Bollywood has long lost the art of song picturisation. It feels like an eternity since any track was filmed with flair, with imagination. It feels like even longer since songs were known for their shot-taking, for what they conveyed visually. Now, only a handful of traditionalists (Karan Johar, Sanjay Leela Bhansali), still hold on to its magic. Some have long surrendered it to narrative potency. Others don’t even pause to grasp the weight of what’s been lost—the way song and dance once breathed life into Bombay cinema, the way they turned emotion into something tangible, something immortal. No wonder they are used, if at all, as afterthoughts: devoid of purpose, robbed of poetry. Even fillers are rare now, as at least some of those once had the grandeur of a music video. Now, songs are shot not to be seen, but to be scrolled past. Today, they are shot only as reels—designed not to live in memory, but to chase algorithms, not to move hearts, but to rank higher on a feed.

All Bow To Algorithm

The algorithm dictates its grammar. The hook line is the heartbeat; the rest dissolves into oblivion. Composers no longer create melodies that linger; they engineer earworms designed to vanish as quickly as they arrive. Verses surrender to viral loops. The picturisation follows suit. The hook step is everywhere, the rest a blur. Long takes are sacrificed at the altar of attention. Slow dissolves give way to jump cuts. Movements are choreographed not for the screen but for the scroll. 

‘Tauba Tauba,’ ‘Lutt Putt Gaya,’ ‘Aayi Nayi’ are a few songs known not for their feeling, their flow, but for a step. Does anyone remember what comes before or after? Similarly, ‘Pehli Bhi Main,’ ‘Aabaad Bardbaad,’ ‘Sajni,’ ‘Mera Dholna’ have their scratches fill the feed in fractured bursts. But does anyone remember them beyond their mukhda? There was a time when a song, if not memorised by heart, was at least known by the soul. Hook steps have always found a place in the mind, but once, the space, the craft, the poetry of how a song was filmed mattered just as much.

Viral Fever

Now, the only thing that matters is how to conquer reels, and in its wake, a new phenomenon has emerged: reelification. Everything is filtered through the lens of a social media reel, designed with its rhythm in mind, shaped to fit its fading frame, measured not by artistry but by virality. And the first, greatest casualty? Song and dance. This isn’t to dismiss the craft of making a reel; it has its own language, its own grammar. But there’s a case to be made about how it has redefined the way spectators consume cinema—nay, ‘content’. Gone are the days when songs were reborn through remakes. Now, they are resurrected on feeds, removed of context, repurposed into trends. Gone are the days when a song belonged to a singular moment. Now, they are plastered over anything and everything, devoid of meaning, detached from memory.

This has also led to moments of ingenuity, flashes of creative flourish. It has opened ears to forgotten melodies and introduced fresh sounds to unfamiliar audiences. After all, it speaks to the potency of reelification when an Iranian dirge of enslavement, ‘Jamal Kudu’, becomes the heartbeat of a thousand edits, or when the ghost of Laxmikant-Pyarelal’s ‘Ek Hasina Thi’ finds an afterlife in the digital cosmos. But the greatest casualty of all is the dwindling attention span of the viewer. Everything must be immediate: sharp, urgent, catchy. There is no room for hesitation, no patience for the slow bloom of meaning. A song, a scene, a film has only one chance to grip, to stun, to seize. It must be packaged in an aesthetic that conforms, because anything else is not arresting enough. Things must be said quickly, or not at all. Slow burn is a crime, subtlety a sin.

Ditch The Slow Burn

This is evident in the kind of stories that find favour in the last half a decade. Whether in long-form storytelling or theatrical releases, patterns emerge in genres that get the green light while others fade into the background. There are, of course, many reasons—star vanity being one—but shrinking attention spans remains the most decisive one. Take, for instance, the OTT space. Since its inception, it is replete with crime thrillers and police procedurals. It isn’t a mere coincidence. These genres thrive on urgency, on the illusion of high stakes. They grip the audience with turns, sustain their hold with twists, and hit them back with a sudden death or two. And if all else fails, there’s always the safety net of a cliffhanger.

Theatrical cinema, too, has narrowed its focus, with only a select few genres gaining traction. One such breed is horror-comedy. It is not simply comedy that captivates. It’s the flashes of horror that keep the audience hooked, leaning forward, ready for whatever’s next. These films thrive on contrasts, where punchlines are often accompanied by the suddenness of a shock. Similarly, mass action films have evolved, distancing themselves from the intricacies of the ‘masala’ tradition. Payoff after payoff, punchline after punchline—strung together like a highlight reel. Filmmakers like Atlee (Jawan, Baby John) and Shankar (Game Changer) now work in a world where tension takes a backseat to the GIF-able moment, where the thrill lies in instant gratification, not in the art of build-up. 

It can be argued that both these filmmakers hail from a South Indian tradition, where mass cinema has long followed its own distinctive identity, far removed from Bollywood’s usual syntax. True as this may be, in recent years, Bollywood, too, has slipped into this very pattern. Films now often resemble reels dressed as cinema: moments of enjoyment come only when everything rushes forward, when chaos is the currency, and everything is hurled at the screen with a hope that something, anything, will connect. 

Embrace The Absurd

Take, for instance, Badass Ravi Kumar, starring Himesh Reshammiya in the titular role. From the outset, it feels like a pastiche that knows exactly how to laugh at itself. Yet, it isn’t that self-aware, that meta enough to mock the trends. Rather, it surrenders to them, wearing its absurdity proudly. The writing, the framing, the acting—all drip with an almost deliberate excess, as though every dialogue is a competition to out-cheese the last, every moment a louder declaration of its own implausibility. Stakes rise relentlessly, timelines blur in an endless loop, and the action is served with the perfect spoonful of corn. It isn’t quite cringe, but something else altogether: a performance for an audience that are in on the joke, laughing both with and at the spectacle, a strange fusion of reel cinema and meme culture.

The recent surge in re-releases, particularly those in Hindi Cinema, owes much of its momentum to the algorithm. Look closely, and you’ll see a pattern: the films that have been re-released, the ones that have drawn massive crowds, are those that have long been favoured by the reels. This isn’t to suggest they lack the weight of icon status, or to dismiss the fact that many of the audiences flocking to these screenings have never experienced them in a packed theater. But it’s undeniable that these films, often propelled by viral scenes and songs, have been resurrected on feeds, feeding the collective nostalgia of the internet. Say, Laila Majnu, or, more recently, Sanam Teri Kasam, barely registered when they first released. But today, they command the attention of thousands of audiences, filling theaters across the country. Their popularity is no longer bound to their original release but reborn through the endless loops of social media. 

Who Will Be Remembered?

Even film promotions, arguably the one arena where Hindi producers used to readily pour their creativity and money, have now been surrendered to the scroll. No more whirlwind city tours, no more interviews where actors could build a lasting connection with their audience. Now, virality is the only currency. A press conference isn’t a conversation; it’s a breeding ground for memes. A song release isn’t about melody or emotion; it’s about the challenge it sparks: who can master the hook step, who can twist it into something clickable.

The Loveyapa title track isn’t being performed by actors but perfected by influencers. Celebrities no longer seek out journalists; they sit across viral podcasters who trade depth for reach. And Veer Pahariya isn’t a name on people’s lips because of his craft—he is a construct shaped by the internet’s endless need to turn anything and everything into conversation. Because, after all, reelification is not just a trend—it is an evolution, an omnipresent force shaping cinema’s contours. It is the new language, the new currency, the new reality. And in this reality, the algorithm reigns supreme, dictating what survives, what fades, and what, if anything, will ever be remembered.

(Anas Arif is a film writer and a media graduate from AJKMCRC, Jamia Millia Islamia)

Disclaimer: These are the personal opinions of the author

A good year in the movies can mean multiple things. Studios sufficiently bankrolling films, independent projects finding their way to the mainstream, underdogs triumphing over tentpole projects, new faces coming up and old faces rediscovering their voice. In that sense, 2024 fulfilled most of these possibilities. Filmmaker Sriram Raghavan, known for curating gore in his films, conjured a heartbreaking romance in Merry Christmas. Three female actors fronted the commercially viable Crew, a modest-budgeted Munjya won big, Payal Kapadia’s independently-funded All We Imagine As Light got a theatrical release and ensembles like Madgaon Express, Stree 2, and Bhool Bhulaiyaa 3 were triumphs. On paper, we are steadying ahead. But a little probing dismantles this neat narrative.

There can, and should, be different ways of looking at something. But no matter how one sees it, 2024 reveals to be uninspiring for Hindi films. Quantity is no longer the problem. Admittedly, there was a lull during the Covid-19 crisis, but some time has passed and as of now, a steady roster of theatrical and streaming releases is in place. Theatre owners and exhibitors also came up with a ploy to combat infrequent releases: re-releasing old Hindi films. Yet, the quality has been on a steady decline.

The Era Of ‘Genericness’

As of now, the landscape of Hindi films resembles a linear line drawn by a vanishing ink. The multi-crore industry has come to be imbued by such genericness in plot and aesthetics that is hard to locate its identity. In other words, no matter how long the line is—and how expansive the industry is becoming—the growth feels incidental, for the ambition is stunted.

It could have been the post-pandemic uncertainty, the easy availability of other Indian language films through streaming sites during that period, or the gigantic successes of those ventures. In 2022, S.S. Rajamouli’s RRR registered the highest opening by an Indian film; this year, another Telugu language film, Sukumar’s Pushpa 2, became the highest-grossing Indian film in the first week. But evidently, the monopoly of Hindi films and its false equivalence with Indian cinema have considerably weakened. The diversity of the industry has been steamrolled into a prickly homogeneity where any two films look the same, the scale feels identical, the action looks uniformly designed and the style is fashioned in self-reflexive humour.

As is often the case, Shah Rukh Khan paved the way. His 2023 film Pathaan not just marked his return to the screen after a four-year hiatus but was one of the few outings that earned money at a time many others struggled to do so. Its success did three things: it reiterated the supremacy of Khan, legitimised action as a thriving genre, and recognised star cameos in films as the onset of multiverses. 

Spectacle Over Everything Else

This year, most Hindi films can be slotted in these distinct categories. Rohit Shetty’s Singham Again was his version of a (cop) multiverse, and the production house Maddock Films furthered its horror-comedy universe with Stree 2 and Munjya. Sagar Ambre and Pushkar Ojha helmed the action-thriller Yodha, Siddharth Anand directed the aviation (action) thriller Fighter and Ali Abbas Zafar made the abysmal Bade Miyan Chote Miyan (BMCM). There are more examples: Nikkhil Advani leaned on action with Vedaa, Ravi Udyawar did the same with Yudhra and so did Aditya Datt in Crakk. Clubbing them together could be reductive, but it is difficult not to identify the sweeping attempt by the makers to treat plot as an accessory to action.

In the midst, meta references clog the screenplay. Khan’s famous “Bete ko hath lagane se pehle, baap se baat kar” (“Before touching the son, deal with the father”), rooted to the personal turmoil of his son’s arrest in 2021, spawned similar iterations post Jawan (2023). Tiger Shroff repeated his meme-famous “choti bachi ho kya?” (“are you a little girl”) a decade later in BMCM after mouthing them for the first time in Heropanti (2014); Chitrangada Singh briefly appeared in Akshay Kumar’s Khel Khel Mein (2024) and their scenes were scored to the music of Desi Boyz (2011), the last film they did together. The subtext here is actors winking directly at the audience and establishing a connection despite the fourth wall. But Hindi films have never seemed more distant.

Stuck On Repeat

If 2024 proved anything, it is that what works really does, and when it does, it is repeated. The success of Stree 2 and Bhool Bhulaiyaa 3 furthered the accomplishment of sequels, and now, there are multiple in the works. The Ranbir Kapoor-starrer Animal (2023) ended with the announcement of Animal Park, which is supposed to go on floors in 2027. Varun Dhawan is part of No Entry 2, Border 2 and reportedly a sequel to Jugjugg Jeeyo too. Vikas Bahl’s Shaitaan, which minted money this year, has a sequel in the making, and in October, actor Salman Khan and producer Sajid Nadiadwala confirmed working on Kick 2 with a cheeky Instagram post. Meanwhile, Shah Rukh Khan is rumoured to be featuring in Pathaan 2.

Every actor, it appears, is either working in a sequel or wants to be in one. It is a jarring trend that spells a creative crisis in Hindi cinema with a damning pronouncement. As of this moment, filmmakers are more involved in catering to the audience than creating for them. Budgets are being amped up, more investment is tailored for VFX and Hindi films are getting bigger. Yet, one would be hard-pressed to distinguish between the trailers of, say, Baby John and Animal. It is the same story everywhere: overgrown men fighting with an obscure vengeance to prove their manhood rather than seek justice.

Bankruptcy Of Imagination

Perhaps this crystallises the most terrifying symptom of Hindi cinema today where the bankruptcy of imagination has manifested in accentuating machismo. More and more films centre around men who need an excuse to draw out blood from the next person. The face does not matter, nor does the cause. While they thumped about the screens, smaller and more inventive projects, such as Sanjay Tripaathy’s warm Binny And Family, Karan Gour’s whimsical Fairy Folk, Shoojit Sircar’s affecting I Want to Talk battled for more screens and our attention. Even Kiran Rao’s wonderful Laapataa Ladies and Varun Grover’s perceptive All India Rank garnered appreciation once they landed on digital platforms. Once upon a time, they would have been referred to as multiplex films. Today, they are too ambitious for streaming and too atypical for theatres. They reside in a no man’s land, and in their dislocation, they mirror the gradual distortion of Hindi cinema.

(Ishita Sengupta is an independent film critic and culture writer from India. Her writing is informed by gender and pop culture and has appeared in The Indian Express, Hyperallergic, New Lines Magazine, etc.)

Disclaimer: These are the personal opinions of the author

The recent face-off between Telangana Chief Minister Revanth Reddy and actor Allu Arjun over the stampede at Sandhya Theatre on December 5 has begun to show signs of de-escalation, with conciliatory statements and compensation for the victim’s family.

The outpour of sympathy and support for the family of the 39-year-old mother who tragically died, and her nine-year-old son who survived life-threatening injuries, is heartening. One can only hope that as a society, we take collective responsibility to prevent such stampedes—particularly those caused by the frenzy surrounding film stars and movie releases.

That said, the Arjun vs. Reddy battle mirrors a familiar narrative in southern Indian politics: the clash between a star and a powerful politician. This story has played out numerous times, both in the political arena and in film scripts. In real-world politics, history shows that it is generally unwise for politicians to antagonise stars, especially those at the peak of their popularity.  

MGR vs Karunanidhi

The first notable example from Tamil Nadu where a politician who took on a star lost the battle is the defining story of Dravidian politics. The late Chief Minister and DMK patriarch, M. Karunanidhi, antagonised the enormously popular M.G. Ramachandran (MGR), an actor who had a massive following.

MGR worked closely with Karunanidhi in films and was part of the DMK, which was founded by former Chief Minister C.N. Annadurai, or ‘Anna’. When Anna passed away while in office in 1969, Karunanidhi took over as Chief Minister and president of the DMK. A rift with MGR followed, leading to a split in the party. MGR went on to form his own party, the All India Anna DMK (AIADMK), and not only defeated Karunanidhi’s DMK but also kept him out of power until his death in 1987.

While there were many other factors at play, including the declaration of emergency, it was fundamentally the narrative of MGR’s persecution that fuelled the rise of the AIADMK. This emotional connection helped keep Karunanidhi and his DMK out of power in successive elections, till MGR was alive. 

Rajnikanth vs. Jayalalithaa, 1996

In 1996, the late Chief Minister J. Jayalalithaa—MGR’s successor and a popular actor who took over the AIADMK—had a face-off with superstar Rajnikanth. The friction between the two leaders, who were neighbours in Chennai’s posh Poes Garden area, escalated when Rajnikanth publicly declared that “even God could not save the state if Jayalalithaa came back to power”.

In the 1996 elections, the AIADMK was decisively routed, with even Jayalalithaa losing her seat. There were multiple reasons for this defeat and Rajnikanth’s statement contributed to the atmosphere, but the episode serves as a reminder that a public confrontation with a powerful star is rarely advantageous for a politician in Dravidian politics.

Although Rajnikanth never formally entered politics, he made a film in 1998, Padayappa, where the antagonist was a woman—interpreted by many as a veiled reference to the ousted Jayalalithaa. In the years that followed, there was a reconciliation between the two, with Rajnikanth remaining officially apolitical, though he sporadically made statements in favour of the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) until Jayalalithaa’s death.

NTR In Telugu politics, Rajkumar In Karnataka

In the world of Telugu politics, it was the most popular star of the time, NT Rama Rao (NTR), who toppled the Congress in 1983. While there was no narrative of the “persecution of the star” in the assembly battle back then, NTR capitalised on a narrative of the Congress hurting Telugu pride. This political victory still contributes to the stereotype of star power in Southern politics.

Generally, political leaders in Telugu, Tamil and even Kannada politics have treaded carefully when dealing with stars. For example, in Karnataka, Kannada superstar Rajkumar, who stayed away from politics throughout his life, played a significant role in the Gokak agitation for the Kannada language in the early 1980s. This movement contributed to the defeat of the then Congress Chief Minister R. Gundu Rao and the Janata Party’s victory in the 1983 state elections.

While not all stars have been successful in politics, there are enough historical lessons for southern politicians to avoid friction with a star—especially one at the height of his popularity.

What Reddy Can Learn From Stalin

Currently, Tamil Nadu is witnessing the rise of actor Vijay with his political party. Although Vijay has been critical of the ruling DMK, Chief Minister Stalin has refrained from engaging in a war of words. Stalin has even instructed his party, including his son and Deputy Chief Minister Udayanidhi, to avoid getting involved in a public dispute.

Having been a witness to the history of Dravidian politics as the late Karunanidhi’s aide, Stalin understands that politically attacking a star only boosts his or her mass appeal and influence.  

While the Arjun Vs Reddy controversy isn’t electoral in nature—at least not yet—it remains unclear how such a public confrontation erupted in Hyderabad, given the deeply intertwined world of politics and cinema. With close connections, including family linkages, it’s hard to believe this was purely about the stampede. Whatever the reasons, history is a reminder for Revanth Reddy to avoid star-studded confrontations in the future. 

(TM Veeraraghav is Executive Editor, NDTV)

Disclaimer: These are the personal opinions of the author

At its surface, Reema Kagti’s latest feature, Superboys of Malegaon (2024), is the story behind the story of a motley group of film enthusiasts from the eponymous city, who made low-budget parodies of famed Bollywood and Hollywood films. To subject Kagti’s film to a surface-level reading, however, is a disservice to not just one of India’s most intelligent storytellers but also to the industry which, with every passing film, dissolves into a decadent and dramatically stagnant being. A nation where any existence of artistic intelligence is strangled by moneymaking goons masquerading as film producers, who continue to push lacklustre universes of IP-driven dross where nothing that glitters is actually gold. 

“Writer Baap Hota Hai“

Kagti’s film, albeit set in a place some 270 km and 25 years in the past from today’s Bollywood, offers considerate commentary, for anyone willing to listen, on the times we live in. “Writer baap hota hai,” screams Farogh Jafri (Vineet Kumar Singh), an underappreciated writer from Malegaon, when his original stories are repeatedly rejected by Nasir Shaikh (Adarsh Gourav), the leader of their ragtag film crew, in favour of more parodies. While this dialogue, penned by Varun Grover, exists within the time-space continuum populated by this specific group from Malegaon, it evokes an emotion that transcends all borders, tangible or intangible. A similar emotion was evoked some 400 years ago by the ‘baap’ of all writers, William Shakespeare, when he penned down his sonnet, Not Marble nor the Gilded Monuments, stating as fearlessly as Jafri, “Not marble nor the gilded monuments, Of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme.” Nothing supersedes a good writer. And if Shakespeare and Grover said it, then it must be true.

It is quite remarkable then that this simple thought that has defied artistic evolution from its very inception remains incomprehensible for filmmakers and producers in India. Underpaid screenwriters underscore the reality of every film set, successful or unsuccessful, large or small. Ours is an industry that has not merely normalised this disparity but has also vigorously facilitated the culture of hero worship, which further curtails writers’ wages in favour of a bigger paycheck for an actor who would be fundamentally unemployed, if not for the writer.

Nasir Understands A Complex Truth About Identity

The parodies with an accentuated Malegaon accent in the film emphasise another important idea in this vein—the importance of socially and culturally cognisant writers and filmmakers. The granular motivation for these superboys of Malegaon was to create a cinema that cements their identity on the big screen in a manner that is not offered to people of their economic and social belonging by the system. It is but Bombay’s cruelty that it teaches you to dream. Nevertheless, a replication of Bombay’s glamourous filmmaking remains incredibly important as films, above all else, are entertainment, especially in Malegaon.

It is not lost on Nasir that his films are meant to be seen by loom workers and farmhands who work too hard for too little in a place where nothing ever happens. To infuse Malegaon’s desperation with the dynamism of Mumbai thus becomes his primary goal. What this requires, however, is an acute understanding of both lands—Malegaon and Mumbai. A familiarity with the texts and lives of both their source material and their reference material. A realisation that would save Bollywood bigwigs crores of rupees.

Same Old, Same Old Bollywood

Bollywood’s is a rich history of self-referential, self-aware cinema. However, of late, there has been an increase in the need to refer sans innovation. An attitude that extends itself from major plot points to throwaway one-liners. We no longer have jokes; we have reminders of comedies released a decade ago. Humour manifests itself through arduous meta-textual and pop culture references as we laugh at feeble echoes of the same punchline perpetually reverberating across the hollow industry.

Cutting decisively through the sparkling exterior, Superboys also magnifies the physical, emotional, and financial stresses that burden filmmakers. Observing the Malegaon filmmakers toil tirelessly amidst societal and economic restrictions to deliver films with heart and soul puts into perspective exactly how detrimental it is when Bollywood churns out movies worth hundreds of crores with no ambition. Filmmaking is a privilege, as professed by Kagti’s picture, and it is evident that not just the filmmakers of Malegaon but the filmmakers in Malegaon recognised and responded to the duties that accompany this privilege. Unfortunately, this maturity eludes most of Bollywood.

Superboys Is Filmmaking Free Of Constraint

While the film’s ideas are eloquently expressed through Varun Grover’s deliberate dialogues, there is a lot that is to be understood from the film’s silences as well. Faiza Ahmad Khan’s Supermen of Malegaon (2008), the documentary film that in many ways inspired Kagti’s fictional account, addressed the communal differences between Malegaon’s population and how the build-up of a majority Muslim and a minority Hindu population impacts the access to and attitudes towards cinema. Superboys of Malegaon, however, decides not to address this side of Malegaon’s history, which doesn’t come as much of a surprise in today’s Bollywood, where extremist groups exercise undue but immense influence across the industry; one does understand the weight that this decision carries. The permanence of celluloid also means that this silence will ring loud forevermore.

At its core, however, Superboys is a story of liberated filmmaking. Free from all conventions of form, style, and substance, and in pursuit of euphoria. You feel it in the characters’ motivations, and you read it on their faces. When they laugh, you laugh with them. When they cry, you shed a tear as well. It is honest filmmaking by a filmmaker who has remained demonstrably diligent towards her craft, about filmmakers who were nothing short of being dedicatedly determined towards theirs. And in that sense, Superboys of Malegaon is a joyous film that celebrates everyone who has ever made a film. It applauds all filmmakers who are unable to or unwilling to break through Bombay’s hardened exterior. It is a film about everyone who is not a Bollywood bigwig, but quite poetically, it is also a must for everyone who is. A wake-up call for a fraternity that has only ever learnt to flatter itself.

(Nidhil Vohra is a writer, filmmaker, and film studies student at the University of Toronto.)

Disclaimer: These are the personal opinions of the author