Pauline Kael

She would have hated my first short film,” Sami said, staring at the dust-covered DVD.

It was late — 2:42 a.m. The air was heavy with chai and memories. The living room lights were dimmed, except for the glow of his laptop screen, where he had opened an old folder named “KHUWAAB.”

Inside that folder lived a dream he no longer believed in.

Sami had once wanted to be a filmmaker. Not just any filmmaker — but someone who meant something. Who made stories that stuck to people’s bones. Like how Scorsese made him cry with Silence, or how Cinema Paradiso made him believe in childhood again.

But life, as it does, had better ideas. Rent. Expectations. Doubt.

And yet, here he was — watching his own forgotten short film after seven years.

It was rough. Audio out of sync. Dialogue stiff. The last shot — a broken chair spinning in the middle of a street — had felt profound at 23. Now, it just looked... pretentious.

He paused the video.

His eyes wandered to a book on his shelf: Reeling by Pauline Kael.

He hadn’t read it in years, but he remembered the sentence burned into its opening page:
“Good movies make you care, make you believe in possibilities again.”

Pauline Kael never made a film — but she made people love films. Her reviews were fire and thunder. Honest. Harsh. Hilarious. But always full of heart.

She once said:
"The movies are so rarely great art, that if we cannot appreciate great trash, we have very little reason to be interested in them."

Sami had fallen in love with that line in college.

He had written it on a sticky note above his editing desk.

Now, it was gone — like the hope he once had.

But something in that quote, tonight, made him open that folder again.

Inside was another file: a behind-the-scenes clip.

He clicked it.

On screen, a young woman — Zara — was adjusting the lights. She turned to the camera, smiling, annoyed. “Stop recording behind the scenes and start recording the actual film, genius.”

Sami laughed, out loud.

Zara.

His best friend. His producer. The one who had held the boom mic when they couldn’t afford a stand. The one who believed in him more than he did. She had moved to Canada. Married. Had a kid.

They hadn’t talked in three years.

He kept watching. There were clips of the team eating samosas on set, of Sami tripping over wires, of late-night rewrites done with ketchup-stained hands.

They had believed.

They had cared.

And suddenly, the film didn’t feel so terrible.

It felt true.

Raw. Imperfect. But honest.

He sat up straighter.

Sami opened Google Docs.

Title: The Chair Still Spins
Subtitle: A film about not giving up when you want to give up the most.

He didn’t know if anyone would fund it.

He didn’t know if he still had the eye, or the energy, or the people.

But he remembered Pauline Kael’s voice in his head again.

"Art doesn’t come from perfection. It comes from obsession."

So he started writing.

And for the first time in years, he believed in possibilities again.

—

Three months later, he screened his new short film at a local art house cinema in Karachi.

There were 28 people in the room. Two left during the middle. One cried at the end.

After the screening, an old man approached Sami. He was quiet, dressed in plain white, and holding a copy of Reeling in his hand.

“You quoted Pauline Kael in the credits,” he said. “She would have been proud.”

Sami smiled.

“Really?” he asked.

“No,” the old man said, grinning. “She would’ve torn your film apart. But she would’ve loved that you made it anyway.”

Sami laughed.

“Good movies make you care,” the man added, tapping the book. “That’s all that matters.”

Outside, it had started to rain — soft, Karachi rain.

Zara messaged that night.
“I watched it online. You found it again. I’m proud of you.”

Sami didn’t reply for a while.

He just looked out at the wet city, breathing like cinema — imperfect, alive.

He whispered, “Thank you, Pauline.”

Then he picked up his notebook.

And began again.

The story end kay mujay pata lagay kay yahatak story hay.