In the wake of the World Cup, some intellectuals derisively noted that the notion of the Pakistani identity was limited to supporting a cricket team.
It needed the death of a colossus to refute this claim: the unexpected demise of Moin Akhtar last week transformed the moribund and mostly abstract conversations about Pakistani identity into eulogies for a society’s lived experience.
All of a sudden, generations were speaking to one another about the various arcs of his career and the influence of his numerous incarnations on their outlook at key moments in time. We began to take stock, too, of how a few brave souls had carried forth the vulnerable torches of intellectual honesty, self-examination and humane compassion in an era of brutal censorship and had then continued to craft coherent critiques of society in the succeeding era of chaos.
We can see now that comedy in the hands of geniuses like Moin Akhtar was more than a diversion from our mundanities; it was also the place for philosophical inquiry. And this place was shared, born of a mutual imagination and memory, a stage that a few good people had carefully built for the rest of us to inhabit with our minds.
Moin Akhtar began his career in Karachi, performing in variety shows and school and university events, gaining fame as a skilled impersonator. He first appeared on PTV in 1970. However, for most of the decade, he didn’t get the break his talent deserved. That changed in the 80s, with Moin forming a legendary partnership with Anwar Maqsood and Bushra Ansari in a number of shows, such as ‘Showtime’. By the 90s, he was a staple on the Eid day transmission, appearing in either teleplays, series or stage shows. The media boom of the last decade reunited him with Anwar Maqsood, and the two created another legendary show in ‘Loose Talk’.
Moin Akhtar was part of a generation that literally created a castle in the sky. This was the institution of television in Pakistan. It came about in an era which coincided with the demise of the cinema and the strangulation of popular art forms like poetry and prose. TV became the forum where Pakistan’s greatest minds coalesced, and they made sure that art continued to reach out across as many differences as possible.
There are some people who, possessed by vague notions of cultural purity (and chastised perhaps by Anu Malik’s life’s work), denounce ‘plagiarism’ in art. Aside from the contemporary mantra that insists that everything is a remix, the allegation also ignores the fact that transporting ideas from one culture into another is an innovation in and of itself.
So with that in mind, let us examine three of Moin Akhtar’s most memorable performances. Each is distinct from the others and marks not just the range of his acting talent but also his ability to transcend genres and translate his genius across a spectrum of social possibilities.
Rozy
Simply speaking, Rozy was a remake of a Dustin Hoffman film, or the inspiration for Mrs. Doubtfire. And yet Rozy was a lot more than a rom-com with the lead in drag. It was in parts a commentary on gender relations, a questioning of the duplicity of social relationships as well as what it means to be an actor. The format for the show was the teleplay, a genre perhaps particularly unique to its specific time, which was closer to films and theater than it was to television. The acts unfolded more rapidly than the episodes of a TV serial, and the narrative was not as elaborate. Its shooting also went from the conventional three-camera studio setup to handheld and free movement. All of these particular changes allowed for the full range of Moin Akhtar’s dramatic range to come through: there was the actor who yearns to do justice to his craft, the lover who remains frustrated by fate, the charming and deliberately coy Rozy who exudes both naivety and charm in equal measure...
Throughout the show, Rozy delivered a series of ripostes about men who treat women badly in our society. But Moin Akhtar always did this sudden switch from satire to slapstick in a coquettish way.The role is a testament to his incredible acting abilities; that he could make this character work within the realms of the censor board’s Orwellian gaze was even more stupendous. Amazingly, he attained his comic pitch here without resorting at any time to thelasciviousthumkas or jhatkas of popular cross-dressers.
Bakra Qiston Pay
In many ways, this stage show was for Pakistani comedy fans what the film ‘Heat’ became for fans of Robert DeNiro and Al Pacino. The two giants of comedy, Umar Sharif and Moin Akhtar, together in one big super hit!
This role was a departure from Akhtar’s usual character types. It was a stage show and demanded a more popular kind of humour, as well as greater physicality and virtuosity. More importantly, it brought forth one of Moin Akhtar’s greatest assets – his showmanship. It was this that made him stand out as distinct from not just his contemporaries but perhaps all other Pakistani comedians. Because while comedians such as Rangeela or Nanha made use of their bodies, or those such as Umar Sharif and Ismail Tara made use of their boisterousness, Moin Akhtar retained a certain silkiness, a texture and layering which suggested a serious actor. That he could channel this almost restrained style into the larger-than-life dynamics of the stage show is unprecedented, and perhaps impossible to emulate.
The format also allowed Akhtar to return to the stand-up routines in which he did his renowned impersonations. In one particular sequence, where he goes from a menacing Mustafa Qureshito a garrulous Tariq Aziz and a host of cinematic icons in between, what stands out is the ease with which he inhabits each character and his flawless transition from one matinee idol to another. Before people had channels to change, they had Moin Akhtar.
Bakra Qiston Pe was a hugely influential show, spawning a number of sequels and a score of legendary one-liners. And perhaps none became as symbolic of the show’s blistering irreverence than the iconic: ‘Bhudda ghar pe hai?’
Loose Talk
For aficionados of the Anwar Maqsood - Moin Akhtar team, ‘Loose Talk’ might not seem the best example of their work. ‘Studio Dhai’ and ‘Showtime’ are much better examples.
But this was the show where Maqsood and Akhtar connected with the ‘media boom’ generation. The show followed the same old style: Anwar Maqsood playing the straight-faced interviewer and Moin Akhtar donning a fantastical everyman character. But where it departed was its sheer length – over 400 episodes - and the fact that both men chose to expand the kinds of characters they explored. While his PTV shows examine generalized stereotypes, the characters Akhtar embraced in ‘Loose Talk’ became more specific caricatures. He no longer played just a madman in one episode; he was a madman addicted to cricket. He wasn’t just a failing author; he was the nihilist addicted to narcotics.
And herein lies the testament to Moin Akhtar’s versatility. Every one of his characters stands on its own, captured in a myriad of mannerisms and utterances. I’ve not seen every episode, but I’ve yet to see one where the character feels like a derivative of another. And legend has it that the shows were performed extempore, without the aid of scripts! When you watch the shows with that in mind it seems scarcely believable, for each of Moin Akhtar’s characters speak extremely particular truths that seem to be the fruits of a painstakingly precise scripting.
The death of an accomplished artiste is always a loss to his world. But in Moin Akhtar’s case it is bigger: what we have lost here is a sensibility and so an era.
We must appreciate now that we had someone who took on the task of holding together our fragile selves, someone who provided us with phrases, gestures and ideas with which to create a tapestry of our own characteristics. In that sense Moin Akhtar’s career is a universe of our shared identity, something he infused with life.
