Censorship is a dirty word. A bunch of prudes selected by the morons we elect decide what a citizen of a free nation should and shouldn’t watch. In this era of information technology the very idea behind censorship – denying the people their right to know – is a futile one. Everything that I need to know is right here on my desktop. Even the films, which the censors try to snip to obscurity, are available at any friendly neighbourhood VCD/DVD rental in their unedited glory.
The present chairperson of India’s Central Board of Film Certification (also known more appropriately as the Censor Board) was one of the pioneering Indian actresses who dared to don a skimpy swimsuit at a time when women in Indian cinema were perpetually draped under nine yards of silk and chiffon. But age and political inclinations seems to have eroded any remnant of that rebellious streak.
She believes that Indian filmmakers can’t self-regulate and therefore is not very open to the idea of a rating body of filmmakers. Those itchy fingers can’t help but be scissor-happy.
The proposed amendments to the Cinematograph Act, which presumably seeks to regulate moral policing and give more respect to the rights of the viewer is indeed welcome. But that as of yet is only a promise and the patchwork of a government we have is rarely able to materialise the promised.
Tired of watching the ‘uncensored’ on a 17-inch monitor, I yearn for a 70 mm experience.