Truth on Trial: What "All the President’s Men" Can Teach Indian Cinema About Storytelling
- Sajeev Varghese
- 7 hours ago
- 11 min read
When All the President’s Men hit theatres in 1976, it wasn’t marketed as a political thriller. It didn’t need to be. There were no CGI explosions, no superstar cameos, no PR teams staging “narrative control.” What it did have was story-first filmmaking — a fierce respect for truth, process, and the audience’s intelligence.
Alan J. Pakula’s direction, William Goldman’s surgical screenplay, and Robert Redford’s quiet conviction combined to create a film that didn’t shout; it revealed.
It didn’t tell us what to think; it invited us to question. It turned journalism — not heroism — into high drama. Every frame pulsed with honesty, tension, and purpose. Nearly fifty years later, its power hasn’t dimmed — because it was built on the only foundation that never ages: craft serving story.
Now, contrast that with Indian cinema today. Once the world’s largest storytelling tradition, it’s lost its moral compass somewhere between marketing decks and manipulated box-office charts. Three to four decades ago, India’s filmmakers — from Satyajit Ray and Shyam Benegal to Govind Nihalani and Mani Ratnam — trusted story over stardom. They believed the audience could think, feel, and see the truth for themselves.
Today, we’re watching an industry that treats spectacle as story, noise as emotion, and hype as validation. Nepotism isn’t the villain; the disrespect for storytelling is.
If All the President’s Men taught the world how to dramatize integrity, Indian cinema now faces its own investigation — a reckoning not with power, but with purpose.
The verdict will depend on whether we can restore what we once led the world in: authentic, story-first filmmaking that speaks to our shared humanity.
Part 1 – The Historic Events: The Watergate Scandal
1. The Break-In & Cover-Up
On June 17, 1972, five men were caught burglarizing the headquarters of the Democratic National Committee at the Watergate complex in Washington, D.C. The group's ties to Richard Nixon’s re-election campaign (CREEP) set off a chain of events that exposed the dirty underbelly of executive power. The burglars weren’t just thieves — they were part of a larger scheme of political espionage, wire-tapping, and misuse of intelligence.
2. The Institutional Crisis & Investigation
What began as a botched break-in spiralled into a constitutional crisis. Investigation by the Washington Post, led by reporters Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein, uncovered disturbing links between top White House staff, intelligence agencies, and efforts to cover up the wrongdoing.
One of the most significant sources was the mysterious whistle-blower known as “Deep Throat,” later revealed as FBI executive Mark Felt, who risked his career to expose inner-circle collusion.
3. The Political Fallout
The scandal culminated in President Nixon, facing almost-certain impeachment, resigning on August 9, 1974 — the only U.S. president ever to do so. This wasn’t just one man’s fall from power — it was a seismic shift in the relationship between elected power, the media, and public trust.
4. Why It Matters for Storytellers
Magnitude of truth: The story shows how “small” crimes and cover-ups can lead to historic change — the moment is human and systemic.
Layers of conflict: There’s the break-in, the cover-up, the investigation, the media’s role, the whistle-blower’s fear — every level offers narrative depth.
Moral stakes: This isn’t just politics — it’s about power, responsibility, deception, and accountability.
For cinema, it’s a goldmine of structure: inciting incident → rising investigation → risk to protagonists → revelation → resolution.
The question Indian cinema must ask: Are we using our historical and political moments with this level of structural, moral, and emotional precision?
Part 2 – The Film: All the President’s Men as Story-First Cinema
1. Why the Focus Is Not Nixon
Although the film is set against the backdrop of the Watergate scandal and the eventual fall of Richard Nixon, the creators were clear from early on: this is not a film about Nixon. Instead, it’s a film about journalism, verification, perseverance, and the quest for truth. Robert Redford himself emphasized the point:
“I’m fascinated by journalism… The role and fate of journalism is an ongoing issue and constantly needs to be looked at and looked after.”
By focusing on the reporters (Woodward & Bernstein), the story elevates the craft of investigation rather than sensationalizing the crime. That shift in lens is a key story-first move.
2. Screenplay & Structure: Goldman’s Blueprint
Screenwriter William Goldman (working from the book by Bernstein & Woodward) hacked away at a massive pile of source material to create a structure that is rigorous, lean and immersive. Some of the storytelling choices that stand out:
Inciting Incident: The break-in at the Watergate complex is shown almost matter-of-factly. The drama isn’t in the crime—it’s in the follow-through.
Rising Conflict: The reporters chase leads, get dead ends, face resistance—this isn’t glamorous; it’s methodical.
Protagonist’s Dilemma: Woodward and Bernstein are not super-heroes; they’re flawed. There’s self-doubt, bullpen politics, source risks.
Resolution: The film doesn’t end with a triumphant march. It ends with typed headlines, teletype machines, the loom of resignation. It’s satisfying but sober.
Goldman’s script trusts the audience’s intelligence. It doesn’t over-explain. It doesn’t lean into melodrama. That restraint is a hallmark of story-first filmmaking.
3. Direction + Cinematography: Pakula & Willis
Director Alan J. Pakula and cinematographer Gordon Willis crafted a visual language of investigation—not spectacle.
The newsroom is a labyrinth of shadows, telephones, and isolated desks.
Long takes, muted lighting, typewriters clicking—all point to process.
Suspense is generated by waiting, by the unknown, by the wall of bureaucracy—not by explosions. Film scholar commentary defines this as “invisible danger” and a subtle menace.
Pakula lets the story breathe. He doesn’t force theatrics. That choice elevates craft over clamour.
4. Acting: Redford & Hoffman as Craftsmen
Robert Redford plays Bob Woodward; Dustin Hoffman plays Carl Bernstein. Their performances are neither showy nor shouted. They’re subtle. They’re committed.
Critics considered the film a “study in methodical tension”. Roger Ebert praised the film as “the most observant study of working journalists we’re ever likely to see.” Redford spent prolonged periods in the Post newsroom, shadowing real reporters to internalize the rhythm of their work. The acting serves the story—not the opposite. The characters don’t dominate the frame; the story does.
5. Themes & Relevance for Story-First Cinema
Some of the film’s core themes:
Freedom of the press and accountability in power.
The peril of unchecked power and the role of investigative diligence.
The idea that ordinary people—reporters, sources—can challenge systems.
These aren’t incidental. They’re baked into the film’s DNA.
For Indian cinema, the lesson is clear: story-first filmmaking doesn’t happen when spectacle drowns theme; it happens when the theme anchors the spectacle.
6. Why It Remains a Masterclass
It trusts intelligence.
It prioritizes process over punch.
It honors theme over theatrics.
It respects the audience’s patience.
It doesn’t treat its players like stars—they serve the story.
This is exactly what Indian cinema desperately needs: confidence in subtler craft, faith in the educated viewer, and humility in the face of narrative complexity.
Part 3 – Samrat Prithviraj (2022): The Lost Opportunity
1. When History Becomes Homework
Chandraprakash Dwivedi approached Samrat Prithviraj as a historian, not a storyteller. The result felt like a PowerPoint presentation shot on a mega-budget—chronological, reverential, inert. Every frame told us what to feel instead of making us feel it. History on screen must be a living thing—layered, conflicted, human. But this film was embalmed in exposition.
Contrast that with All the President’s Men: Pakula and Goldman never explain Watergate—they immerse us in it. We learn through discovery, doubt, and danger. That’s how storytelling transforms fact into experience.
2. The Producer’s Absence, the Marketer’s Overreach
Aditya Chopra’s role as producer was reportedly limited to marketing blitzes and release-window maneuvers. But great producers are the protectors of story. Robert Redford, as producer of All the President’s Men, was the film’s moral compass—curating talent, preserving tone, and defending the script from studio interference.
Had Chopra treated Prithviraj as a story-first project, he would have insisted on:
rigorous script workshops with writers and historians,
psychological depth in character arcs,
audience screenings for emotional feedback, and
editorial discipline in post.
Instead, the focus was optics: banners, budgets, and box-office bragging rights.
3. Acting Without Embodiment
Akshay Kumar and Manushi Chhillar’s performances lacked transformation. We never saw becoming—only performing. Compare that to Redford and Hoffman: both vanish into their roles as Woodward and Bernstein. Their acting is invisible because the story is visible.
For historical epics like Prithviraj, that transformation is critical. The actor must dissolve into the era, the ideology, and the internal conflict of the character. Without that, it’s cosplay—heroic postures in designer armor.
4. How Story-First Filmmaking Could Have Saved It
A story-first approach would have re-engineered Samrat Prithviraj from the inside out:
Like All the President’s Men, it should have focused on process over propaganda—the humanity beneath the crown, the doubt behind the bravery.
5. From History Lesson to Global Conversation
What Gandhi (1982) achieved, Prithviraj could have mirrored: a story that transcends borders because it speaks to human conscience, not just national pride. Richard Attenborough didn’t just reconstruct history; he reframed morality.
Had Prithviraj followed that path, it could have been India’s All the President’s Men—a story about truth, legacy, and leadership told through character, not costume.
6. The Real Lesson
Indian cinema’s historical films must evolve from “period spectacle” to “period soul.” Samrat Prithviraj failed because it chased grandeur, not gravitas. The way forward is not bigger sets or brighter CGI, but sharper storytelling, grounded direction, and producer accountability.
Because audiences remember not the armor—but the arc.
✊ Final Takeaway
If All the President’s Men was about journalism’s duty to truth, then the Indian film industry’s duty today is the same: to serve the story, not the star.Only then will our history films stop being lectures—and start becoming legacies.
Part 4 – Samrat Prithviraj: The Rewrite of a Legend
Here is a kind of story-first pivot that could have elevated Samrat Prithviraj into something globally resonant. The reimagined premise could unfold, blending authenticity, emotional depth, and intellectual appeal — the kind that mirrors All the President’s Men’s immersive process and Gandhi’s moral scope.
1. The Premise
Two historians — Aarav, a pragmatic researcher of political history, and Meera, a passionate cultural anthropologist — are commissioned by an Indian film studio to reimagine Samrat Prithviraj for a global audience. Their task isn’t to glorify a king but to understand the man behind the myth — and to find the universal truth his story hides.
As they dig into conflicting archives, Persian chronicles, Rajput ballads, and oral folklore, they begin to discover that the real battle was not between kingdoms — but between truth and propaganda, duty and desire, legacy and loss.
The film’s narrative would then oscillate between their present-day investigation and Prithviraj’s historical world, each reflecting the other — like All the President’s Men did with its reporters and the hidden corridors of power.
2. Storytelling Structure (Story-First Lens)
Act 1 – The Inquiry: The two historians are brought on by a streaming platform that wants “India’s next global epic.” They find that every source glorifies or vilifies Prithviraj — none reveal the man.
Act 2 – The Discovery: As they reconstruct his journey, we intercut between their discoveries and Prithviraj’s moral choices — compassion toward prisoners, conflict with political advisors, his evolving relationship with Sanyogita, and his slow awareness of the fragility of power.
Act 3 – The Realization: The historians realize they are not writing a hero’s story — they’re writing about how myth kills memory. The king’s truth was buried beneath centuries of politics and ego — much like India’s own struggle with truth today.
This meta-structure — a film about writing a film — allows India to confront its cinematic habits of deification and distortion.
3. Themes with Global Reach
The corruption of history by ideology
The search for truth in a world addicted to spectacle
The burden of legacy — how storytellers, not rulers, define memory
The shared human condition — power, pride, love, and mortality
These aren’t “Indian” themes — they’re human themes. That’s how All the President’s Men transcended Washington and Gandhi transcended India.
4. Cinematic Treatment
Imagine muted, tactile cinematography — dusty libraries, dim archives, candle-lit fort interiors — blending realism and reflection.Music composed from ancient instruments fused with a minimalist modern score. Editing that parallels research and revelation — ink becomes blood, scroll becomes sword.
Every craft decision would serve the theme: that history’s true battle is not between kings, but between truth and myth.
5. The Payoff
By the end, Aarav and Meera’s completed script isn’t propaganda — it’s poetry. The final scene could mirror All the President’s Men: the screenplay being printed, lines of dialogue becoming history, as we hear faint echoes of war drums fade into the silence of understanding.
✊ The Global Gateway
If India made Samrat Prithviraj this way — a film about finding truth through storytelling, not selling pride through pageantry — it would stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Gandhi, Schindler’s List, or The Post.
Because the world doesn’t reward those who shout the loudest, it remembers who tells the truth best.
Conclusion — Restoring the Legend, Reclaiming the Craft
If All the President’s Men revealed how truth survives even the darkest corridors of power, then Samrat Prithviraj: The Rewrite of a Legend must show how truth can survive the loudest corridors of illusion. The challenge before Indian cinema isn’t scale — it’s sincerity. It’s not about how grand a set looks, but how deeply a story feels.
When a film like Samrat Prithviraj becomes a missed opportunity, it’s not the fault of history — it’s the failure of vision. Because every historical epic is also a mirror: one side reflects the past; the other reflects the storyteller’s integrity. What we saw was a film made to impress, not to express.
Imagine instead a version where two young historians — voices of today’s India — uncover the king’s truth not as worshippers, but as witnesses. A film about storytellers reclaiming their right to tell the truth. That’s where the future of Indian cinema lies — in stories that don’t glorify, but clarify; that don’t divide, but reveal; that don’t preach, but provoke reflection.
Global cinema respects storytellers who risk honesty. All the President’s Men did that for journalism. Gandhi did it for history. Oppenheimer did it for conscience. Why shouldn’t Samrat Prithviraj: The Rewrite of a Legend do it for India?
The road to reclaiming India’s cinematic glory isn’t paved with marketing campaigns or manipulated box-office charts. It’s built on the same Six Pillars of
Story-First Cinema — Believability, Emotional Engagement, Intellectual Compellingness, Relevance, Meaningfulness, and Global Gateway — that separate timeless films from forgettable ones.
It’s time for Indian filmmakers to stop chasing applause and start chasing truth. Because when we rediscover storytelling, we don’t just make better films — we make a better industry, and perhaps, a better nation.
✊ Story-first isn’t rebellion — it’s restoration.
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