
Everyone latched onto Anurag Kashyap's headline-grabbing criticisms of Bollywood's star system and studio executives in his recent interview with The Hollywood Reporter India. But buried around minute 44 of the video lay a golden nugget nearly everyone missed – a revelation that might hold the key to Indian cinema's future.
"At that time, producers were invested in making films," Kashyap reminisced, citing examples like Tutu Sharma, who backed his unreleased film Paanch, and the producers behind Black Friday, who stood by him through thick and thin.
He wasn't just name-dropping. He was revealing a fundamental truth: great cinema needs producers who dare to dream beyond the bottom line. In an era where box office numbers dominate Monday morning conversations, Kashyap's words strike at the heart of what's ailing Bollywood.
Visualise filmmaking like you would an iceberg. What audiences see – the stars, the director, the glamour – is just the tip. Beneath lies a massive foundation of grunt work: screenwriters battling blank pages and depression in solitary confinement, producers juggling egos like a circus act, and months of post-production that would make a monk question their patience.
It's a process that begins with a spark of imagination and ends, hopefully, in a blaze of glory at the box office. But between these two points lies a journey so complex and unpredictable that it makes quantum physics look like child's play.
And at the centre of this chaos stands the producer – part visionary, part firefighter, part therapist, and sometimes, part miracle worker. As a screenwriter myself (and yes, I consider my job the second toughest in the industry), I've witnessed firsthand how a producer's smallest decision can be the butterfly effect determining whether a film ends up at the Oscars or in obscurity. One wrong casting choice, one compromised creative decision, or one misaligned marketing strategy can turn potential greatness into mediocrity.
The producer isn't just a bank account with legs, as many mistakenly believe. They're the film's parents, carrying it in their creative womb not just for months or years but often for a lifetime. Their legacy lives on in every frame, every dialogue, every emotion that flickers across the silver screen. They're the unsung architects of cinematic dreams, the invisible force transforming chai-stained scripts into living, breathing cinematic stories.
In the golden age of Indian cinema, producers were storytellers first and businesspeople second. They understood that while cinema is a business, it's a business of dreams. Names like Raj Kapoor, BR Chopra, and Gulshan Rai didn't just finance films; they crafted legacies. They knew their audiences but weren't enslaved by market research. They took risks not because spreadsheets told them to but because their instincts demanded it. Look at their filmography and you'll see a common cinematic thread, even when the directors changed.
What Kashyap hints at, without explicitly stating, is a crisis in Bollywood (mind you, he's careful to exclude Kollywood and Mollywood from this criticism): we don't lack talented writers, directors, or actors – we lack visionary producers. The kind who can read a script and see not just rupee signs but the beating heart of a story that needs to be told. The kind who understand that sometimes the most commercial decision is to be daringly non-commercial.
Today's corporate-backed producers, often drawing salaries that would make a small nation's GDP blush, have transformed from risk-taking visionaries into position-preserving bureaucrats. Their mission isn't to make great cinema; it's to avoid making career-ending mistakes. They're looking for "content" as if films were just another commodity, like soap or shampoo. Their presentations are filled with terms like "target audience", "market penetration", and "risk mitigation", but rarely with words like "vision," "artistry," or "innovation."
The process of making a film has become increasingly mechanised. A script isn't evaluated based on its potential to move audiences or push boundaries; it's judged by how well it fits into pre-existing success templates. The old-school producers, despite their flaws, followed their gut. Sure, some potential masterpieces never saw the light of day, but at least they dared to dream. Today's producers seem more interested in cloning yesterday's successes than crafting tomorrow's classics.
Consider the role of a true producer: they're the first to see potential in a raw script, the first to believe in a director's vision, and often the last one standing when everything seems to be falling apart. They don't just sign checks; they sign off on dreams. They're not just investors; they're believers. In a world increasingly driven by algorithms and analytics, we need producers who still believe in the power of human intuition and creative courage.
For those wondering what an actual producer's journey looks like, Netflix's series The Offer provides a masterclass. It shows how a single producer's vision, persistence, and perhaps a touch of madness gave us The Godfather – a film studio executives initially dismissed as just another mob movie. It's a reminder that some of cinema's greatest achievements came from producers who dared to defy conventional wisdom.
Here's the bitter truth a few like Kashyap understand: Hindi cinema won't evolve by waiting for the next superstar or the next wunderkind director. It will transform when we find – or rather, nurture – producers who see filmmaking not as a business plan but as a love affair with possibilities. We need producers who understand that while profits are important, passion is indispensable. Until then, we're just dancing in the dark, hoping someone will switch on the lights and illuminate the path to a brighter, bolder cinematic future.