Before Pakistan even existed, Lahore was already a thriving center for the arts. In 1929, the industry took its first breath with the opening of United Players’ Studios on Ravi Road. Founded by Abdur Rashid Kardar, often cited as the father of Lollywood, this studio produced the city's first silent film, Husn Ka Daku.
Following the 1947 Partition, the industry faced a massive exodus of talent and equipment to India. Yet, from the ashes of communal riots that destroyed the earlier Pancholi and Shorey studios, a new era emerged. Iconic Studios and Their Legends Shahnoor Studio: The Heart of the Golden Age
Founded in 1948, Shahnoor Studio became a symbol of Pakistani cinematic identity. During its peak in the 1960s, it was so bustling that locals claimed "if you threw a sesame seed in the evening, it wouldn't hit the ground" for the crowds.
Key Productions: It housed the making of masterpieces like Heer Ranjha and Armaan.
The Stars: Icons like the "Chocolate Hero" Waheed Murad, Shabnam, and Mohammad Ali frequented its halls. Evernew Studios: Built on a Blockbuster
Established in 1956, Evernew Studios was uniquely funded by the massive earnings of Pakistan's first true blockbuster, Dulla Bhatti. For years, it stood as a pinnacle of modern filmmaking in the region. Bari Studio: The Arena of the 'Gandasa'
Bari Studio is inextricably linked with the era of regional Punjabi cinema and its most prolific star, Sultan Rahi. Known for his "Gandasa" (axe-wielding) roles, Rahi starred in over 700 films, making him a Guinness World Record holder and the face of Bari's most profitable decades. Behind the Scenes: Challenges and Downfall
The stories of Lollywood are not just about glamour; they are also about survival.
This guide takes you through the legendary "Lollywood" film industry based in Lahore, exploring the iconic studios that defined Pakistani cinema's golden era and the colorful, sometimes supernatural, stories behind their walls. 1. Shahnoor Studios : The Love Story and the Heartbreak Founded in 1950,
was born from the partnership of director Syed Shaukat Hussain Rizvi and his wife, the legendary singer Noor Jehan. They rebranded the damaged Shorey Studios after Partition, naming it by combining their first names.
The Rise: It became a powerhouse with hits like Chanway (1951), where Noor Jehan made her directorial debut because Rizvi wasn't fluent in Punjabi. The Divorce Clause
: In a dramatic real-life twist, during their 1955 divorce, Noor Jehan reportedly had to sign over her entire share of the studio to Rizvi to gain custody of her daughter, Zile Huma. A condition was added that she could never shoot there again. The Romantic Gift: Rizvi once gifted Noor Jehan the Novelty Cinema
(later renamed Tarannum) as a romantic gesture, marking their preeminence in the industry. 2. Bari Studios : Ghosts and Blockbusters
Established by producer Malik Ghulam Bari on Multan Road using the massive profits from his 1957 hit Yakkay Wali.
The Resident Saint: Legend says the studio was plagued by frequent, unexplainable accidents on set. After consulting a spiritual figure, management was told a saint, Hazrat Janab Ghaib Shah Wali Hyderi Qalandari, was buried on the grounds. A shrine was built on the studio premises to stop the "freak accidents".
The "Jaal" Movement: Malik Bari sparked a massive protest (the "Jaal movement") in 1954 when he tried to import an Indian film, Jaal, which led local filmmakers to fear for the survival of the nascent Pakistani industry. lollywood studio stories
Village Facades: The studio was famous for its realistic village sets; many of the iconic "village" shots in old movies were actually filmed in a specific derelict corner of Bari.
Even as Lollywood faced decline and decentralization, studio stories continued to shape Pakistan’s cultural memory. Classic films, songs, and star personas remain influential in popular culture, inspiring contemporary filmmakers and musicians. The studios’ legacy endures in renewed interest in restoration, retrospectives, and biographical films that revisit that era’s creative triumphs and struggles. Moreover, the collaborative, resourceful spirit fostered in those studios informs today’s independent productions and digital storytellers.
Lollywood emerged in the 1950s as Pakistan’s film industry consolidated after partition. Lahore’s studios—such as Shahnoor, Bari, and Evernew—became production hubs where directors, producers, writers, musicians, and actors worked in intense, collaborative environments. During the 1960s and 1970s, Lollywood enjoyed a golden era: studios produced musicals, romances, and social dramas that combined melodious music with strong narrative rhythms, drawing mass audiences across Pakistan and among the diaspora.
As the 2000s arrived, the grand studios fell silent. Piracy and the rise of Indian entertainment killed the industry.
The last story comes from 2007. A young director snuck into the abandoned Shahnoor Studio to shoot a music video. While setting up a shot on the decaying dance floor, he pulled back a dusty curtain. Behind it was a full 1970s disco set—mirror balls, tinsel, and a faded poster of the film “Aaina”—perfectly preserved, as if the crew had walked out 30 years ago and never returned. The director claimed he saw a shadow of a woman in a gharara (traditional skirt) waltz past the mirror.
He didn't scream. He simply packed up his gear and left. He knew the rule of Lollywood: The studios aren't just buildings. They are living, breathing archives of sweat, scandal, and song. You don't disturb the ghosts; you let them finish their scene.
Bari Studio, located on Multan Road, is infamous for being "cursed." Old-timers tell the story of playback singer Noor Jehan, the "Malika-e-Tarannum" (Queen of Melody). During the recording of the 1960s film “Koel”, a power outage hit the studio during a complex high-note crescendo. When the generator kicked in, Noor Jehan refused to sing the line again, claiming, "The spirit of the harmonium finished it for me."
Decades later, late-night security guards at Bari Studio swear that if you stand near Studio B at 2:00 AM, you can hear the faint echo of a woman hitting a perfect, ethereal high note—only to be followed by silence when the old generator sputters. Many directors now refuse to schedule night shoots at Bari, citing "equipment failure." Others cite sheer terror.
Lahore is a city of walls. There are the obvious ones—the monstrous brick ramparts of the old Walled City, hiding the chaos of Anarkali inside. But there are invisible walls, too. They exist along the dusty stretch of Multan Road, past the rattling wagons and the neon glow of wedding halls. Behind a set of rusting iron gates lies the carcass of a dream factory: the infamous Bari Studio, or what remains of it.
For most of the world, "Lollywood" is a punchline—a charming, slightly tacky cousin to the Indian behemoth. They see the gravity-defying fight scenes, the glittering outfits, and the impossible coincidences of a Punjabi blockbuster. But if you press your ear against the crumbling plaster of these old studios, you don’t hear the music. You hear the ghosts.
Lollywood wasn’t always a parody of itself. There was a time, roughly from the 1960s to the late 1980s, when these studios were the epicenter of cultural identity in Pakistan. But to understand the art, you have to understand the architecture. The studio system in Lahore was a feudal dynasty.
Lollywood was haunted—not just by its declining fortunes, but by actual ghost stories.
The Scare: During the filming of a horror movie in the 80s at Bari Studios, the lights went out. The crew, stressed and exhausted, sat in the dark. Legend has it that a spotlight turned on by itself and focused on an empty chair. The next day, the lead actress refused to work, claiming she saw a "spirit" watching her.
To this day, watchmen at Lahore studios refuse to patrol certain abandoned sets after midnight, claiming they hear the ghostly sound of film reels spinning in empty rooms.
Lollywood studio stories are tales of creativity under constraint: of artists and technicians joining forces in confined spaces to make narratives that resonated across generations. They reveal how cinema functions as both industry and community—driven by ambition, sustained by relationships, and vulnerable to external forces. Remembering these studios is not mere nostalgia; it is recognition of an ecosystem that shaped Pakistan’s cultural imagination and continues to inspire new storytellers. Before Pakistan even existed, Lahore was already a
The golden gates of Evernew Studios didn’t just creak; they groaned with the weight of a thousand secrets. In the heart of Lahore, where the air smelled of jasmine and diesel exhaust, Lollywood wasn’t just an industry—it was a fever dream. The Legend of Stage 4
In the 1970s, Stage 4 was the crown jewel. It was where the "Sultan of Cinema," Sultan Rahi, reportedly broke seventeen wooden chairs in a single take of a gandasa fight, and where the playback singers' voices echoed so perfectly they said the walls themselves learned to sing. But by the late 90s,
had become a graveyard of velvet curtains and rusted spotlights. The story goes that a young, ambitious director named Zafar decided to film a comeback musical there. He ignored the warnings of the old chowkidars (gatekeepers) who claimed the stage was "unsettled."
On the first night of shooting, the heavy overhead lights—unplugged for hours—suddenly flickered to a brilliant, blinding white. The orchestra, which hadn't yet arrived, began to play a haunting melody from a film lost in a 1960s laboratory fire. Zafar didn't run; he rolled the camera. The film he captured showed a legendary leading lady, dead for twenty years, dancing in the background of a modern pop song. The footage disappeared the next day, but the chowkidars
just nodded. "She just wanted one last close-up," they whispered. The Diva’s Last Stand Then there was Madam Noor Jehan’s legendary temper—and her even more legendary heart.
One afternoon at Bari Studios, a junior makeup artist accidentally spilled rosewater on the Madam’s silk sari right before a massive musical number. The set went silent. The director turned pale, expecting a storm that would shut down production for a week.
Madam looked at the wet stain, then at the trembling boy. She didn't scream. Instead, she took a pair of scissors from her vanity, cut a matching piece of lace from a nearby prop curtain, and pinned it over the spot.
"Now it’s a design," she stated, her voice like honey and gravel. "And you," she pointed at the boy, "will make sure my tea has extra cardamom today so I forget I’m wearing a window treatment." The Ghost of the Silver Screen
As the industry shifted toward "New Age" cinema, the old studios began to crumble. Yet, the stories remained. There is a tale of a projectionist at the old
who swore that every Friday at midnight, the projector would start on its own. It didn't play the modern action flicks or the scanned digital files. It projected a shimmering, grainy reel of a black-and-white romance.
Passersby on the street would stop, seeing the flicker of light through the high, cracked windows. For ten minutes, the silhouettes of lovers from a forgotten era would embrace on the peeling screen. It was Lollywood’s way of refusing to be forgotten—a celluloid heartbeat that persisted even when the cameras stopped rolling. The Modern Echo
Today, young filmmakers walk through the ruins of Shahnoor Studios, finding old script pages caught in the thorns of overgrown bushes. They talk of "revival" and "global reaches," but they always lower their voices when they pass the old makeup rooms.
They know that in Lollywood, the stars never truly leave the building. They are just waiting for the next "Action!" to wake them up. of Lollywood history or focus on a particular star's urban legends?
Lollywood Studio Stories: The Echo of the Walled City
The gates of the old film studios in Lahore—like Lollywood Studios (originally known as Lahore Film Studios) or the now-silent Evernew Studios—don’t just creak; they groan with memory. To walk onto a Lollywood lot is to step into a time capsule of polyester, overstated dialogue, and chai that has been brewing since the 1970s. Legacy and Cultural Impact Even as Lollywood faced
The Maestro’s Stopwatch One of the most famous stories is that of the legendary music director M. Ashraf. He was notorious for composing a hit tune while the film was literally burning. The story goes that during the shoot of a high-budget Punjabi film in the late 70s, an electrical short caused a fire on the set of a haveli (mansion). While the extras panicked and the hero’s costume caught a spark, Ashraf sat cross-legged under a dying tree, tapping his finger on a steel tiffin box. When the fire was put out, he walked up to the director and said, "Sun yaar, I have the qawwali for the climax." That tune became "Dil Lagaya Tha Maine"—a song that still plays at wedding season in Punjab.
The Hero Who Never Broke Character Then there is the tale of Sultan Rahi, the long-haired, machine-gun-wielding icon of Punjabi cinema. Rahi was method before method was cool. During the shooting of Maula Jatt (1979), he refused to speak to the cast off-camera for three weeks because his character, the rustic outlaw, "had no friends." He slept in the stable on the lot (which was actually just a pile of hay near the carpentry shop) and only ate makhan (butter) and roti. On the final day of shooting the "iron club" fight scene, he accidentally knocked the villain’s tooth out. He picked it up, handed it to the actor, and whispered in his ear—still in character—"Keep it. A souvenir from the grave."
The Rebel and the Typewriter The writers’ room at Lollywood was a chaotic den of smoke and ambition. The most enduring story involves the urdu poet and screenwriter Nasir Adib. He famously wrote the dialogues for Aina (1977)—the biggest romantic hit of its era—in a single night, drunk on rum hidden in a cough syrup bottle. The producer locked him in the "Green Room" (which had peeling green paint and no windows) with a typewriter, a charpai (cot), and a promise of payment. By dawn, Adib hadn't just written the script; he had painted poetic metaphors on the wall with coal. When the producer saw the wall, he screamed. Adib shrugged: "The wall had better chemistry than your hero." Those coal-scrawled lines became the film’s most famous poster tagline.
The Ghost of Studio Number 4 No Lollywood story is complete without the ghost. Studio Number 4 at the original Lollywood complex is said to be haunted by a character actor named Rangeela. Not the famous comedian, but a look-alike extra who died of a heart attack on the set of a horror film in 1982. Technicians swear that when recording background "room tone" late at night, the microphone picks up the sound of someone practicing a tap dance—Rangeela’s signature gimmick. To this day, before a night shoot, the khala (the tea lady) leaves a cup of sweet, milky tea at the door of Studio 4. In the morning, the cup is always empty. Whether it’s rats, the wind, or the ghost of a forgotten dancer, nobody asks. In Lollywood, you don’t cancel a shoot because of logic. You just pour another cup of chai.
In the golden age of Lollywood (Pakistan's film industry), the studios of Lahore—Evernew, Bari, and Shahnoor—were more than just sets; they were worlds of high drama both on and off the screen. The Echoes of Evernew
The story of Lollywood is best told through the lens of a fictionalized composite of true studio lore:
Imagine a sweltering afternoon at Evernew Studios. A legendary starlet, known for her temper as much as her talent, refuses to leave her makeup room because the director ordered the "wrong" shade of marigolds for a song sequence. While the crew waits in the heat, the studio’s tea-boy—a fixture of the industry for forty years—quietly slips into the room. He doesn't bring tea; he brings a story.
He tells her about the time Sultan Rahi, the undisputed king of Punjabi cinema, once stood on this very spot and shared his lunch with the entire lighting crew after a 16-hour shift. He reminds her that the "magic" isn't in the marigolds, but in the collective hustle of the studio walls that have seen empires rise and fall. The Decline and the "Ghost" Studios
By the late 90s and early 2000s, the bustling energy began to fade as the industry faced a "death" and subsequent transformation. Studios that once echoed with the sounds of orchestral music and Urdu dialogues became silent.
The Transformation: The industry moved from the traditional "studio system" to independent productions, a shift often described as a "revival" that questioned what had actually died—was it the cinema, or just the old way of telling stories?
The Modern Spin: Today, the storytelling tradition continues through new mediums like Coke Studio Pakistan, which reimagines old folk tales and 17th-century Sufi poems for a global digital audience. Elements of a Lollywood Legend
If you were to "put together" your own Lollywood-inspired story, consider these authentic tropes:
The Over-the-Top Conflict: Usually involving family honor, a lost-and-found sibling (the "Midnight's Children" trope), or a star-crossed romance.
The Musical Peak: A story is incomplete without a soulful, heartbreaking song that marks the emotional climax.
The Setting: Use the interior courtyards of Lahore or the bustling "brick-making compounds" of rural Punjab to ground the drama in reality.
Here’s a useful, behind-the-scenes-style text on Lollywood Studio Stories — focusing on the golden era of Pakistani cinema (1960s–1980s), key studios, and the colorful, lesser-known tales that shaped the industry.