses — and if so, is it for the masses of Pakistan (animation is not for everyone, and anime-ish animation less so) — or the dedicated followers of sombre and mature anime the world over?

The answer wildly varies from person to person, despite being obvious from a logical perspective.

Usman’s film is inspired by the works of Studio Ghibli — perhaps one of the more immediately recognisable anime studios in the world, known principally through the works of its founders Hayao Miyazaki (Oscar winners Spirited Away, The Boy and Heron) and the late Isao Takahata (Grave of the Fireflies, Only Yesterday).

Like Ghibli’s films, The Glassworker is anchored in human relationships. However, unlike the more popular of the studio’s films — Ocean Waves and Whispers of the Heart — the plot prefers reality over the metaphysical.

Usman’s film’s trailer featured the presence of a djinn. However, that aspect is flung far back as a mere supporting peg of the story. An early scene explains away that every town has its own djinn, and their presence — manifesting through hollow reverberating sounds, drawings in the sand that come alive (that no one but the audience notices) and aerobatic sparks — is mostly felt rather than manifested.

Replacing the supernatural are the socio-political beliefs and circumstances of the unnamed country, and the gradual emotional maturity of its cast of characters.

Vincent Oliver (voiced by Mooroo in Urdu and Sacha Dhawan in English), an adult when we first meet him, is a glassworker who moulds glass into intricate works of art. His designs are to be featured in an exhibition — a recognition that certifies his (and I gather, Usman’s) belief that there is a hard line between artists who make original creations and professionals who are only adept in following others’ artistic triumphs. For instance, the difference between being Mozart and someone who can only play Mozart.

The core reason for Vincent’s belief is never deliberately fleshed out, as we shift to-and-fro between his youth and his adulthood. We see him falling in love with Alliz Amano (Mariam Riaz Paracha and Anjli Mohindra), the spunky, strong-willed daughter of a celebrated army man — Col Amano (Ameed Riaz, Tony Jayawardena) — who eventually pressures Vincent’s father Tomas (Khaled Anam, Art Malik) to create a glass housing for a weapon that would help turn the tide of war.

Tomas and Vincent are pacifists — a stance that’s sneered at in their waterfront town, a picturesque, fantasy amalgamation of Eastern and Western cultures, where buildings take a cue from European architecture, yet the bazaar reminds one of Empress Market in Karachi.

Here, people dress in shalwar kurta, dresses and ponchos, Urdu appears to be the primary written language and gulab jamun is considered the favoured delicacy of youngsters. Given that Usman’s film has no inclination to trigger religious conversations, there isn’t a fixed bias in naming conventions (you have a Vincent, Tomas and a Malik — voiced by Dino Ali); the class divide, however, appears to be a universal issue.

Vincent is mostly friendless — his only other companion, other than his somewhat stern and overprotective father, is Alliz and the djinn — and his solitude gives the story a sense of detachment.

Vincent’s love story with Alliz is neither romance-heavy, nor action-driven. Here, matters of the heart do not rally against the impossible — and depending on the tastes of the viewer, it may be a deterrent. Vincent himself is not a particularly likeable character, despite being the peg of the story.

Again, Vincent’s approach is a deliberate creative call that adds to the thick, almost tangible, tonal ambience of the story that makes one more or less an observer and not a part of the world one is seeing.

The Glassworker’s screenplay (credited to Moya O’Shea, based on the story by Usman and O’Shea) is prejudiced against war and those who aren’t gifted artistically. For the former, at least it understands the need to surrender to greater pressures and circumstances; for the latter, there is little to feign remorse for.

The astuteness of the story’s approach carries intricate themes with relative ease — though, and I point out again, the realism of Usman’s world-building pushes the supernatural aspects of the plot to an after-thought position. This, I believe, robs The Glassworker of an additional layer of magic.

At this point, one does not have to discuss the intricate details of animation — that would be a bore. The film is rich in design and colours (it never once goes off-palette), and the animation, if not exactly excellent, stands one step below on the near-perfect scale; in fact, the film has better animation than some animated series and films I’ve seen (yes, animation studio Mappa and their Altair: A Record of Battles — I am looking at you!).

The noticeable difference in the movement of characters is owed to the animation style The Glassworker employs. Traditional animation — or even computer-generated animation — in Japan works on a pose-to-pose style; Western animation, instead, relies on the 12 principles of animation that forces emphasis on the minute details of a character’s facial and body motion.

Both styles lie on different ends of the spectrum. However, given the overbearing visual onslaught of American animation (which mostly the world follows), the anime-inspired movement may take a moment or two to get used to.

One other aspect that may need attuning to is the voice acting. Although I haven’t seen the Urdu language version, I have been told by keen-eared observers (and the director himself) that both films carry a slightly different aesthetic.

The Urdu version is not a literal translation of the English, the director has told this reviewer (he penned the Urdu dialogue himself, he says). From what little I’ve heard, the Urdu dialogues sound more deliberately penned and delivered, as if they belong to an old novel; the English language version is more free-flowing and natural.

The phenomenal, if at times overwhelming, score by Usman and Carmine Diflorio — which immediately brings to mind composer Joe Hisaishi’s orchestral-heavy themes from Howl’s Moving Castle (another Ghibli production, directed by Miyazaki) — diverts enough of one’s attention to miss out on these and other minor snags.

These include, perhaps, the idea that, at the end of the day, one is merely watching a thematically heavy film about love and relationships, which chooses reality over fantasy. And no, for those who’ve seen the film, the last scene — as fantastical as it is — doesn’t count.

Released by Mandviwalla Entertainment and Geo Films, The Glassworker is rated U and features mature themes of the heart and one’s belief in them; it will bore kiddies to sleep

Published in Dawn, August 4th, 2024