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
