Arnab Banerjee

Partition, in any form, is never merely a political event; it is an enduring human catastrophe. It leaves behind not only severed geographies but also ruptured hearts, fractured identities, and generations condemned to inherit memories of loss. Time, often celebrated as the great healer, may soften the sharp edges of grief, but it cannot erase the scars carved into the collective consciousness of those who lived through such devastation. Those wounds remain buried beneath the surface, dormant yet alive, capable of reopening with the slightest provocation, unleashing once again the sorrow of a world violently torn apart.

Every actor of consequence harbours a desire to inhabit roles that foreground performance—particularly those that test their flair for comedy, that most elusive of arts requiring instinct, rhythm, and razor-sharp timing. While legends such as Amitabh Bachchan and Shah Rukh Khan, alongside actors of formidable gravitas like Dilip Kumar and Irrfan Khan, have traversed the delicate line between the tragic and the comic with enviable ease, many have faltered in a genre that demands spontaneity and wit in equal measure. It is with such expectations that one approaches Maa Behen, a Netflix offering headlined by Madhuri Dixit. Directed by Suresh Triveni—who made a promising debut with the gently humorous Tumhari Sulu before veering into more sombre territory—the film attempts to mine a vein of humour that Hindi cinema seldom exploits with conviction: black comedy.

If Anurag Kashyap had, by some cosmic clerical error, wandered into academia instead of cinema, he might well have become a tenured authority on the anthropology of crime—specifically, the sort that festers in dimly lit alleys and moral grey zones. His fascination with transgression is neither new nor unwelcome; after all, crime, in fiction as in life, offers a perverse kind of narrative seduction. One is drawn not merely to the act itself but to the elaborate theatre of law enforcement—those who prosecute, persecute, or, on less scrupulous days, politely protect the very rot they are sworn to excise. What grows wearisome, however, is Kashyap’s stubborn fidelity to the same old gangland grammar: interchangeable criminals, cut from identical cloth, trading smug one-liners like bored schoolboys passing notes in class. Variety, it seems, has been quietly smothered somewhere between the first act and the last cigarette.

For those who still believe that a film title arrives bearing a reliable clue to the entertainment within, Daadi Ki Shadi proves to be a rather elaborate practical joke. The title promises a frothy carnival of matrimonial mayhem; what it ultimately delivers is a strangely solemn family melodrama that occasionally remembers it was advertised as a comedy. The premise, admittedly, is deliciously mischievous: a lonely grandmother’s social-media-fuelled announcement of her impending remarriage sends tremors through the carefully choreographed wedding plans of her granddaughter. One expects escalating confusion, irreverent wit, and generational satire. Instead, the film proceeds with the caution of a family elder carrying a tray of hot tea across a slippery floor — anxious not to spill either sentiment or decorum.

They say it is the mere conception of an idea—the first glimmer of narrative possibility—that sets a journey in motion. In the realm of creativity, that initial spark is often so invigorating that one feels half the battle is already won, especially when the ambition is to tell a story that reaches beyond the self and resonates with a wider audience.

There exists, in the grand almanac of cinematic possibilities, a rare and delectable alchemy—the seamless fusion of horror and comedy—that, when handled with finesse, leaves audiences deliciously unsettled and helplessly amused in equal measure. Hindi cinema has, on occasion, achieved this precarious balance with admirable flair, as seen in Stree and Bhool Bhulaiyaa, both of which continue to loom large as exemplars of the genre. Which is precisely why one approaches Bhooth Bangla—helmed by the once reliably inventive Priyadarshan—with a certain anticipatory glee. Alas, what unfolds is less a haunted house and more a haunted opportunity.

Never before has cinema exercised such formidable influence as it does in the present moment, particularly within India. Technological sophistication has refined nearly every facet of filmmaking; yet, in this relentless pursuit of scale and spectacle, a measure of restraint often appears to have been relinquished. The industry now stands at a curious intersection where artistic ambition, public sentiment, and institutional interests frequently converge. Films, filmmakers, and narratives alike are championed or contested with equal fervour, often within frameworks that extend beyond the purely cinematic. Such an environment, while undeniably vibrant for audiences, inevitably shapes the nature of the stories being told.

A nation that measures sexual violence in minutes rather than in isolated tragedies has already indicted itself. In India, a rape is reported, on average, every twenty minutes—a statistic so numbing in its repetition that it risks becoming background noise. More damning still is the chronic failure of justice: cases stall, survivors are scrutinized more ruthlessly than perpetrators, and institutions meant to shield the vulnerable too often retreat into silence or self-preservation. It is into this moral quicksand that Anubhav Sinha strides with Assi, a film that refuses both euphemism and escape.