The Death Of Creative Autonomy?: Raanjhanaa's New AI-Led Ending Is An Early Warning Sign

“There are deeper strata of truth in cinema," said Werner Herzog in a conversation with Australian actor Paul Cronin. "...and there is such a thing as poetic, ecstatic truth. It is mysterious and elusive, and can be reached only through fabrication and imagination and stylization.” Cinema doesn’t owe us realism, but it does owe us honesty. All the lies a film tells — the romantic grand gestures, the gory violence, the exaggerated anger, even the heightened melodrama — are in service of that truth. And an ill-fitted happy ending, that a lot of us secretly hope for, like it or not, is a betrayal to that pursuit.

Released in 2013, Anand L. Rai’s 'Raanjhanaa' is a celebrated film steeped in longing, obsession, and the emotional wreckage of unreciprocated love. At its heart is Kundan (Dhanush), a devout lover whose desire for Zoya (Sonam Kapoor), a woman shaped by different convictions and contexts, pushes the boundaries of devotion into self-destruction. Framed against the backdrop of religion, small-town politics, and personal idealism, the film grapples with morally ambiguous choices and the volatility of romantic persistence. 'Raanjhanaa' isn't a fairytale — it interrogates the very idea of one, letting discomfort, conflict, and consequence guide its emotional trajectory of a doomed romance that ends with, well, doom.

However, in a surprising turn, Eros Media Group announced a re-release of 'Raanjhanaa' in Tamil Nadu under its alternate title 'Ambikapathy' on August 1, 2025 — with a newly AI-generated climax in which Kundan who originally died in the end, survives. This is presented as a “creative reimagining,” and Eros insists the altered ending is optional and clearly delineated, not intended to overwrite the original.

The announcement has provoked considerable backlash. Anand Rai publicly disassociated himself from the re-release, describing it as “artistic vandalism” and a “reckless dystopian experiment.” Crucially, he emphasised that the decision was made without his consent or that of the cast — raising concerns about moral and intellectual rights within Indian cinema.

This debate has started a dialogue about AI as a tool of cultural re‑authoring. While fan fiction and alternative versions have long existed, generative AI now enables visual rewrites that are nearly indistinguishable from original cinema. The 'Raanjhanaa' revision is not a fan-made edit — it is a corporate, post‑production intervention that carries the stamp of institutional authority. This marks a shift from participatory culture to top-down reauthorisation, and with it, a redefinition of who holds the power to shape meaning — and who profits from that power.

At the centre of this discussion lies the politics of closure within South Asian storytelling traditions. Mainstream Bollywood often relies on idealised resolutions — redemptive arcs, romantic reunions. 'Raanjhanaa', however, resists such formulas which is why it has been lauded as an important film in the industry. Its tragic structure insists that viewers sit with the moral dilemmas that drive this film. The proposed 'happy' version diminishes the intellectual labour demanded of its audience.

To rewrite Raanjhanaa’s ending is to also misunderstand the very architecture of the film’s emotional and cultural intention. Kundan’s arc, modelled not on modern romantic sensibilities but on the folkloric grammar of Heer-Ranjha and other South Asian epics of doomed love, is meant to be excessive, overwhelming, and tragic. His devotion, unreciprocated and even self-destructive, taps into a mythic idea of love as surrender — an existential state rather than a mutual exchange. In that sense, the film succeeds in honouring the legacy of tragedy in its storytelling, without which the narrative arc of the film falls resoundingly flat.

Beyond these thematic concerns lies the issue of cultural memory and archival integrity. Films such as 'Sholay' or 'Mother India' occupy iconic status in India’s cultural consciousness. Anand warns that if 'Raanjhanaa' can be retroactively altered, so too could these canonical works — potentially keeping Jai and Veeru alive, for instance. Such acts set a dangerous precedent: if foundational texts are mutable, the collective memory that sustains them becomes destabilised, vulnerable to revisionism in the service of market imperatives.

Eros describes the new ending as an “exploratory baby step” into monetising AI for regional repackaging. But is this truly innovation or is it commodification under the guise of the supposed 'wonders of technology'? Anand has warned that such disregard for artistic integrity may lead actors and directors to boycott studios that breach creative trust.

The AI‑modified ending of 'Raanjhanaa' concerns not just the future of cinematic storytelling but audiences who watch it. To rewrite a film like this is to assume that its viewers cannot tolerate ambiguity or engage with flawed characters, or even reckon with difficult truths. It’s a subtle kind of erosion — not just of artistic autonomy, but of collective intelligence. This sanitisation reeks of the intent to sustain dominant narratives and reinforce marketable ideals and it treats cinema not as a site of provocation or truth-telling, but as a product to be retrofitted to consumer desire.

But here’s the thing about consumer desire: as Christopher Nolan once said, the audience doesn’t know what it wants until it experiences it. When we watch a film, we put our faith in an artist — someone whose only duty is to move us and make us think, without an agenda. It's why we pick them; it is why we pick art. In return, it can often change us and reshape how we feel, what we believe, and how we see the world. That’s an immense responsibility. And no one else, within that sacred sovereignty of storytelling, should hold that power.

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