Indian cinema has always dazzled the world with its colour and spectacle, but behind the glamour lies an uncomfortable truth: the economics are lopsided. Stars walk away with crores, producers hedge their bets, but most of the crew that actually builds the magic—the cinematographers, sound recordists, editors, spot boys, and set designers—walk home with a one-time paycheck and nothing more.
Once the lights go out on a film, its earnings end too. No royalties, no second innings, no long-tail income. The system is rigged to benefit a few at the top, and silent for the many at the bottom.
A new moment for Indian cinema
That silence, however, is being broken.
The Government of India has rolled out Model State Cinema Regulation Rules to modernise decades-old state laws, streamline permissions, and treat cinema not just as culture but also as an industry. Maharashtra is already rewriting its Cinema Act, bringing in single-window clearances, redevelopment opportunities for theatres, and rationalizsd service charges and taxes. Kerala, too, has begun to stir, having appointed the Hema Committee to investigate gender discrimination in the industry and hosting the Film Policy Conclave to explore comprehensive reforms.
For the first time, law and policy are moving in step with the demands of a fast-changing cinema ecosystem. Yet curiously, most of these discussions unfold without the voices of legal practitioners, as if cinema were outside the scope of law. It is not. And that's why what Dulquer Salmaan just did with his blockbuster Lokah Chapter 1: Chandra could become the missing link between reform on paper and reform in practice.
Dulquer's gesture and Hollywood's residuals
With Lokah, Dulquer announced something unheard of in India: he would share profits with everyone, from actors to technicians to crew. In an industry where generosity is usually measured in thank-you credits, this was radical. And it wasn't charity. It was a statement that cinema is a collective enterprise, and its rewards should flow across the collective too.
To understand its significance, you only need to glance westward. In Hollywood, payment doesn't stop once a film wraps. Every rebroadcast on TV, every streaming deal, every overseas sale, every re-release generates income for those who worked on it. These payments, called residuals, are not favors; they are legal rights negotiated by unions like SAG-AFTRA and the Writers Guild of America.
Residuals transform creativity into a long-term livelihood. They acknowledge that films don't die after opening weekend; they live multiple afterlives on OTT platforms, airlines, and global dubbing markets. In America, every afterlife pays. In India, it pays no one beyond the producers and stars.
Actor R Madhavan said it bluntly. If he had been a Hollywood actor, just three of his films—3 Idiots, Rang De Basanti, and Tanu Weds Manu—would have earned enough residuals to secure his family for generations. In India, he lamented, there is nothing.
His frustration is telling: if even A-list actors feel vulnerable without residuals, what hope is there for the invisible technicians who will never feature on a poster?
That's why Dulquer's announcement matters. His gesture isn't residual in the strict Hollywood sense. It's a voluntary, one-time sharing of profits, not a continuous legal right. But it carries symbolic weight. It shifts the conversation from behind closed doors to the public domain. It nudges the industry towards transparency. And it proves that fairness can be both possible and profitable.
Lessons from across the world
Other film industries have already shown how this can be done.
South Korea ensures that writers, actors, and musicians share royalties from K-dramas and K-pop exports, turning creativity into an economic engine. France and the United Kingdom safeguard creators through copyright royalties and collective bargaining frameworks.
China, now the world's largest box office market, has demonstrated how state-backed incentives and infrastructure can turbocharge growth, though often at the cost of artistic freedom. Nigeria's Nollywood, meanwhile, offers a cautionary tale: rapid growth without robust regulation leads to piracy, exploitation, and fragile incomes.
India can pick and choose. It can adopt Hollywood's fairness, Europe's copyright safeguards, Korea's royalty culture, and China's infrastructure push, while avoiding their pitfalls. And it can do so right now, when the Centre is drafting model rules, Maharashtra is rewriting its law, and Kerala is opening up conversations on reform.
But for that, gestures have to evolve into systems. Residuals must be embedded into contracts, not dependent on goodwill. Transparency requirements like revenue audits must be mandatory, so contributors actually see their fair share.
Dispute resolution needs fast-track arbitration, so artistes don't die waiting for justice. Subsidies and tax breaks must be tied to fair compensation practices, rewarding those who share rewards rather than hoard them. Done right, this isn't just ethical; it's smart economics. Fair pay attracts talent, strengthens loyalty, and boosts investor confidence.
Beyond money: The demand for dignity
Fairness isn't only about money. It's also about dignity. The MeToo movement and the Hema Committee report revealed how unsafe and discriminatory the industry remains for many. Pay equity without safe workplaces is hollow.
If law is to step in, it must step in fully—ensuring workplace safety, enforcing codes of conduct, and creating grievance redressal systems that actually work. Cinema cannot be called fair until it is safe.
And that's the larger point. Right now, India has a rare chance to align government policy, industry reform, and grassroots fairness. Dulquer's decision to share profits could go down as the spark that lit the fire. What comes next depends on whether regulators, unions, and producers seize this moment or let it pass. If seized, it could transform Indian cinema into a global model where creativity is rewarded, risk and reward are shared, and law guarantees continuity beyond the goodwill of one star.
Because the truth is simple: films never end. So why should payments?
(The author is the Founder & Chairman of Musthafa & Almana, a global law firm.)
