Nostalgia is a hell of a drug. It’s the primary fuel for a global entertainment industry that’s forgotten how to build new engines. In Mumbai, the machine is sputtering. The gears are clogged with "pan-Indian" clones and VFX that looks like it was rendered on a microwave. Everyone is looking for a savior. Everyone is looking at the guys who used to know where to put the camera.

Farhan Akhtar is the obvious one. The man essentially invented the modern Indian urban aesthetic with Dil Chahta Hai. He gave a generation of rich kids permission to be sad in Goa. Then he stopped. He got distracted by the gym, the microphone, and the lure of top billing. For over a decade, Akhtar has been a ghost in his own director’s chair. He’s spent his time producing a steady stream of "okay" streaming content and playing lead roles that, frankly, others could do better.

The friction here isn't lack of talent; it’s the ego of the multitasker. Being a director is a lonely, obsessive job. Being a "star" is a vanity project. We’ve been teased with Don 3 for so long it’s become a punchline. The trade-off is simple: we lost one of the most stylish directors of the 2000s so we could have a mediocre singer. It’s a bad deal. The industry doesn't need another actor with a six-pack. It needs a guy who understands that a film’s vibe is more important than its marketing budget. If Akhtar comes back, he has to leave the protagonist’s trailer behind. He needs to go back to being the guy behind the monitor who actually gives a damn about the color palette.

Then there’s Rajkumar Santoshi. He’s the vintage hardware that the current industry forgot how to plug in. In the 90s, Santoshi wasn't just making movies; he was creating atmospheric pressure events. Ghatak, Damini, Pukar. These were high-decibel, high-stakes dramas that didn’t rely on a "cinematic universe" to feel big. They felt big because the conviction was absolute.

But Santoshi is a relic of a different operating system. Today’s Bollywood is obsessed with the algorithm. Everything is a "hook." Every scene is designed to be clipped for a ten-second reel. Santoshi doesn't do "hooks." He does twelve-minute dialogue scenes where men scream at each other until the windows rattle. The trade-off for a Santoshi comeback is the budget. The man’s ambition often outstrips the sanity of a modern producer’s Excel sheet. His recent attempts to pivot have been messy, caught between the old-school drama he loves and the shiny, hollow expectations of the current box office.

The problem is the "Content" trap. Directors like Akhtar and Santoshi are being squeezed out by the sheer volume of "good enough." Why take a risk on a singular, stubborn directorial vision when you can churn out four safe, data-driven series for a streaming giant? The cost of a theatrical "blockbuster" has ballooned to $50 million or more, most of it eaten up by stars who refuse to take a pay cut. The actual craft—the directing—is treated like an afterthought. It’s a line item in a spreadsheet.

We’re seeing a total collapse of the middle-tier auteur. You’re either making a $300,000 indie that three people see at a festival, or you’re a cog in a $60 million franchise machine. There’s no room for the director who just wants to tell a massive, singular story with some actual teeth.

Bringing these names back isn't just about nostalgia. It’s about recalibrating the industry. It’s about proving that a movie can still be a cultural event without having a "part two" already in the works. We need the arrogance of a director who thinks his vision is more important than the brand partnership.

But let’s be real. The machine doesn't want visionaries. It wants managers. It wants people who hit their marks and don’t argue with the focus groups. Akhtar is busy being a brand. Santoshi is struggling to find a script that fits a 2026 audience. The talent is there, but the system is rigged against them.

Maybe they’ve just grown too comfortable. It’s easier to be a legend in the past tense than to risk being a failure in the present. If they don’t come back soon, they won't even be legends anymore. They'll just be names on a Wikipedia page that the kids don't bother to scroll down to.

Is anyone actually willing to pay for a movie that doesn't come with a pre-packaged toy line or a tie-in app?