Shot in ghostly black and white and blending historical fiction with magical realism, the short film positions itself between memory and myth, between hallucination and cultural inheritance. We spoke with Bukhari following his landmark Cannes selection, the first time a short from Pakistan was included in the 57-year history of the Directors’ Fortnight, to unpack the cinematic rituals behind his spellbinding debut.
AM: The film feels like a myth passed down through generations, yet entirely original. What drew you to this hybrid of history and magical realism?
Aleem Bukhari: I’ve always been fascinated by stories that hover in that liminal space, half-remembered history, half-invented myth. Growing up, the stories I heard were embroidered with magic and ghosts, often blurring fact and fantasy. I wanted to create a narrative that feels like it could have existed, but leaves you uncertain. Cinema lets me bring that ambiguity to life, where the emotional truth matters more than historical precision.
AM: You use horror in an unexpected way—not to frighten, but to evoke repression and identity loss. Why horror?
Aleem Bukhari: Horror has always held deeper potential than we give it credit for. To me, it’s a genre of grief, of silence, of unspoken truths. In Karmash, horror allows us to explore how erasure—of identity, language, ritual—can corrode the mind. It’s not just about fear, it’s about mourning. The protagonist’s descent into madness isn’t random; it’s inherited. It’s the result of being severed from one’s roots, and then being misrepresented over and over again. That is the real haunting.
AM: Your character teeters on the edge of madness. In your view, how does this reflect broader themes of marginalization and mythmaking?
Aleem Bukhari: I grew up hearing exaggerated stories about certain communities—mystical, strange, often demonized. Over time, these myths become social facts. Karmash is a challenge to that kind of narrative distortion. The protagonist may appear unhinged, but what you're seeing is the weight of generational misrepresentation. He becomes a metaphor for the 'haunted other'—someone whose real history has been overwritten by fear-fueled fictions. The question I want audiences to ask is: What if his madness isn’t madness at all, but memory?
AM: The black-and-white cinematography feels both vintage and visceral. What inspired this aesthetic?
Aleem Bukhari: I wanted the film to feel like an artifact—something unearthed from the ruins. Black and white gave it a texture of decay, of timelessness. We went further: adding grain, static, degrading the image intentionally to evoke early cinema. This wasn’t about nostalgia; it was about mood, about making the viewer feel like they were watching a forgotten reel of ancestral pain. Black and white holds a kind of ghostliness. It blurs edges, obscures detail, and amplifies dread.
AM: You took on almost every major role—director, writer, cinematographer, editor. Why was full creative control important for this project?
Aleem Bukhari: Honestly, I’m a control freak (laughs). But beyond that, this story lived so vividly in my mind—I knew exactly how I wanted it to look, sound, and unfold. Sometimes collaboration can dilute a vision, especially when you’re doing something unconventional. I needed the freedom to break rules, to make something raw. Of course, it's exhausting. But for this film, it was the only way. It felt more like painting than directing.
AM: Cannes is a huge platform. What did being selected at Directors’ Fortnight mean to you?
Aleem Bukhari: Everything. The Directors’ Fortnight has always celebrated bold, radical filmmakers. To be part of that tradition is the greatest validation I could ask for. Karmash is a deeply personal film from Pakistan, and no short from our country has ever made it into this section. It’s not just a personal win—it’s a moment of pride for all of us. To be seen, in this way, on this stage, affirms that stories like ours do matter, even if they come wrapped in silence and shadow.