[A big thanks to Lokesh for his inputs in the post]
The impending re-release of Raanjhanaa on August 1, 2025, with an AI-generated alternate ending, has reignited the long-standing tension between ownership and authorship. At a time when AI continues to be viewed with scepticism, especially within creative industries, this development adds another layer to the growing unease around artistic integrity.
This isn’t the first time AI has stirred controversy in entertainment. I recall covering a similar flashpoint last year, when AI-generated songs in Arijit Singh’s voice sparked debate over personality rights (covered here and here). Now, Raanjhanaa brings the focus to moral rights: the idea that for a creator, their work isn’t just property but an extension of their identity. Reimagining it through AI, especially without the original creator’s consent, can feel like a betrayal, even if contracts technically permit it.
This case forces the industry to reconsider its boundaries. Legal ownership may give one the right to alter a work, but should that translate into moral authority to redefine its soul? For both artists and audiences, that distinction is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. This post explores what’s truly at stake if this AI-generated ending is allowed to screen.
Raanjhanaa Reloaded: Is AI the New Director?
A film is a collaborative creation, layered with multiple copyrights and shaped by many hands. Legally, the producer’s authorship is rooted in Section 2(uu) of the Copyright Act, 1957, which defines a producer as the one who takes the “initiative and responsibility” for making the work. In Raanjhanaa’s case, that legal footing is now clashing with creative sentiment.
With the film’s upcoming re-release featuring an AI-generated alternate ending, the director, Aanand L. Rai, has reportedly been blindsided. He’s gone as far as calling the change “artistic vandalism.” Meanwhile, Eros International, the copyright holder, stands firm on its right to modify and re-release, citing waivers of moral rights baked into existing contracts.
But this raises a deeper concern. Moral rights, under Section 57 of the Copyright Act, protect an author’s right to be credited and to object to any distortion or mutilation of their work, even after economic rights are assigned. These protections mirror Article 6bis of the Berne Convention, to which India is a signatory, anchoring the author’s personal bond with their creation in international law.
The Raanjhanaa controversy lays bare a critical tension: when commercial control trumps creative consent, what remains of the author’s moral stake? And as AI reshapes storytelling, what safeguards will ensure that creators aren’t left watching their work be rewritten without their consent?
‘The Director’s Cut’: Whose Rights Are We Watching?
The blog has seen some compelling takes on the moral rights of creators. Lokesh, in his award-winning essay for the First Shamnad Basheer Essay Competition on Intellectual Property Law (2020) (pdf) and in subsequent pieces here and here, has argued that simply reading Sections 14 and 57 of the Copyright Act does not capture the full complexity of moral rights in collaborative works like films.
This debate is far from new. It first surfaced at the 1967 Stockholm Conference for the Berne Convention and re-emerged during the 2010 Amendment Bill to India’s copyright law. The proposed amendments to Sections 2(d), 2(z), and 17 sought to recognise the principal director as a joint author of a film. However, the proposal was dropped due to structural flaws. Notably, the Parliamentary Standing Committee only assessed it in terms of diluting the producer’s authorship, without addressing the director’s creative stake.
Even Andrew Sarris’s famous Auteur Theory (which proposes that a director can be considered the author of a film if they meet a three-part test) finds little support in Indian jurisprudence. Courts have consistently denied directors this recognition, thus excluding them from the scope of moral rights under Section 2(d), which limits the definition of “author.”
In Ramesh Sippy v. Shaan Ranjeet Uttamsingh (Bombay High Court, 2013), the court upheld that the contractual relationship governs rights, leaving no room for moral claims by directors, regardless of their creative role. Similarly, in Sartaj Singh Pannu v. Gurbani Media Pvt. Ltd. (Delhi High Court, 2015), the judge acknowledged the director’s contribution but stated that without statutory recognition, moral rights could not be extended to them.
That said, Indian courts have tried to broaden the scope of moral rights in certain contexts. In Fox Star Studios v. Aparna Bhat (Delhi High Court, 2020) (pdf), also covered on the blog here, the Court held that creative contributors deserve due credit. While the judgment directed the makers of Chhapaak to acknowledge Aparna Bhat’s contribution based on the promissory estoppel principle as per the promises made to her during production, the Court did not conclusively affirm a moral right; instead, it deferred the question to a later stage.
The rise of AI only complicates these existing tensions. While it may be a new tool, the issues it raises are rooted in long-standing gaps in the law’s treatment of creative authorship, particularly that of directors.
Creative Credit and Control: What This Case Reveals for Directors and the Industry
Conceptually and legally, the moral rights of directors remain fragile. Even if we assume these rights are being invoked, are we really looking at a victory for the director? That seems unlikely. There is no express claim of reputational harm. Nor is there any allegation regarding paternity or attribution. So, which moral right is even at play?
Section 57 of the Copyright Act recognises two key moral rights. The first is the right to be identified as the author, which the director is not invoking. The second is the right to object to any distortion or modification that harms the creator’s honour or reputation. Even here, the director’s objection seems tenuous. He does not claim that the AI-generated ending tarnishes his personal or professional standing. Rather, his unease appears rooted in a broader dissatisfaction that the new version changes the emotional tone and narrative arc he originally crafted.
His objection appears rooted in a desire to dissociate from a version of the film he did not envision. He believes the new ending distorts the story’s intended meaning. But this raises another issue: who really owns the meaning of a film?
Roland Barthes’s well-known argument is that meaning lies not with the author but with the reader or viewer. Even Abhay Deol, one of the film’s lead actors, has expressed dissatisfaction with how the film was interpreted. Audiences and critics may debate a film’s meaning, but no single interpretation holds absolute authority. Review scores and ratings cannot capture the full complexity of individual responses. People can take away different meanings from the same film and still appreciate it. Meaning is fluid, not fixed. A new ending reshapes the whole, as Gestalt theory (“the whole is greater than the sum of its parts”) suggests, but that shift is not a legal wrong. Creative works evolve, and alternative interpretations are part of that process..
The real question is whether a contributor (who may not even qualify as an author) can legally stop the copyright holder from altering the work in a way that changes its meaning. Under Indian copyright law, the answer is likely no. Moral rights offer no help here. Economic rights might, but only if the director is recognised as a co-author with control over derivative works. He is not.
This brings us back to the definition of “author.” Section 2(d) of the Copyright Act does not define the term in a conceptual sense. It merely specifies who counts as the author for different kinds of works. For cinematographic films, the author is the producer. The director is excluded.
This signals a deeper shift. Copyright law, often romanticised as a protector of creativity, is less concerned with artistic merit and more with investment. It favours the party that funds the project. The producer’s prerogative flows from their financial stake, not their creative contribution. This capitalist tilt changes the game entirely. In the absence of co-authorship or contractual protections, the director’s legal footing is weak. Copyright law cannot help. At best, he may turn to contract law. Tort law is a remote possibility.
In short, the director may feel morally wronged. But in legal terms, his claim is a non-starter.
Still, the bigger questions remain. As AI enters the creative industry, how will the law keep pace? The Bombay High Court’s order on July 26, 2024, in Arijit Singh v. Codible Ventures LLP (pdf) marked a significant step in protecting artists’ personality rights. Arijit Singh sought legal protection against the commercial use of his voice, name, image, signature, and mannerisms by AI tools selling various products. Though he also raised the issue of moral rights, the court has yet to address it. That part of the debate remains open.
As AI continues to blur the boundaries between creation, ownership, and identity, courts will inevitably be called upon to decide how to balance commercial rights with the moral and creative contributions of those behind the work. The stakes are high. The law must soon answer.