Arnab Banerjee

Every nation carries within it a wound that history refuses to let heal. Few events in the history of the subcontinent have left a wound as profound, intimate and enduring as the Partition of British India in 1947. More than 15 million people were uprooted from their ancestral homes, while the death toll is estimated to have reached as high as two million. But statistics, however staggering, can never adequately convey the human cost of Partition—the homes abandoned overnight, families torn apart, identities violently rearranged, and memories passed from one generation to the next like an inherited grief. Batwara 1947 attempts to enter that vast historical tragedy through the intimacy of one household.

There is something intrinsically disarming about dogs in cinema. Whether they are steadfast companions on perilous journeys, mischievous family pets, or silent witnesses to human joys and sorrows, dogs possess an emotional currency that few cinematic characters can match. Their loyalty is uncomplicated, their affection unconditional, and their ability to connect with children almost magical. Ohh My Dog, directed by Amit Rai, attempts to tap into precisely this potent emotional space—evoking the warm, uncomplicated pleasures of a time when Indian cinema could tell children stories that were entertaining, humane and morally resonant without talking down to them.

Every successful franchise eventually reaches the point where artistic inspiration begins to resemble a financial reflex — another sequel, another remake, another reassuring reminder to studio executives that nostalgia remains a dependable currency. Unless a fresh perspective reshapes the narrative or the story boldly charts unfamiliar waters, these revisits often feel less like cinematic adventures and more like corporate accounting exercises with a generous visual-effects budget. Disney’s Moana (2026), the live-action adaptation of its beloved 2016 animated classic and the third instalment in the franchise, sails directly into this familiar predicament. Directed by Thomas Kail in his feature-film debut from a screenplay by Jared Bush and Dana Ledoux Miller, the film reunites Dwayne Johnson with his larger-than-life role as the swaggering demigod Maui while introducing Catherine Laga’aia as the spirited Moana. Produced by Johnson alongside Hiram Garcia, Dany Garcia, Beau Flynn and Lin-Manuel Miranda, the production possesses all the ingredients of a prestige Disney spectacle. Yet, despite its glittering credentials, it struggles to justify its own existence. Competently assembled though it is, the film rarely inspires wonder, and its visual splendour, while undeniably polished, seldom evokes genuine amazement. It is less a voyage of discovery than an expensive exercise in déjà vu.

There are certain names in cinema that arrive long before the credits roll. They carry with them not merely recognition but a formidable burden of expectation—a promise of excellence painstakingly accumulated over decades. Rajkumar Hirani belongs comfortably to that rarefied league. His films have consistently blended humour with humanity, wit with wisdom, and entertainment with emotion, creating stories that linger long after the curtains have fallen. From the irrepressibly charming Munna Bhai series to the socially resonant 3 Idiots, the delightfully irreverent PK, and the emotionally layered Sanju, Hirani has fashioned a cinematic identity that is at once distinctive and deeply endearing.

Reality, on rare occasions, possesses an uncanny habit of imitating fiction—not deliberately, but with an irony so exquisite that it borders on poetic justice. One suspects that director Ahmed Khan had little inkling that his latest spectacle, Welcome to the Jungle, would ultimately become the most eloquent metaphor for its own creative bankruptcy. Conceived as a madcap satire on the film industry and the absurd economics of blockbuster filmmaking, the film instead collapses under the crushing weight of the very mediocrity it seeks to lampoon. The result is not a parody of commercial cinema but an inadvertent specimen of everything that has gone catastrophically wrong with it.

Whether fidelity constitutes a decisive factor in a relationship depends largely on the expectations, boundaries, and understandings negotiated by the partners themselves. While traditional marriage has historically placed a premium on sexual and emotional exclusivity, contemporary relationship dynamics reveal a far more nuanced spectrum of beliefs about what ultimately sustains a successful partnership. Cinema, however—particularly Hindi cinema—has often lagged behind these evolving realities. For decades, the screen was populated by self-abnegating heroines, memorably portrayed by actors such as Meena Kumari, Mala Sinha, and Nanda, women who seemed almost eager to embrace suffering as proof of devotion. Their emotional universe was encapsulated in the oft-quoted refrain: “Hai isi mein pyar ki aabroo, woh jafa kare, main wafa karoon”—loosely translated as, “The true honour of love lies in remaining faithful and devoted even when the beloved is cruel or unfaithful.”

Terror and terrorism admit of only one character: brutality. As such, they are beyond justification and ought to remain beyond forgiveness. Yet the stories that emerge from acts of terror are often far more complex and, at times, profoundly heroic—not from the perspective of the perpetrators, but from that of the victims, survivors, and those who rise in defiance of violence. After a string of commercial disappointments, Kangana Ranaut returns to the big screen with Bharat Bhagya Vidhata, a 127-minute dramatization of the extraordinary events that unfolded at Mumbai’s Cama and Albless Hospital during the horrific 26/11 terrorist attacks. Drawing upon real incidents and inspired by the courage of healthcare workers such as nurse Anjali Kulthe, who helped save more than twenty pregnant women, the film seeks to illuminate a chapter of the tragedy that remains insufficiently remembered.

We inhabit an age in which the credibility of almost every belief we hold has become increasingly uncertain. The relentless proliferation of digital media has not merely expanded access to information; it has also enabled the systematic reshaping of opinions, perceptions, and even philosophical convictions to serve competing ideological agendas. Whether the subject concerns scientific evidence, historical memory, matters of faith, or political events, public understanding is increasingly shaped less by rigorous inquiry than by carefully curated narratives. In such an environment, political history—with all its complexity, nuance, and contested interpretations—becomes particularly vulnerable to distortion. Bias is repackaged as truth, and selective representation masquerades as historical interpretation.