By Malayalee
In the golden era of Indian cinema, a humble theatre ticket was more than an entry pass—it was an invitation to reflection, emotion, and empowerment. Films such as Do Bigha Zamin, Mother India, Pyaasa, and the gritty dramas of the 1970s and 80s spoke directly to the common citizen. They exposed social realities, celebrated human resilience, and offered hope amid hardship. Cinema was a bridge between classes, regions, and communities—a democratic medium that educated, entertained, and occasionally stirred the collective conscience.
That legacy now feels like a distant memory.
Today, large sections of Indian cinema, especially mainstream Bollywood and its imitators in regional industries, have steadily drifted from their original ethos. What was once a medium for the masses is increasingly becoming a sophisticated instrument for political signalling, selective narratives, and ideological posturing. While talented exceptions persist—filmmakers who still prioritise craft over propaganda—the dominant trend is troubling. The creators have often become more political than the politicians they seek to influence or appease.
The New Script
Walk into a high-profile script discussion in contemporary Mumbai or Hyderabad, and the conversation is revealing. “We need to make it relevant,” the producer declares. In practice, this often means weaving in carefully calibrated political messaging: a heroic monologue critiquing “the system” (always the current one), a song sequence highlighting selective victimhood, or villains who bear uncanny resemblance to real-life ideological opponents. The star, commanding fees that could bankroll several meaningful indie projects, delivers lines with practised intensity, later taking to social media to “speak truth to power”—a truth that curiously shifts depending on the political climate.
This transformation mirrors the broader erosion seen in Indian media. Just as television news traded neutrality for noise and loyalty, cinema has traded universality for virality. The darkened theatre hall, once a unifying space where diverse audiences laughed, cried, and cheered together, is now fragmented along ideological lines. A film touching on farmers’ issues, historical events, or social fault lines risks instant polarisation: celebrated as brave by one camp and condemned as propaganda by another. Boycotts, trending hashtags, and influencer armies often decide a film’s fate more decisively than genuine audience appreciation.
The satire writes itself. We witness self-proclaimed rebels who rage against authority in interviews yet grace every government cultural event with beaming enthusiasm. Producers who wax eloquent about artistic freedom in panel discussions but ensure their projects never offend powerful electoral constituencies. The industry that once produced timeless classics now excels at manufactured outrage and convenient nostalgia. Depth is sacrificed at the altar of spectacle—explosions, CGI, and item numbers—while original storytelling becomes a rarity. Remakes, biopics of politically opportune figures, and formulaic pan-India entertainers dominate the slate.
Money, Power, or Both?
At its core, this shift raises an uncomfortable question: Is mainstream Indian cinema still for the people, or has it become primarily a vehicle for making money and pleasing the powerful?
The financial incentives are undeniable. Astronomical budgets demand safe, marketable formulas. Stars function less as actors and more as brands with political capital. Proximity to power—whether through strategic alliances, selective silence, or timely endorsements—has become a viable career strategy. Meanwhile, the average viewer, especially in smaller towns and rural areas, finds fewer films that genuinely reflect or empower their lived realities. Ticket prices have climbed, multiplexes cater to urban sensibilities, and authentic regional voices are often drowned out by big-banner imitations.
The result is a peculiar tragicomedy. Cinema, long hailed as the great Indian unifier capable of blending languages, emotions, and dreams into irresistible masala, now frequently deepens divisions. The common public—the original patron—has been reduced to a data point in algorithmic calculations rather than the emotional centre of the narrative.
Glimmers of Resistance
Thankfully, the picture is not entirely bleak. Independent filmmakers, certain South Indian powerhouses known for strong storytelling (Kantara being a recent example), and digital platforms have created breathing space for more authentic voices. A new generation of creators is experimenting with nuanced narratives that bypass traditional gatekeepers. These efforts remind us that cinema’s original promise—entertainment with substance—can still be fulfilled.
Yet the larger malaise persists. When filmmakers prioritise currying favour with political patrons, streaming executives, or vocal online mobs over honest expression, the art form loses its soul. The jester who joins the court ceases to be funny; he becomes merely another courtier.
Indian cinema’s current plight is symptomatic of deeper societal polarisation. It was meant to reflect the dreams and struggles of a billion people. Instead, too much of it has become a polished echo chamber—chasing relevance through partisanship rather than universality.
As this fortnightly edition reaches readers, the reel continues to roll. The question remains whether Indian cinema will rediscover its ethical and emotional roots, or whether it will remain content as an expensive tool for the influential and the profitable. The ultimate script, as always, rests with the audience. Their choices—at the ticket counter and on streaming platforms—will determine if the magic of cinema can be revived, or if the decline becomes irreversible.
*Courtesy The Rising Nation
