Akhil Arora

In early 2019, when Apple signed Taika Waititi as creator, writer, and director on its television series adaptation of the beloved eighties kids’ movie Time Bandits, his star was on the rise. The Kiwi filmmaker had successfully transitioned from a tiny indie comedy-drama set in New Zealand to a mega-budget superhero romp part of a massive, shared world. Better yet, Waititi had reinvigorated the God of Thunder’s forgettable trilogy with Thor: Ragnarok. All the gates of Hollywood were swinging open for the writer-director. But since then, Waititi has struggled. The Hitler satire Jojo Rabbit lacked bite and was showered with more praise than it deserved. Thor: Love and Thunder and Next Goal Wins were both disasters of epic proportions.

Early into Wild Wild Punjab—the new Indian Netflix original movie—a line of dialogue lays bare the film’s inspiration: The Hangover trilogy. It’s not implied, mind you. One of the film’s four lead characters namechecks the high-grossing franchise as a comedic reference. Except Wild Wild Punjab doesn’t stop at acknowledging its existence. It liberally borrows several subplots from The Hangover, including stealing a police vehicle, being chased by gangsters, and drunkenly marrying a random woman. But Wild Wild Punjab—directed by feature debutant Simarpreet Singh and written by Harman Wadala and Sandeep Jain—displays zero understanding of good comedic filmmaking.

In season 3, Mirzapur wishes to place an even bigger emphasis on the world outside of it. As a feud between two clans ratchets up, a meeting of all the gangsters of Purvanchal—the easternmost section of the state of Uttar Pradesh—is called more than once. They bicker, they whine, but they have no real voice, no real say in the matter. A mediator warns the two parties not to escalate violence and vows that larger powers will come down on them heavily. But it’s all talk. Mirzapur isn’t willing to follow through as it’s only the protagonists who matter. Everyone else is simply window dressing. They feel like plastic, as do those who work for the feuding clans. Its larger world is irrelevant. Mirzapur is a macro show that has no interest in the micro.

Early into Maharaj—the new Netflix movie loosely adapted from Saurabh Shah’s book of the same name, which chronicles a famous libel court case from 1862—at the end of a frivolous song-and-dance sequence, a religious leader who’s known to prey on young, betrothed women walks up to his next victim as she celebrates Holi. The Maharaj (Jaideep Ahlawat) grabs a fistful of coloured powder and smears it across Kishori’s naked chest, essentially marking her. It’s disturbing. But for Kishori (Shalini Pandey) who worships him, it’s a moment of unbridled joy. She thinks she’s the chosen one, picked to perform a vital religious ritual. Her aunt says as much to her face. So, when she finds herself all alone with the Maharaj in his palatial room, she readily gives in to everything he asks of her.

Kota Factory has never lived up to its title. The name suggests a grim look at the dystopian reality of teenagers in their formative years transported to a town in the middle of nowhere for a single mindless pursuit. Instead—over 10 episodes across two seasons—we’ve been treated to a sentimental and meandering look at the life of students. Kota Factory isn’t in black-and-white because it’s drained of life. It’s in black-and-white because the creators, themselves former IITians, are nostalgic for the past. The third—and what feels like the final—season wants to course correct. It wants to brush up on lessons it has ignored so far. But it has no idea how to communicate any of it. Everything is too literal or spelt out.