Akhil Arora

Tere Ishk Mein, the new film from director Aanand L. Rai and his longtime writer Himanshu Sharma, might be more offensive than anything Sandeep Reddy Vanga has ever made. A misogynist, hate-mongering pile of slop, the movie exists to validate its incel male audience’s opinions about all womankind. It would be foolish to question why Dhanush and Kriti Sanon agreed to make this film, but for A.R. Rahman and Mohammed Zeeshan Ayyub to participate in something like this says a lot about their politics. We talk about the film’s unhinged story, the poor acting by the two leads, and its overall disdain for the audience.

Kalamkaval—the new investigative thriller in which Mammootty plays a serial killer—is a dull, dour, and deeply frustrating film. We talk about director Jithin K. Jose’s indisciplined screenplay, which repeats the same information over and over again as if it knows audiences are going to tune out. We also discuss its lack of interest in the killer’s victims, whom it treats as mere plot devices. We find that the performances of the two leads are entirely mismatched, and the movie is more interested in pulling the rug from under the audience’s feet than examining why people do what they do.

Haq, the new propaganda movie starring Yami Gautam Dhar and Emraan Hashmi, is even more insidious than. We talk about the film’s harmful stereotypes, the irresponsibility of presenting an entire community as savages, and drawing a direct line between bad behaviour and faith. We also discuss the film’s sloppy storytelling, childish approach to complex ideas, and its constant need to spoon-feed its audience.

Is Raat Akeli Hai: The Bansal Murders more than just a way for director Honey Trehan to pay the rent, or is it actually worthwhile? We talk about the film’s differences from and similarities to the first one, and the sociopolitical commentary that Trehan and writer Smita Singh are able to sneak into it. We also discuss how the movie didn’t face any trouble despite naming and shaming the Uttar Pradesh administration. Along the way, we touch upon Radhika Apte’s pointless presence, and wonder if the movie would’ve benefited from some more character development for the suspects.

Avatar: Fire and Ash is the weakest instalment of James Cameron’s trilogy. We discuss the many ways in which the movie betrays the franchise’s core values, the illogical directions that Cameron sends Jake Sully in, and the loose ends that the film ends with. We also talk about the lack of humour and self-awareness, the poor dialogue, and the incomprehensible third act action sequences.

You cannot separate a film’s politics from its craft—you cannot separate your own politics from your opinion. To do so would be like judging a Dal Makhani on the basis of presentation but not taste. Dhurandhar is vile propaganda whose influence will spread beyond even its target audience of unemployed youth and WhatsApp uncles. We discuss how objectionable every scene involving R. Madhavan is, how abrupt the climax feels, and why director Aditya Dhar is so afraid of examining complexity. We also talk about the incendiary red screen scene and its possible implications, and wonder why they chose to make the protagonist a murderer for hire instead of a real patriot with real motivations to undertake such a high-stakes mission.

The Girlfriend seems like a direct response to the widespread misogyny of Indian cinema, but it feels disingenuous because it stars someone who has defended that very misogyny. We discuss the unintelligent character that Rashmika Mandanna has been saddled with, and wonder if the only path towards feminism that Indian filmmakers know involves taking a detour via humiliation. We also talk about the film’s on-the-nose storytelling, which undermines its noble intentions, touch upon the patriarchal irony of the film’s pivotal moment, and provide an unrealistic pathway for Mandanna’s redemption.

The Girlfriend seems like a direct response to the widespread misogyny of Indian cinema, but it feels disingenuous because it stars someone who has defended that very misogyny. We discuss the unintelligent character that Rashmika Mandanna has been saddled with, and wonder if the only path towards feminism that Indian filmmakers know involves taking a detour via humiliation. We also talk about the film’s on-the-nose storytelling, which undermines its noble intentions, touch upon the patriarchal irony of the film’s pivotal moment, and provide an unrealistic pathway for Mandanna’s redemption.