Anuj Kumar

As we wait for Honey Trehan’s Punjab 95, which is still under Censor scrutiny, the filmmaker transports us to the heart of Uttar Pradesh’s Lucknow-Kanpur axis, spinning a sharp crime thriller with a throbbing conscience. The spiritual sequel builds on the original’s noir aesthetic, using its atmospheric whodunit structure to examine how power dynamics and moral corruption shape justice and revenge in an unequal society. By asking what happens when victims and perpetrators trade places, Honey brings emotional depth to the unraveling of the mystery. Through vivid symbols — bulldozers and shallow graves — he critiques how power conceals exploitation and shields the corrupt.

After making headlines with the Oscar shortlist, Dharma Productions goes homebound with a tourism advertisement for Croatia, interspersed with product placement for the bronzer look of its fair-skinned lead actress. Masquerading as a breezy, feel-good romantic comedy that imparts the warmth of family values during winter break, it feels like an addition to the aspirational calendar of wedding and honeymoon ideas that the production house delivers every year to towns of different tiers.

After weeks of shrill, strident films, The Great Shamshuddin Family offers the warmth of a quilt and the taste of ginger tea in a Delhi winter. Nearly 15 years after Peepli Live, Anusha Rizvi returns with a day-long glimpse into the life of a modern Indian Muslim family that is achingly human, steadfastly hopeful, and consistently humorous. Carrying tensions arising from interfaith relationships and generational grievances within its layers, the film gradually builds the tenuous relationship between the home and the world. From the passive aggression of liberals, the youthful presumptions, the manipulation of conservative but well-meaning elders, to the bitterness, the casual communal innuendos, and prejudices that we see around us, the film brings out the foreboding and the fears of social violence in our subconscious mind without pointing fingers.

In the last few years, Aditya Dhar has emerged as a dhurandhar, an expert who can soft pedal nationalist propaganda with aesthetic execution. After Uri and Article 370, here he turns a potential OTT series into a 212-minute unyielding character study of ‘enemies’. Addressed to an audience who lost faith in ‘aman in aasha’ with the neighbour after the Kandhar hijack and the Parliament attack of 2001, the film is mounted like a tribute to the exploits of Ajay Sanyal (R Madhavan), who seems to be based on National Security Advisor Ajit Doval. While the disclaimer calls it a fictional exercise, the similarities with real-life characters seem more than coincidental.

Bollywood is in love all over again. After Mohit Suri’s Saiyaara, Aanand L Rai, another master of the poetic portrayal of passion and pain, returns with a gripping interrogation of love’s destructive underbelly, set in a social context. Connected to Raanjhanaa(2013) by an umbilical cord, Tere Ishk Mein talks of the magic of love that is lost in modern life’s logic, which entices us to trade emotions. In Rai’s universe, love is both poison and panacea, and once again, he has taken up a risky subject — the transformative power of romance.

A middle-class intelligence officer juggling high-stakes national security threats with his chaotic family life. When The Family Man sauntered into our living rooms in 2019, it offered a fresh take on the spy genre, one that eschewed existing clichés. It raised the bar for Indian OTT thrillers, with Manoj Bajpayee’s nuanced performance anchoring the narrative.

Much like our political leadership, Bollywood largely remains silent on our battles and skirmishes with our northern neighbour. This week is a glorious exception, as director Razneesh Razy Ghai brings a tale of valour from the Chinese front as he makes us relive the battle of Rezang La, where 120 Indian bravehearts from the plains thwarted the dragon’s designs on Chushul Airfield to occupy the entire Ladakh during the Sino-Indian war on November 21, 1962.

There is no shot of Taj Mahal in Kanu Behl’s Agra. There are no sprawling gardens that dot the city of monuments. Instead, the fearless chronicler of our society’s hidden fractures and fault lines focuses on the cramped spaces, repressed desires, and the incommodious mindscapes in the mofussil town that the city holds beneath its touristy topsoil. It is the Agra that Sahir Ludhianvi referred to in his critique of the Taj Mahal when he said that the monument symbolised the exploitation of the poor by the elite. Behl is more matter-of-fact, but there is a distinctive rhythm to his storytelling. It is like the movement of a worm under the skin that is difficult to ignore or resolve.