Arnab Banerjee

Cinema, in its kaleidoscopic array of expressions, occasionally offers us stories of rare splendour—narratives that shimmer with originality, thematic boldness, and imaginative audacity. While not all Indian films aspire to transcend conventional storytelling, every so often emerges a cinematic gem that dares to diverge. Jugnuma, directed by Raam Reddy and released this week, is precisely such a departure—a masterstroke of magical realism, a genre seldom explored within the realms of Hindi cinema. Set against the resplendent backdrop of spring in 1989, Jugnuma unfolds in an isolated colonial mansion perched precariously atop a Himalayan cliff. Here resides Dev (essayed with quiet intensity by Manoj Bajpayee), alongside his wife Nandini (Priyanka Bose), daughter Vanya (Hiral Sidhu), and son Juju (Awaan PoKoot). Revered by the surrounding villagers, Dev is a benevolent landowner who generates employment through his vast and flourishing orchards. Yet, this pastoral idyll is soon shattered when he discovers a patch of mysteriously charred trees. What begins as a small anomaly gradually spirals into a series of inexplicable conflagrations, each one more disturbing than the last.

The Bengal Files directed by Vivek Agnihotri continues his polarising Files Trilogy after The Tashkent Files and The Kashmir Files. With a cast featuring Darshan Kumar, Saswata Chatterjee, Pallavi Joshi, Mithun Chakravarthy, and Anupam Kher, this 205-minute political drama revisits the 1946 Great Calcutta Killings and the Noakhali riots. Framed as historical revelation, the film blends propaganda, performative outrage, and distorted memory into a cinematic spectacle. Positioned conveniently before the 2026 Bengal elections, The Bengal Files raises questions about political cinema in India, propaganda-driven storytelling, and the weaponization of Partition-era trauma. Political cinema in India has long mastered the art of selective amnesia—where history is less a chronicle of facts and more a buffet of “patriotic” fiction, seasoned heavily with rage bait. Most of these films claim to “speak truth to power” while actually whispering sweet nothings into the ears of a very specific, very angry demographic. The result? Predictably controversial, conveniently banned (wink wink), and almost always marketed as “the film THEY didn’t want you to see.”

Param Sundari, directed by Tushar Jalota and starring Sidharth Malhotra and Janhvi Kapoor, attempts a North-meets-South romance but falls flat. Laden with clichés, forced chemistry, and predictable tropes, the film struggles despite Kerala’s beauty, sidekick humour, and forgettable music. At 136 minutes, this Bollywood rom-com offers visual delight but little substance, proving yet again that cross-cultural love stories need more than recycled stereotypes and surface spectacle. India’s diversity has long been the go-to spice rack for Bollywood romances, and our filmmakers haven’t missed a single masala. From Raanjhanaa to Two States and Goliyon Ki Raasleela Ram-Leela, we’ve seen lovers playing Romeo and Juliet across caste lines, language barriers, and angry elders wielding moral outrage like a family heirloom. So, it’s no surprise that Param Sundari joins the tradition—this time with a Punjabi munda and a Malayali miss, thrown together in a cross-cultural curry that aims to be spicy but ends up more sambhar-lite.

Tehran, directed by Arun Gopalan and produced by Dinesh Vijan, Shobhna Yadav, and Sandeep Leyzell, is another addition to the growing catalogue of Indian espionage thrillers inspired by real-world geopolitical tensions. This one takes on the 2012 attacks on Israeli diplomats, using them as a launchpad for a fictional yet politically steeped narrative set against the volatile backdrop of Iran-Israel hostilities. Over the past decade, John Abraham has become something of a regular fixture in action-diplomatic thrillers — and Tehran continues this trajectory. In the role of DCP Rajeev Kumar, Abraham plays a tormented officer who dives headfirst into a complex international conspiracy after a bomb blast in Delhi kills an innocent flower-seller. The event serves as a catalyst, pushing him into an unsanctioned and personal mission of justice.

Let’s begin with a universal truth: a film doesn’t necessarily need a new idea. Sometimes, all it takes is a snazzy new coat of paint, some brooding stares, an international flight or six, and voilà! You have a fresh treatment. Or so one hopes. Enter: War 2. The sequel to 2019’s War has been handed over to Ayan Mukerji, who trades in time travel (Brahmāstra flashbacks, anyone?) for testosterone, tactical, and tight t-shirts. Taking the reins from Siddharth Anand, Mukerji attempts to inject some emotional heft into the franchise, perhaps believing that what this series really needed was… feelings. The result? A three-hour cocktail of high-octane set-pieces, soul-searching monologues, and chase sequences that last longer than most gym memberships.

Son of Sardaar 2 is back, and this time the sardaar has swapped swords for bagpipes—aye, we’re in Scotland now, lads! Directed by Punjabi punch specialist Vijay Kumar Arora and bankrolled by Ajay Devgn (also starring, obviously), Jyoti Deshpande, N.R. Pachisia and Pravin Talreja, this one’s a chaotic cocktail of comedy, culture clashes, and complete confusion. A standalone sequel to the 2012 madcap masala-fest Son of Sardaar, this film dares to ask the question: What happens when you mix a fake war hero, a dysfunctional band, a confused wedding, and Ravi Kishan’s eyebrows into one movie? Apparently, a whole lot of madness. The plot? Let’s just say it’s more tangled than a pair of wired earphones in a jeans pocket. Our man Jassi (Ajay Devgn), fresh off a long exile (probably dodging sequels), flies to bonnie Scotland to win back his estranged wife (Neeru Bajwa). But instead of rekindling romance, he finds himself knee-deep in cross-border chaos featuring a mob rivalry, a desi wedding gone rogue, and a mistaken identity twist that feels like Comedy of Errors… rewritten by Rohit Shetty during a sugar rush.

If Pariyerum Perumal (2018) was a burning manifesto against caste oppression, Dhadak 2 is the government-issued pamphlet version—neatly formatted, slightly sanitized, and laminated for upper-caste convenience. A Hindi remake of Mari Selvaraj’s Tamil classic, Dhadak 2 attempts a daring high-wire act: to tackle India’s caste realities without disturbing the comfort zones of mainstream Bollywood viewers. It’s also branded as a spiritual sequel to 2018’s Dhadak, a film so committed to looking away from caste, it practically made erasure an aesthetic. In that sense, Dhadak 2 is a kind of karmic correction—only this time, the characters do mention caste out loud. Occasionally. Set in a vague “Hindi heartland” (geography was apparently too casteist to be named), Dhadak 2 follows Neelesh (Siddhant Chaturvedi), a Dalit law student with dreams of justice and—poor thing—romance. He secures a spot in the prestigious National University of Law through reservation, and while most Bollywood heroes fight corrupt politicians or dance on Swiss hills, Neelesh battles that deadliest of foes: everyday systemic discrimination.

Sarzameen, directed by Kayoze Irani and starring Prithviraj Sukumaran, Kajol, and Ibrahim Ali Khan, struggles to rise above its tired father-son conflict and predictable melodrama. Marketed as a political thriller set against the Kashmir backdrop, the film fails to deliver emotional depth or gripping tension. While Ibrahim Ali Khan shows promise in his role, the narrative is weighed down by clichés and implausible plot twists. The soundtrack by Vishal Mishra and Vishal Khurana, especially Aa Gale Lag Ja, is the film’s saving grace. Compared to nuanced family dramas like Udaan, Piku, and Kapoor & Sons, Sarzameen feels like an uninspired retread of worn-out Bollywood formulas. Ah, the Hindi film industry—forever suckling at the teat of generational trauma. And what better trope to flog than the threadbare baap-beta conflict? Not because it’s profound, but because it’s easy. Like instant noodles. Or, more accurately, an overused Dharma cliché.