The Bollywood Explanation Project

It’s like Bollywood, but…

“It’s like Bollywood, but… ”

That phrase has become my version of ‘namaste’. A diplomatic greeting to ease bewildered British minds into the wild, emotional, and often chaotic galaxy that is India. It's how I make our cultural quirks digestible without overwhelming the poor souls who believe that a family gathering means four people and a cheese board.

Bollywood — that glittering juggernaut of over-the-top emotions, choreographed heartbreak, and more slow-motion spinning than NASA’s wind tunnels — has somehow become the global mascot for India.

And look, I get it. Bollywood is seductive. It’s drama and glitter and heartbreak and song. It’s how India introduced herself to the world, with arms outstretched in a mustard field. But here’s the problem: Bollywood is not India. Not anymore. And certainly not in HD.

So, I say again,“It’s like Bollywood, but…”
But also less.
But also much, much more.

Let me take you behind the curtain.

A Crash Course in Cultural Shortcuts

Trying to explain Indian life to British people is like trying to describe colour to a mole. They nod. They smile. They ask, “So, are you saying your mum lives with you?” and then look mildly alarmed when you mention three generations under one roof and the family WhatsApp group that pings 78 times before breakfast.

So I offer the shortcut:
“It’s like Bollywood.”
And their eyes light up. They picture dramatic mothers-in-law, forbidden love, spontaneous dancing on railway platforms.

But then I have to clarify:
“It’s like Bollywood, but not every heartbreak ends with a helicopter shot. Sometimes it ends with a blocked number and someone changing their Netflix password out of spite.”

Because real Indian life? It’s far messier. And funnier. And quieter.

The Subtitles Are in the Details

Take my own setup. I live in London with my husband — a former Bollywood movie-marketing head, now turned househusband — and my son, who just turned 18 and now seems to believe he’s both immortal and an expert on everything. My mother and 21-year-old daughter are back in Mumbai, holding down the fort, the traditions, and the judgements.

We are an intercontinental ecosystem powered by sarcasm, emotional labour, and long-distance affection via voice notes. And no, nobody sings when we fight. Although my husband has been known to dramatically mouth the lyrics to Salman Khan sad songs, while doing the laundry.

Now, if this were Bollywood, I’d be dancing in the kitchen while magically preparing an Indian six course meal with my hair blowing in a fan-generated breeze. In reality? I'm half-asleep, cursing the kettle, and texting my mum asking whether expired turmeric can still fix everything from colds to my son’s commitment issues.

The Bollywood We Knew Is Aging — And Not Gracefully

Here’s the thing that nobody outside India quite gets: Bollywood isn’t cool anymore.

There, I said it. I’ll take your gasps and your nostalgia. But let’s face it — it’s been years since Bollywood felt genuinely fresh. For too long, it relied on formula: big surnames, bigger budgets, item numbers that objectify women and pretend it’s empowerment because she’s ‘choosing’ to shimmy in leather. The same five actors playing college students at 40, or worse, playing saviours to people who didn’t ask to be saved.

Bollywood became a soap opera for the middle class. All gloss, no guts. And audiences got tired. I got tired.

Meanwhile, something else was rising.

Enter: The South Indian Takeover

While Bollywood napped in its designer vanity van, South Indian cinema rolled up its sleeves and got to work — and my God, what a revolution it’s been. (Yes. India is HUGE and we have a different cinema for every region of the country.)

Let’s start with the juggernauts. KGF: Chapter 1 and KGF: Chapter 2, both in Kannada (language spoken predominantly in the state of Karnataka in South India), didn’t just make money — they printed it. These weren’t just box office hits; they were cultural resets. Audiences across India — and the diaspora — lined up for tickets, not just because of the action, but because these films gave them something Bollywood hadn’t in years: a story that felt fresh, intense, unapologetic.

Then came Pushpa: The Rise in Telugu (language spoken predominantly in the states of Andhra Pradesh and Telangana in South India), which made red sandalwood smuggling look sexy, and gave us a protagonist who was gritty, morally ambiguous, and completely devoid of six-pack moral superiority. Allu Arjun’s swagger, combined with a rawness absent in candy-coated Hindi films, was magnetic. Suddenly, dialogues from a Telugu film were being lip-synced by teenagers in Mumbai and London alike.

And how could we forget RRR? A Telugu epic that made Marvel movies look like lukewarm soups. Two male leads, tiger fights, colonial takedowns, and choreography that could induce spontaneous foot fractures. It won an Oscar in the Best Original Song category at the 95th Academy Awards. It made grown men weep. It confused and dazzled international critics who had no idea India had cinematic muscle outside of Shah Rukh Khan and Amitabh Bachchan.

The Real Plot Twist: Bollywood Is Copying South Indian Cinema

You know what happens when someone starts topping the charts? The industry takes notes. Bollywood, once the big brother, is now raiding the South’s homework. And not even subtly.

Hit Telugu and Tamil (language spoken predominantly in the state of Tamil Nadu in South India,) films are now being reshot with Bollywood leads, leaning heavily into the South-style action template. Explosions, single-line punch dialogues, gravity-defying logic. It’s South India’s world now. Bollywood’s just remixing it.

And let’s not forget Malayalam (language spoken predominantly in the state of Kerala in South India) cinema, which doesn’t scream for attention but simply continues making emotionally complex, nuanced, and visually stunning films. These films are so layered they don’t need dance numbers. They are surgical in their emotional dissection. No backup dancers, no fake eyelashes. Just truth.

Beyond the Films: What We’re Really Hungry For

What South Indian cinema is offering — and Bollywood forgot — is authenticity. Characters who feel lived-in. Families that aren’t just picture-perfect NRIs with Swiss homes and moral superiority. Stories that risk. Protagonists who aren’t always likeable. Villains who are heartbreakingly human.

And, crucially, it’s not just about where the films come from. It’s about how they’re told. Bollywood has long catered to the central and northern India. The South has disrupted that monopoly with regional pride, linguistic diversity, and aesthetics that don’t apologise for being too ‘local’.

Why It Matters, Even From My London Window

From my spot in grey, polite, and extremely queue-loving London, I watch all this with popcorn and pride. Because this cultural shift isn’t just about films. It’s about identity. It’s about saying: India is not a monolith. Hindi isn’t the only language worth subtitling.

It’s personal, too. My husband — once in Bollywood marketing — now watches South Indian trailers with the kind of reverence usually reserved for cricket or biryani. He’ll pause mid-laundry to show me a teaser with glowing eyes: “Look at that cinematography! Bollywood wishes.”

My son, British accent and all, wants to watch Telugu films with subtitles, and my daughter texts me Malayalam movie recs from Mumbai like she’s handing down sacred scripture. That’s growth. That’s evolution.

And while I still love my old-school Bollywood drama, I now reach for something else when I want to feel something real. Something unfiltered.

So, What’s the New Explanation?

I still use the Bollywood analogy. It’s familiar, sparkly, and opens the door. But now, I follow it up with context.

“It’s like Bollywood,” I say.

“...but also like RRR on steroids. And sometimes like a Malayalam slow-burn with minimal dialogue but maximum trauma.”

“It’s like Bollywood… but with fewer rich boys saving the day and more moral ambiguity, sandalwood smuggling, and sweaty, gorgeous, emotionally unavailable men.”

Because being Indian — and explaining it — is no longer just about the glitz. It’s about layers. Regional pride. Generational tension. Identity built from a thousand languages, films, heartbreaks, and WhatsApp forwards.