Joyland – A Quiet Revolution in Shadows

In a cinematic landscape often dominated by noise and spectacle, Joyland arrives like a whisper—one so sharp and tender, it leaves bruises. Directed by Saim Sadiq, this Pakistani debut feature isn’t just a film; it’s a cultural landmark, a rebellious sigh that dares to exist in a society built on silence. Premiered at the Cannes Film Festival in 2022 (where it won the Un Certain Regard Jury Prize), Joyland made headlines not just for its artistic merit but for the societal ripples it caused back home.

But Joyland doesn’t scream for change. It looks you in the eyes with its quiet melancholy and asks: What does it mean to live a life that is not yours?

Plot in Brief (Mild Spoilers)

Set in Lahore, Joyland revolves around the Rana family—a multi-generational household where tradition, patriarchy, and performance converge. At the center is Haider (Ali Junejo), the unemployed youngest son, who finds a job as a backup dancer in an erotic dance theatre. His world begins to unravel—and come alive—when he falls for Biba (Alina Khan), a fierce and unapologetic transgender performer.

Haider’s wife, Mumtaz (Rasti Farooq), also fights her own battle for agency, working as a makeup artist while dealing with the disapproval of a father-in-law who believes women belong at home. Each character in Joyland yearns for something just beyond their reach—freedom, love, dignity, identity.

A Tapestry of Margins

What makes Joyland revolutionary is not just its inclusion of a transgender love interest—it’s the film’s refusal to treat anyone as a trope. Biba is not a “tragic” trans woman, nor is she a mere symbol. She is charismatic, ambitious, impatient, funny—and complex. The film allows her, and everyone else, the space to contradict themselves.

This is a film about the margins: gender non-conformity, sexual repression, class boundaries, and emotional estrangement within the family unit. Yet it never lectures. The politics in Joyland simmer beneath glances, routines, silences.

Direction: Saim Sadiq’s Silent Rebellion

Saim Sadiq directs with the precision of someone deeply in love with restraint. There are no melodramatic crescendos. Instead, Joyland finds its rhythm in long takes, still frames, and characters suspended in their daily rituals.

He draws from the traditions of slow cinema—think Asghar Farhadi or Chantal Akerman—but fuses it with the visual richness of South Asian storytelling. Every scene feels lived-in, textured. Every pause carries a weight.

For a debut feature, Sadiq displays extraordinary control, particularly in his refusal to resolve every narrative thread neatly. Life, after all, rarely does.

Visual Language: Framed by Walls

Cinematographer Joe Saade paints Joyland with a soft, melancholic palette—teals, browns, and dusky pinks—that seem almost tactile. The camera often observes from behind doors, windows, curtains, grills—repeatedly framing characters in confined spaces.

This visual motif subtly reinforces the film’s thematic core: the architecture of constraint. Whether it’s Haider smoking quietly on a rooftop or Mumtaz staring vacantly inside a makeup studio, each composition reflects an interior life that can’t find a way out.

When the characters do step into open spaces—like the neon-lit joyland theatre—it’s always fleeting, always fragile.

Performances: Whispered Devastation

Ali Junejo as Haider delivers one of the most emotionally intricate performances in recent South Asian cinema. He captures the internalized emasculation of a man crushed between patriarchal expectations and forbidden desire. It’s in the way he hesitates before touching Biba, or the sadness with which he watches Mumtaz disappear into her depression.

Rasti Farooq as Mumtaz is a revelation. Her slow unraveling—from joyous self-assurance to a state of quiet erasure—is devastating. She becomes the soul of the film, and arguably, its most heartbreaking loss.

Alina Khan, a real-life trans actress, brings fiery grace to Biba. She owns her space, refuses pity, and reminds us that trans joy and ambition deserve to be witnessed—not just tolerated.

Themes: Between Desire and Duty

At its core, Joyland is about unfreedom—sexual, emotional, and existential. Every character is yearning, but what they want is either unspeakable or unsanctioned.

• Haider longs to feel seen—not as a “man,” but as someone with softness.

• Mumtaz wants to live beyond domesticity but is punished for dreaming.

• Biba craves not just love but legitimacy in a society that fetishizes and then rejects her.

The film critiques patriarchy, but not through villains—rather, through the ordinary rituals that keep everyone locked into roles. Even the stern father-in-law is not evil; he is simply the product of an inherited script.

Joy and Tragedy: The Title’s Irony

The title Joyland is ironic—perhaps even bitter. The amusement park where Biba performs is a site of spectacle and escapism, much like the performative roles the characters are trapped in. But unlike the name suggests, true joy remains elusive.

When the characters do laugh, dance, or dream, it’s always interrupted—by duty, expectation, or fear. And yet, those brief moments of connection become precious, almost sacred.

Controversy and Cultural Impact

Joyland was initially banned in Pakistan for “questionable” content. After massive outcry and global attention, it was cleared for release with cuts. The very fact that this tender, human story was considered threatening speaks volumes about the power of cinema—and the fragility of those in power.

But here’s the irony: Joyland is not a radical film in its tone. It’s tender, slow, deeply respectful. What makes it revolutionary is its existence—that it dares to center a trans woman, explore male vulnerability, and question domestic patriarchy in a Pakistani household without turning into a morality play.

Its international acclaim (Oscar shortlist, Cannes prizes, Indie Spirit nomination) and eventual release have made it a cultural turning point in Pakistani cinema.

Final Reflections

Joyland is a masterclass in emotional storytelling. It doesn’t ask you to cry; it lets you grieve. It doesn’t shout its politics; it embodies them. It’s not a perfect film—but its imperfections are human, not artistic.

In a world where identity is often flattened into hashtags, Joyland reminds us that people are messier than their labels—and more beautiful for it.

Verdict

4.8 / 5Joyland is not just a film — it is a mirror to our silences, a slow-burning rebellion wrapped in grace. You don’t watch it. You carry it.