Bombay High Court dismisses PIL seeking change in Raja Shivaji’s title

The Bombay High Court has dismissed a public interest litigation (PIL) that sought a stay on the theatrical release of the Marathi-Hindi bilingual film Raja Shivaji, clearing the way for the movie’s scheduled release on May 1, 2026. The petition had objected to the omission of the honorific “Chhatrapati” from the film’s title and claimed it was disrespectful to the legacy of Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj. The plea was filed by NGO Sree Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Foundation, which argued that leaving out the title “Chhatrapati” hurt the sentiments of followers of the iconic Maratha ruler. The petitioner requested the court to direct the makers to rename the film Chhatrapati Raja Shivaji and also sought restrictions on the release, screening, and public exhibition of the movie until changes were made. A division bench led by Chief Justice Shree Chandrashekhar and Justice Gautam Ankhad rejected the petition, observing that the matter did not involve any real public cause. The court also n...

‘I’m not a saint’: Abel Ferrara on his wild career, rehab and nightclubbing with Donald Trump

The last time our writer interviewed him, the drugged up director dozed off then asked for coke. Now sober, he reflects on #MeToo, Italian fascism and his fight for the final cut

The last time I met Abel Ferrara, he dozed off in the middle of our interview then woke up and asked me to score him some coke. It was 1996, and he was in the UK promoting his gangster drama The Funeral – which the actor Vincent Gallo alleged Ferrara had been too blitzed on crack to direct properly – and his vampire horror The Addiction. He was on a roll, his reputation fortified by King of New York, starring Christopher Walken as a flamboyant crime boss, and the gruelling Bad Lieutenant, with Harvey Keitel as a bent junkie cop. Ferrara was the scuzzball Scorsese: no matter how celebrated he became, he never shed the patina of grime from his early days as the star and director of porn film The Nine Lives of a Wet Pussy and the infamous “video nasty” The Driller Killer.

“You were the guy I fell asleep with?” he gasps now from his bright, high-ceilinged living room in Rome. He is calling via Zoom, his laptop resting on a shelf so he can pace around as he speaks, drinking from a bottle of San Pellegrino that he clutches by the neck. “You’re the guy? I’m sorry, man! Really, really.” Then he switches tack. “You let me down! You were 24, living in London, and you didn’t know where to score?” He shakes his head in disbelief. “All right. So where could we get some now?” A sandpapery cackle fills the air as he rocks on his heels. His hunched posture and jutting jaw make him the spit of the cartoon dog Muttley. He laughs like him, too.

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