The man is as elusive as Chiru, the shahtoosh-producing antelope - it's almost impossible to get hold of him. He's also just as precious, being the last man in Pakistani cinema still capable of making women weak in the knees. He demands up to a hundred thousand for an interview and wears Armani. But then another, perhaps counterfeit version of this actor is being regurgitated in movie after movie, cheap and as culturally offensive as any gandasa-ridden gujjar would be. Will the real Shaan please stand up?
Hailing from a family of cinema professionals, son of Neelo and Riaz Shahid, today Shaan is torn between the responsibility of honouring his family obligation towards cinema and the knowledge that cinema in Pakistan has no future, though he refuses to accept the latter. Being a talented actor who has performed in over 250 films in 11 years, it must be frustrating for him to be stereotyped in commercial productions that are constantly under the critics' fire. As a capable director, having directed hits like Mujhe Chand Chahiye, it must disturb him to be stuck with tiny budgets and obsolete equipment. But then to remain in the mainstream, what other choices does he have?
He refuses to be a part of television, unwilling to settle for a lesser medium. He refuses to jump up on the bandwagon to India, something his colleagues have been more than eager to do. He rejects the media as a window to recognition and charges a king's ransom for a film, making himself an inaccessible commodity. But as soon as people begin branding him greedy, he goes and takes up an artistic project like Khamaj free of charge. He wants to be paid to be interviewed, but at the same time turns away the multi-million rupee offers from television channels to record and telecast his wedding ceremony. This privacy, he says, which he guards like an ancient secret, ensures him his sanity.
Despite this, Shaan is accused of being money-minded and vain. This, he says, is part of his job; part of being a celebrity. He's not just an actor but a company dealing with himself. "An actor does not have another job," he says. "The only way he makes money is by selling himself whether it's for a role he plays in a film, TV, a magazine cover or an appearance. People have raised so much objection to this," he adds. "Wasim Akram is paid for his expertise, Imran Khan gets paid for writing a column, even Aalim Online charges money to spread the word of God. We don't get a cheque at the end of the month. We have to make our own money."
But that's not exactly how it's done around the world is it? "Shahrukh Khan charges for an appearance, do you know," he says. "Madhuri Dixit charges up to two crores for a dinner. They have different packages for everything. Give Shahrukh Khan enough money and he'll even do Maula Jat like me. Now at least I'm not stooping low enough to do weddings."
Dressed warmly against the chill of Lahore's winter in a woollen Burberry coat, thawing his hands around a cup of steaming black coffee, this next generation hero seems visibly displaced from the jhatkas and matkas of Lollywood. His appearance in Saquib Malik's Khamaj became the hinge in his image, turning it around a full 180 degrees. Fans who couldn't stand the sight of him on horseback suddenly couldn't get enough. It cast him in a new light worldwide, yet he wasn't the least bit compelled to stick to his new image.
Rather than please him, it infuriates him, he admits, that after giving 11 years to the movies, all he's appreciated for is one music video and an ad campaign he recently did. "Thank you very much," he says sarcastically, "but that kind of attention I don't need."
Yet what, I insist, motivates him to remain part of this facade? Why does he continue to play one gujjar after another when we know he's capable of much more?
"That's my job as an actor," he says in self-defence. "I work under a director. I can tell him that the script is bad and the film worse but that's about it. I'm in no position to stop him." What about the option to say no? "Why should I?" he replies. "Don't I have a right to earn a livelihood in Pakistan? What should I do? TV serials? I don't want to start doing TV dramas. Our dramas are about legendary people doing legendary stuff. Nobody's watching them despite their being free."
Commercial cinema seems to be as good as dead, too. In times like these, where does he find hope? "There will always be hope for commercial cinema," he says, "If we can cope with martial law we can cope with anything. The problem is that as a nation our whole attitude towards art is negative. The Ziaul Haq era did so much damage. It gave the wrong people a very loud voice. It killed art for the next generations."
What does he feel about the generation of critics or journalists like Ijaz Gul who were a breed of this era?
"Men like Ijaz Gul don't qualify to be writers," he comments, apparently disgusted. "Ijaz is constantly snubbing everyone except his brothers. He doesn't spare anyone. I want to give him money to make a film and then I'll review that film. Journalists can write about us, criticize us, but don't be unfair. I must have done something good in my whole career? Why doesn't Ijaz criticize his brothers? They have not bought a single camera in 40 years. Their labs can't process an X-ray but that's okay with him."
Shaan's condemnation does not merely target martial law and journalists, but also industrialists and powerful people who have given up on cinema and waste opportunities on useless activities. "I get angry at the system which has become very unsupportive of films," he says. "Business families should invest in the cinema instead of wasting money on balls and marathons. Can you believe that a man paid Rs6 million for a wooden bat of Aamir Khan? Imagine what we could do if that kind of money came into films."
Despite the loyalties he has for films and the love he evidently has for his country, Shaan has managed to put himself in a love-hate situation with the press. He's a man who realizes he's a heart-throb and yet is not publicity friendly. He'd rather spend time with friends and family than with the film fraternity. It's no wonder that not a single person from the industry was invited to his wedding.
On one hand he writes off the need for media representation and publicity and on the other hand hires Frieha Altaf to handle his PR.
"I hired Frieha simply because I could not be in two places at the same time," he says. "Karachi is a happening place and all the multinationals operate from there. Frieha just manages my work. She handles my finances. She handles my appearances in publications, though I want to repeat that I do not do interviews. I don't want to share my personal life with the world. There were misconceptions that she's my image consultant. She's not. I am who I am."
In being himself, Shaan continues to be the enigma that he has become. He's aware of the fall of cinema but puts it down as a wave, a natural low that will be followed by a high.
"As long as people are watching movies there is hope," he says. "We will rise. My fingers are crossed."
As he prepares to shoot Shoaib Mansoor's directorial project in which he plays the lead, Shaan remains a man in waiting. He's waiting for the wave of investors to sweep in. He's waiting for a national collaboration with India, refusing all one-man offers. He's abnormal, he confesses, and that's the price he has had to pay as a by-product of the movies he acts in.
