The Nepali film industry presents itself publicly as a fragile, collaborative ecosystem struggling against market limitations, linguistic boundaries, and regional competition, yet beneath this narrative lies a rigidly protected power structure that has remained largely unchanged for decades. This structure is not sustained by formal policy alone but by a dense web of informal controls exercised through film associations, distribution monopolies, funding gatekeepers, media alliances, and social loyalty networks that collectively determine who is allowed to work, who is allowed to fail safely, and who is quietly erased before they can begin. While public discourse often frames the industry’s stagnation as a result of low budgets or audience disinterest, documented patterns show that exclusionary politics play a far more decisive role in suppressing new voices, innovation, and ethical labor practices.

Historically, the consolidation of power in Nepali cinema accelerated after the restoration of democracy in 1990, when liberalization allowed private production houses, distributors, and exhibitors to expand without corresponding regulatory oversight. Organizations such as the Film Development Board of Nepal, established to promote and regulate filmmaking, gradually became intermediaries rather than neutral facilitators, often reflecting the interests of dominant producers and directors who held long-standing influence within bodies like the Nepal Film Producers Association, the Nepal Film Directors Society, the Nepal Film Artists Association, and later the Film Technicians Association.These institutions, while officially mandated to protect collective welfare, evolved into gatekeeping mechanisms where membership, access to information, and professional legitimacy became contingent on personal alignment rather than merit or transparency.

For newcomers entering the industry as directors, writers, assistant directors, editors, cinematographers, sound designers, or independent producers, the first barrier is rarely creative but institutional. Membership in associations is often framed as optional but functions in practice as a prerequisite for work, insurance, festival access, and even basic recognition. Multiple first-hand accounts from emerging filmmakers between 2015 and 2024 confirm that non-members are routinely denied set access, excluded from official shooting permissions, or warned informally that working outside the association structure may result in future blacklisting. These warnings are rarely documented, delivered verbally through intermediaries, ensuring plausible deniability while effectively enforcing compliance.

Funding constitutes a further, less transparent dimension of exclusion. Public resources, allocated via the Film Development Board, provincial cultural ministries, and sporadic international co-production grants, are dispensed by committees that do not publicly share scoring criteria, conflict-of-interest disclosures, or independent oversight. Examination of funding recipients over the past ten years reveals a consistent trend: the same production companies, directors, or closely associated collaborators consistently receive support, whereas first-time applicants are frequently denied without comprehensive justification. Appeals processes are nearly non-existent, and applicants report receiving standardized rejection letters that offer no evaluative feedback, thereby rendering improvement or resubmission structurally unfeasible.

Private financing reflects this pattern, relying on informal networks rather than formal committees.
Established producers act as intermediaries, connecting investors with creative professionals. They control access to funding in exchange for creative control and long-term loyalty. New filmmakers are often invited to develop scripts or ideas with the promise of collaboration. However, they frequently find their work reassigned, altered, or integrated into projects led by industry insiders. Disagreements about credit are common. Contracts, when they exist, are often unclear, lacking precise definitions of authorship, payment details, or termination procedures. While legal action is theoretically possible, it is practically difficult due to high costs, the risk of industry retaliation, and the lack of specialized entertainment law support in Nepal.

Distribution and exhibition are perhaps the most significant ways that exclusion occurs.
Nepal’s theatrical distribution system is heavily centralized, with a limited number of distributors and exhibitor chains controlling screen allocation across major urban centers. These entities maintain long-standing relationships with specific producers and directors, enabling preferential booking, extended runs, and marketing support for insider projects regardless of box-office performance. Conversely, films made by newcomers—especially those without star actors or association backing—are frequently assigned unfavorable release dates, minimal screens, or removed prematurely under the justification of “low occupancy,” a metric applied inconsistently and without transparent data disclosure.

Film festivals and award platforms, often perceived as alternative spaces for recognition, replicate similar hierarchies. Major national festivals and award ceremonies in Nepal are typically organized in collaboration with industry associations or sponsored by production houses with vested interests.Jury selection procedures frequently lack transparency, and conflicts of interest are prevalent, as jurors often assess films created by their peers or collaborators. Public justifications for these practices highlight experience and seniority; however, these criteria systematically marginalize new perspectives and perpetuate a closed evaluative cycle, wherein acknowledgment is repeatedly distributed among the same individuals.

Furthermore, media conduct exacerbates this disparity. Entertainment journalism in Nepal is significantly reliant on access to celebrities, producers, and distributors for advertising income and exclusive material.
Consequently, coverage tends to favor established projects, while films from new filmmakers often struggle to be seen unless they create controversy or gain international recognition. Investigative reporting on issues like labor exploitation, contract violations, or institutional bias is still rare. This isn't because of a lack of evidence, but because of financial pressures and informal warnings given to journalists who investigate too deeply. Several reporters interviewed for this study acknowledged self-censorship as a necessary tactic in a media environment where challenging influential producers can lead to losing access or jobs.

The combined effect of these factors creates a system where newcomers are not just pushed aside, but are also strategically used and then discarded.
Emerging filmmakers frequently find themselves in situations where they are expected to work for little or no pay, ostensibly for the sake of "learning experiences," frequently undertaking essential creative tasks without any formal contractual safeguards. In instances of project success, credit is typically consolidated among established industry members; conversely, in cases of failure, accountability is often deflected away from those in positions of power. Dissent is suppressed not through explicit retribution, but rather through a culture of silence, fostering an environment where voicing concerns is viewed as detrimental to one's career. This prevailing dynamic is perpetuated not by a lack of awareness, but by a collective acceptance, maintained through fear, reliance, and the absence of independent mechanisms for accountability.

This inquiry doesn't claim that every prominent figure behaves the same way, nor does it dismiss the inherent difficulties Nepali cinema grapples with. Instead, it contends, drawing on established trends and verified accounts, that the industry's key players have favored maintaining their grip on power above all else. This has led to a systematic exclusion that stifles both creative expression and the rights of those who work in the industry. The individuals marginalized by this system aren't outliers; they're the inevitable outcome of a structure that values conformity over originality and quiet compliance over ethical conduct. Before any genuine claims of reform, sustainability, or international significance can be made, it's crucial to understand how this structure functions.

SECTION II: POLITICS AND CONTROL

The role of film associations in Nepal is often defended publicly as necessary for labor protection, professional standardization, and collective bargaining, yet an examination of how these bodies actually function reveals a system that prioritizes control over care. Organizations such as the Nepal Film Producers Association, Nepal Film Directors Society, Nepal Film Artists Association, Film Technicians Association, and various regional affiliates operate with constitutions that promise inclusivity while enforcing practices that systematically exclude those without prior access. Membership fees, sponsorship requirements, recommendation letters from existing members, and informal vetting processes create entry barriers that disproportionately affect newcomers, particularly those without familial or mentorship ties to established figures. While these barriers are justified as quality control measures, there is no standardized assessment of competence, experience, or ethical conduct, leaving acceptance largely at the discretion of internal committees whose decisions are neither transparent nor appealable.

Once inside these associations, power does not distribute evenly. Executive committees are often dominated by individuals who have held positions repeatedly across election cycles, sometimes rotating roles among the same small group. Election processes themselves are rarely competitive, with newcomers discouraged from contesting through informal pressure, procedural complexity, or the simple understanding that dissenting candidates risk professional isolation.Minutes of meetings, financial audits, and policy deliberations are seldom made public, limiting accountability and reinforcing a culture where decisions affecting hundreds of workers are made without consultation. This concentration of authority allows associations to function as de facto regulators, issuing directives that determine who can work, under what conditions, and at what cost.

Informal blacklisting emerges as one of the most effective tools within this structure precisely because it leaves no paper trail. Multiple filmmakers interviewed for this investigation described nearly identical experiences: after questioning payment delays, credit allocation, or unsafe working conditions, they found themselves quietly excluded from future projects. Phone calls stopped. Names were removed from consideration lists. When inquiries were made, intermediaries—often assistant directors or production managers—relayed vague messages that the individual was “difficult,” “not cooperative,” or “not suitable for the team.”The absence of specific allegations precluded any viable defense. While such practices are seldom publicly acknowledged, their uniformity across various accounts implies a systematic culture, as opposed to a series of isolated occurrences.

The industry's limited scope and pronounced interdependence exacerbate the fear of blacklisting. Given that a small cohort of producers oversees the majority of projects, reputational harm disseminates rapidly and informally. Formal bans are unnecessary; silence alone is sufficient. This silence proves especially potent against those new to the field, who often lack the financial resources or established industry position to endure extended periods of unemployment. Consequently, numerous individuals opt for compliance rather than confrontation, internalizing exploitative conditions as a prerequisite for entry.
The system's self-perpetuation, therefore, hinges on the anticipation of punitive measures rather than their actual implementation.

This dynamic is fundamentally characterized by labor exploitation. Contracts, when they exist, often lack precise stipulations concerning payment timelines, overtime remuneration, intellectual property ownership, or mechanisms for resolving conflicts. Frequently, agreements are verbal, depending on trust and adherence to hierarchical structures. Technicians and junior-level creatives frequently report extended work hours without commensurate compensation, often justified by budgetary limitations. However, when budgetary details are made available, they typically demonstrate that cost-cutting measures disproportionately affect below-the-line workers, while above-the-line fees are safeguarded. Labor protection organizations seldom intervene unless a dispute involves a member, thereby reinforcing the perception that institutional support is contingent rather than universally applicable.

False mentorships exacerbate exploitation. New entrants are frequently solicited to participate in projects spearheaded by more experienced individuals, with guarantees of creative contribution, prospective opportunities, or co-directorship. However, these assurances often evaporate once the work is completed. Scripts are altered without consultation, credits are diminished or omitted, and the anticipated "next project" fails to materialize. Because these arrangements are presented as educational rather than professional, complaints are dismissed as entitlement or impatience. This framing conveniently conceals the fact that significant creative labor has been appropriated without equitable compensation or acknowledgment.

Media narratives are instrumental in normalizing these practices.
Profiles of successful filmmakers often emphasize narratives of struggle and perseverance, portraying exploitation as a rite of passage rather than a structural failure. Interviews rarely address labor conditions, association politics, or funding inequities, focusing instead on box-office performance or celebrity anecdotes. When disputes do surface publicly, coverage tends to frame them as personal conflicts rather than systemic issues, isolating whistleblowers and deflecting scrutiny from institutional responsibility. This framing benefits power holders by preserving the myth of meritocracy while delegitimizing collective critique.

The suppression of dissent extends beyond media framing into direct discouragement. Several individuals who attempted to organize discussions around labor rights or transparent funding reported receiving warnings from association representatives or senior colleagues advising them to “focus on work” rather than “create problems.” These warnings were often couched as friendly advice, emphasizing the fragility of careers and the importance of maintaining relationships.The absence of explicit threats makes these interactions difficult to document, yet their impact is unmistakable: initiatives dissolve, conversations move offline, and grievances remain unresolved.

Distribution politics amplify the consequences of exclusion. Distributors and exhibitors, many of whom maintain close ties with association leaders and prominent producers, wield disproportionate influence over a film’s commercial fate. Newcomer filmmakers recount instances where distribution agreements were withdrawn or altered after association disputes, effectively punishing individuals without direct attribution. Because distribution contracts are often negotiated late in production, filmmakers are particularly vulnerable at this stage, having already invested time and resources without guaranteed release. The lack of regulatory oversight allows distributors to justify decisions as market-driven while leveraging them as instruments of control.

These interconnected practices form a closed ecosystem where opportunity circulates predictably among insiders.Films are financed, distributed, promoted, awarded, and archived within networks that prioritize loyalty and discourage independence. New entrants are only acknowledged when they are advantageous, and are disregarded when they pose a challenge. Consequently, the attrition rate is significant; numerous trained professionals depart the industry, taking with them skills and viewpoints that could have enhanced Nepali cinema. This loss is seldom publicly recognized, instead being presented as individual shortcomings rather than systemic failings.

The repercussions extend beyond individual careers, impacting the cultural credibility of Nepali cinema. An industry that stifles internal critique is unable to evolve ethically or artistically. International collaborations, festival participation, and co-production prospects increasingly necessitate demonstrable standards of governance, transparency, and labor protection.
When these standards are absent, projects struggle to sustain long-term partnerships, reinforcing Nepal’s marginal position in global film discourse. The irony is stark: institutions that claim to protect the industry’s future actively undermine it by resisting accountability.

This investigation reveals that the exclusion of newcomers is not accidental but structural, maintained through a combination of formal authority and informal coercion. Associations, funding bodies, distributors, exhibitors, and media outlets function less as independent actors than as mutually reinforcing components of a power network designed to preserve itself. The outsiders outlined by this system are not demanding special treatment; they are demanding the minimum conditions necessary for ethical participation. Recognizing this distinction is essential if reform is to move beyond rhetoric and address the mechanisms that sustain inequality.

SECTION III: PATTERNS

State involvement in Nepali cinema is frequently invoked as evidence of institutional support, yet a closer examination of how public funding and regulatory authority are exercised reveals a pattern of selective empowerment rather than equitable development. The Film Development Board of Nepal, operating under the Ministry of Communications and Information Technology, is legally mandated to promote film production, preserve cinematic heritage, and facilitate professional growth. In practice, however, its role has been narrowed to an intermediary function that mirrors existing industry hierarchies rather than challenging them. Funding schemes, policy consultations, and promotional initiatives routinely privilege those already embedded within the industry’s power networks, leaving newcomers to navigate a bureaucratic landscape that is opaque, inconsistent, and resistant to scrutiny.

Publicly announced funding programs often emphasize inclusivity, innovation, and national representation, yet documentation of allocation decisions remains limited. Lists of funded projects are released without detailed evaluation criteria, scoring breakdowns, or explanations for rejection. Over the last decade, repeated analysis of recipient profiles shows a concentration of support among a small group of producers and directors who have previously received state backing.This recurrence is defended through references to experience and proven capacity, but such reasoning becomes circular when access to experience itself is contingent on prior support. New applicants, particularly those without association endorsements or political connections, encounter a process where rejection offers no actionable feedback, effectively freezing them out of future consideration.

Provincial and municipal cultural grants, introduced following federal restructuring, were expected to decentralize opportunity. Instead, these funds have largely replicated central patterns at a smaller scale. Selection committees are frequently composed of local industry figures with direct ties to applicants, and conflict-of-interest disclosures are rarely enforced. In several documented cases, committee members have publicly promoted projects they later helped approve, blurring the line between governance and participation. Newcomer filmmakers attempting to raise concerns about these overlaps report being labeled ungrateful or antagonistic, reinforcing the notion that access to public resources is conditional upon silence.

International funding and co-production ventures illuminate the industry's internal power dynamics. When international entities seek collaboration with Nepali counterparts, they frequently depend on endorsements from governmental agencies or influential associations, thereby unintentionally bolstering existing gatekeeping mechanisms. Consequently, the same intermediaries consistently represent Nepali cinema on the global stage, thereby influencing narratives, partnerships, and financial distributions. Filmmakers who have received international education or gained festival experience often find themselves marginalized within these established networks unless they align themselves with recognized representatives. This situation not only restricts individual prospects but also limits the range of stories and viewpoints presented internationally, thereby reducing Nepali cinema to a limited selection of voices.

Furthermore, contracts linked to publicly funded projects expose additional disparities.
While lead producers and directors secure clear financial and creative control, agreements with writers, assistant directors, and technicians often lack enforceable protections. Payment delays are common, justified through bureaucratic bottlenecks or cash-flow issues, yet accountability mechanisms are weak. Complaints lodged with associations or the Film Development Board frequently result in mediation efforts that prioritize project completion over labor rights, pressuring complainants to accept partial payments or future promises rather than pursue formal resolution. This approach treats exploitation as an inconvenience rather than a violation, reinforcing a hierarchy where institutional stability outweighs individual justice.

Political patronage further complicates the funding landscape. Film projects associated with politically aligned figures or narratives favorable to prevailing power structures have historically enjoyed smoother access to approvals, tax incentives, and promotional platforms.While overt censorship has diminished compared to earlier decades, subtler forms of influence persist through funding preferences and bureaucratic delays. Filmmakers addressing contentious social or political themes report encountering prolonged review processes, additional documentation requests, or sudden policy reinterpretations that stall production. These obstacles are rarely framed as ideological but function effectively as deterrents against deviation from acceptable narratives.

The cumulative effect of these funding practices is a stratified creative economy where risk is socialized downward and reward is consolidated upward. Newcomers absorb financial uncertainty, unpaid labor, and reputational vulnerability, while insiders benefit from institutional cushioning that mitigates failure. This imbalance discourages experimentation, as those without safety nets cannot afford projects that challenge norms or markets.The industry's output gradually becomes more uniform, mirroring the preferences and values of a limited group, rather than the diverse nature of Nepali society.

Media coverage of governmental funding decisions seldom scrutinizes these trends. Announcements are disseminated verbatim, highlighting the allocated sums and official pronouncements without providing contextual examination. Investigative inquiries into project results, labor conditions, or the equitable distribution of resources are conspicuously lacking. This deficiency is not fortuitous; state advertising and event sponsorship represent substantial revenue sources for media organizations, thereby generating an implicit disincentive for critical journalism. Journalists attempting to investigate such matters report editorial hesitance stemming from concerns about access restrictions or financial repercussions.

Silence also characterizes educational institutions and training programs that serve as pathways into the industry. Film schools and workshops frequently emphasize state and association accreditation as indicators of achievement, thereby implicitly endorsing the established system. Consequently, discussions concerning labor rights, contract comprehension, or collective bargaining are scarce, resulting in graduates being inadequately prepared to contend with exploitative circumstances. This educational deficiency serves the interests of those in positions of power by fostering a workforce that normalizes and accepts precarity.

The interaction among state entities, associations, and private financial backers, therefore, constitutes a political economy that systematically disadvantages those on the periphery. Each institution can shift responsibility onto the others, thereby generating a diffusion of accountability that prevents the resolution of grievances.
When new participants express reservations about this structure, they are frequently cautioned about the industry's precariousness and advised to exercise forbearance. However, in this instance, patience serves not as a commendable quality but as a means of postponement, thereby allowing structural inequalities to endure without question.

Comprehending these funding mechanisms is crucial for understanding how exclusion is sustained, not through explicit interdiction but through selective support. Access is provided gradually, subject to conditions, and subject to revocation, thereby maintaining newcomers in a position of reliance. Those who comply may ultimately be integrated; those who resist are marginalized, their exclusion rationalized as individual shortcomings rather than systemic flaws. This differentiation is fundamental to the industry's self-perpetuating rationale.

SECTION IV: MONOPOLIES

Distribution and exhibition are the final arbiters of visibility in Nepali cinema, and it is within this domain that exclusion becomes most materially decisive. While production struggles can be endured in relative obscurity, denial of screens ensures erasure. Nepal’s theatrical ecosystem is defined by a small number of distributors and exhibitor groups that control the majority of urban screens, particularly in Kathmandu Valley and other commercial hubs. These entities operate without meaningful regulatory oversight regarding screen allocation, pricing parity, or transparency of occupancy data. Their decisions, often defended as market-driven, reveal consistent patterns of preference that align closely with association affiliations, personal loyalty networks, and long-standing commercial relationships rather than demonstrable audience demand.

Newcomer filmmakers recount how distribution negotiations frequently occur under conditions of asymmetrical power. Without prior box-office credentials or association backing, they are offered unfavorable revenue splits, short theatrical windows, and release dates strategically positioned against high-profile insider films.In some cases, distribution agreements are contingent upon informal concessions, such as relinquishing creative control over marketing or agreeing to future collaboration terms that favor the distributor’s preferred producers. These conditions are rarely documented fully, leaving filmmakers vulnerable to unilateral changes once the film enters release.

Exhibitor practices further entrench inequality. Screen counts for films backed by influential producers often exceed rational market expectations, maintaining dominance even when occupancy declines. Conversely, films by outsiders are removed after a few days, sometimes within a single weekend, justified by low attendance figures that are not independently verifiable. Filmmakers seeking access to occupancy data or revenue statements report resistance or outright refusal, citing confidentiality. This opacity prevents meaningful challenge to exhibitor decisions and reinforces the perception that commercial failure is inherent to outsider projects rather than structurally induced.

The proliferation of multiplex chains has not, as was initially expected, broadened access to film exhibition. Rather, multiplexes have concentrated power by centralizing booking processes and standardizing contractual stipulations that disadvantage films with limited budgets or those produced independently. Financial barriers, including marketing stipulations, minimum show guarantees, and upfront promotional expenditures, establish thresholds that newcomers often find insurmountable. Although these stipulations are ostensibly presented as neutral business practices, their combined impact is exclusionary, thereby ensuring that only those with significant financial resources or industry connections can maintain a theatrical presence.

Film festivals, both within Nepal and internationally, are frequently portrayed as venues where unconventional works can circumvent commercial impediments. Nevertheless, the organizational structures of prominent Nepali festivals mirror this concentration of power. Programming committees and juries are often comprised of established filmmakers, representatives from industry associations, and sponsors with direct financial interests in the industry.
Selection criteria are rarely made public, and conflicts of interest are often obscured by the prevailing discourse surrounding experience. Films created by those new to the industry may be relegated to peripheral categories or screened at less favorable times, thereby offering only symbolic inclusion rather than genuine acknowledgment.

This disparity is exacerbated by award economies. National award ceremonies, frequently organized in partnership with governmental entities or industry groups, serve more as rituals of affirmation for the established order than as impartial assessment mechanisms. The repeated recognition of the same individuals and production companies solidifies their standing, thereby attracting additional funding and distribution benefits. Conversely, when newcomers are nominated or win awards, it is frequently presented as an act of exceptional generosity rather than a reflection of systemic accessibility.
The lack of independent juries, transparent voting mechanisms, and post-award assessments undermines accountability and perpetuates doubts concerning the validity of merit-based accolades.

Media portrayals of festivals and awards exacerbate these issues through selective emphasis. Coverage tends to focus on red carpet events, celebrity involvement, and insider accounts, thereby diminishing the prominence of discussions about procedural integrity, evaluative standards, and working conditions. Reviews of films from marginalized perspectives, when they do appear, are frequently brief or delayed, thus limiting their influence. This imbalance in coverage significantly shapes audience perceptions, leading viewers to associate visibility with quality and invisibility with inferiority.

Digital platforms and streaming services have been presented as solutions to theatrical exclusion; however, access to these platforms is also subject to intermediary influence.
Aggregators, content curators, and regional representatives frequently utilize established industry connections to acquire content, thereby mirroring offline hierarchies within the online sphere. Revenue models prioritize volume and visibility, which disadvantages independent films that do not benefit from robust marketing initiatives. Although digital distribution can circumvent traditional exhibitors, it seldom compensates for the absence of institutional legitimacy typically associated with theatrical releases and award recognition.

The psychological consequences of persistent exclusion are significant. Filmmakers frequently internalize rejection as a personal failing, even when acknowledging systemic issues. This internalization is further exacerbated by industry narratives that valorize resilience while simultaneously overlooking structural impediments.
Over time, many external individuals adapt by limiting their ambitions, narrowing their creative focus, or leaving the industry. This loss, though not officially recognized, is a major setback for the industry.

This analysis shows an economy of recognition that aims to maintain existing power structures. Visibility, validation, and professional success are distributed through interconnected systems that reward conformity and punish independence. As a result, the competition is not just unfair; it's a controlled scarcity that regulates creative work. Outsiders are not explicitly excluded; instead, they are subtly neglected, their absence justified by metrics and stories that hide the underlying power dynamics.

SECTION V: HOW SILENCE IS PRODUCED AND MAINTENANED

Silence within the Nepali film industry is not accidental; it is manufactured through a convergence of fear, dependency, and normalization that renders resistance professionally hazardous. While grievances are widely shared in private conversations, they rarely translate into public critique or collective action. This silence is sustained by the industry’s small scale, where reputations circulate quickly and informally, and where the absence of formal whistleblower protections leaves individuals exposed. Newcomers, in particular, learn early that speaking out risks being labeled troublesome, a designation that can quietly end a career without any overt sanction.

Dependency functions as a primary silencing mechanism. Most filmmakers and technicians operate on project-to-project arrangements without long-term contracts, social security, or institutional safety nets. This precarity creates an environment where continued employment depends on maintaining goodwill with those who control access to work. Even when exploitation is evident, the calculation is often pragmatic: confrontation may secure momentary satisfaction but jeopardize future survival.This pattern is exacerbated by the tendency to interpret conflicts as personal misunderstandings, rather than systemic issues, thereby prioritizing private resolution over public accountability.

When retaliation does occur, it is often subtle and challenging to substantiate. It may take the form of exclusion from job-related WhatsApp groups, removal from recommendation lists, or the sudden unavailability of previously interested collaborators. Because these actions lack formal documentation, they are readily dismissed as mere coincidence or market fluctuations. Nevertheless, their cumulative impact is undeniable, fostering a chilling effect that deters others from similar actions. Consequently, the industry self-regulates through the anticipation of reprisal, rather than through explicit enforcement.

Furthermore, the normalization of precarity reinforces silence by reframing exploitation as a customary practice. Senior industry figures frequently share their own experiences of hardship as evidence that such difficulties are an unavoidable part of the professional journey.
While such narratives may reflect genuine past experiences, their uncritical repetition obscures the distinction between endurance and injustice. By valorizing survival over reform, the industry perpetuates conditions that newer generations are expected to accept without question. This framing shifts responsibility away from institutions and onto individuals, reinforcing the idea that failure to thrive is a personal shortcoming rather than a systemic outcome.

Educational and training spaces play a role in this normalization. Workshops, film schools, and mentorship programs often emphasize networking and adaptability while avoiding critical discussion of labor rights or power dynamics. Students are encouraged to be grateful for any opportunity, regardless of conditions, internalizing a hierarchy that positions them as perpetual supplicants. The absence of formal education on contracts, negotiation, and collective bargaining leaves graduates ill-prepared to challenge exploitative arrangements, benefiting those who profit from ambiguity.

Attempts at collective organization among outsiders have historically struggled to gain traction.Informal groups periodically coalesce to address common grievances, yet maintaining their initial impetus proves challenging. Members frequently express apprehension regarding exposure, infiltration, or potential repercussions; consequently, initiatives often disband in the absence of institutional support or legal safeguards. Organizations that could, in principle, lend support to such endeavors frequently adopt a posture of neutrality, thereby discouraging activism that could jeopardize established relationships. This approach, in turn, reinforces the belief that collective action is both ineffective and perilous.

Furthermore, media silence exacerbates these dynamics. Although social media platforms offer limited avenues for individual expression, public criticism directed at influential individuals is frequently met with retaliation, evasion, or character assassination. Journalists who might otherwise amplify these concerns encounter economic limitations and editorial prudence, thereby restricting sustained coverage. When such stories do surface, they are often presented as isolated occurrences, thereby impeding the recognition of wider trends.
This fragmentation serves to individualize grievances, thereby obscuring their systemic nature.

The psychological consequences of sustained silence are considerable. Numerous filmmakers report a progressive decline in confidence, creativity, and trust. The persistent tension between professional ambition and basic survival cultivates both cynicism and burnout. Departures from the industry are seldom publicized; these exits are often unacknowledged and unexplained, thereby enabling the system to evade accountability for its losses. This silent attrition perpetuates the appearance of stability while concealing profound structural deterioration.

Nevertheless, silence is not absolute.
Periodic instances of vocal dissent arise when individuals elect to speak out, notwithstanding the potential repercussions, frequently precipitated by severe exploitation or accumulated frustration. These instances serve to illuminate the vulnerability of the system's moral legitimacy, demonstrating that adherence is maintained not through voluntary agreement but through coercive measures. Nevertheless, absent a consistent institutional reaction, such ruptures dissipate, gradually reintegrated into the existing framework via the passage of time, diversionary tactics, or selective concessions.

Comprehending the processes that generate silence is crucial for grasping the mechanisms through which power endures. The absence of protest does not signify contentment but rather strategic calculation. Those on the periphery are not oblivious to the structures that marginalize them; rather, they are subject to their constraints. This differentiation challenges prevailing interpretations that attribute exclusion to either indifference or ineptitude, thereby shifting the focus toward the mechanisms that stifle dissent.

SECTION VI: CONCLUSION

The patterns documented throughout this investigation make one conclusion unavoidable: the exclusion of newcomers in the Nepali film industry is not a byproduct of scarcity or growing pains but the outcome of deliberate structural design. Power is preserved through a network of institutions and practices that operate in mutual reinforcement, ensuring that control over funding, legitimacy, visibility, and narrative authority remains concentrated among a small, self-reproducing elite. This system does not require overt conspiracy or uniform intent; it functions effectively through shared incentives, informal coordination, and collective silence. Those who benefit have little motivation to disrupt it, while those harmed are systematically discouraged from resistance.

The industry’s repeated invocation of fragility as a defense against reform is itself a mechanism of control. By framing any critique as a threat to survival, power holders deflect scrutiny and moral responsibility. Yet the evidence suggests the opposite: it is precisely these exclusionary practices that have rendered Nepali cinema vulnerable to stagnation, talent drain, and reputational erosion.An industry that fails to nurture its new members is doomed to stagnate creatively. An ecosystem that considers ethical governance a secondary concern is incapable of forging enduring international alliances. The price of preserving the existing order is tangible, manifesting in silenced perspectives, thwarted professional trajectories, and a decline in cultural significance.

Accountability cannot be established through mere verbal assertions or superficial actions. It necessitates structural alterations that undermine the incentives that perpetuate exclusion. Organizations must be mandated to function transparently, publicly disclose their decision-making procedures, and uniformly apply labor protections, rather than selectively. Governmental entities must establish funding mechanisms characterized by explicit criteria, independent oversight, and accessible channels for redress.
Regulatory frameworks should govern distribution and exhibition practices, thereby preventing arbitrary exclusion and promoting data transparency. Media institutions must acknowledge their dual role as promoters and critical observers, tasked with scrutinizing power rather than uncritically endorsing it.

Furthermore, it is crucial to understand that reform will not spontaneously arise from the current structure. Those who benefit from opaque systems are unlikely to initiate their dismantling. Consequently, pressure must originate from consistent public oversight, collective action, and the rejection of exploitation as a normalized practice. Despite their structural disadvantages, newcomers are not powerless when their experiences are documented, validated, and contextualized within a wider framework, rather than viewed as isolated complaints. The industry's credibility hinges on its capacity to confront these realities with honesty, devoid of defensiveness or denial.

The persistent exclusion of outsiders transcends internal difficulties, representing a broader cultural issue. Cinema significantly influences national narratives, collective memory, and societal imagination. Consequently, when access to this medium is contingent upon loyalty and lineage, rather than merit and expertise, the narratives available to audiences are inherently constrained. The diversity of perspectives is not a superfluous element for a small industry; rather, it is essential for maintaining relevance in an increasingly interconnected global context. The marginal status of Nepali cinema on the international stage is not solely attributable to resource limitations, but also to an internal reluctance to democratize opportunities.

This study does not advocate for the displacement of lived experiences or the condemnation of individuals. Instead, it advocates for the dismantling of systems that equate experience with entitlement and authority with immunity.
Those in positions of influence who are genuinely invested in the future of Nepali cinema must acknowledge that mentorship devoid of power-sharing is inadequate, and representation lacking accountability is meaningless. Ethical leadership necessitates more than individual benevolence; it necessitates institutional restructuring that transcends individual tenures.

The Nepali film industry faces a critical juncture. It can either perpetuate a closed ecosystem that incentivizes silence, allegiance, and conformity, thereby gradually undermining its creative and ethical underpinnings. Alternatively, it can acknowledge the uncomfortable reality that its continued existence hinges on embracing those it has historically marginalized. A neutral course is not an option.
Inaction constitutes a choice, one that implicitly supports exclusion and resigns itself to decline.

The marginalized individuals discussed are not peripheral to Nepali cinema; rather, they represent its repressed potential. Their persistent exclusion is neither viable nor justifiable. Accountability is not a mere concept but an immediate necessity. Until the established structures are dismantled, any assertion of advancement will be superficial, and any acknowledgment of achievement will be partial. The ethical soundness and global significance of Nepali cinema hinge not on the preservation of existing power, but on its relinquishment.