Arnab Banerjee

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.

n the cinematic world, autism is often depicted in one of two familiar forms: either the misunderstood genius with miraculous mental powers, or the socially awkward yet irresistibly charming soul who gently reminds everyone how to live more meaningful lives. Tanvi The Great chooses the latter. Like many of its predecessors, it simplifies a complex neurodevelopmental condition into a digestible, inspirational narrative that leans heavily on sentiment, often at the expense of authenticity. Directed by Anupam Kher and produced by Anupam Kher Studio in association with the NFDC, Tanvi The Great tells the story of Tanvi (Shubhangi Dutt), a 21-year-old woman on the autism spectrum. Raised by her mother Vidya (Pallavi Joshi) and grandfather Colonel Pratap Raina (Anupam Kher), Tanvi is determined to honour the memory of her late father, Captain Samar Raina (Karan Tacker), by joining the Indian Army and saluting the national flag at Siachen Glacier—a dream he never lived to fulfil.

Another gangster film, you ask? Yawn… stretch… cue eye-roll? Well, hold that sigh! Because Maalik isn’t just another entry in the long line of blood-splattered, dialogue-heavy desi crime sagas. This time, it’s Rajkummar Rao—yes, our usually understated poster boy for indie angst—getting absolutely ripped and unleashing his inner baddie, all while juggling social commentary like it’s part of a gym circuit. Directed by Pulkit, Maalik is set in Allahabad, in the turbulent years between 1988 and 1990—a time when moustaches were thick, tempers were thicker, and justice was mostly served with a hockey stick. Rao plays Deepak, a humble farmer’s son whose slide into the underworld is triggered by the usual recipe: a cocktail of caste-based humiliation, wounded family pride, and a healthy dose of “Why should I till the land when I can rule it instead?”

In the ceaseless hum of city life, where buildings scrape the skies and dreams stretch further still, Anurag Basu returns to familiar terrain—with unfamiliar faces and untold tales. Metro… In Dino is less a sequel than a kindred spirit to Life in a… Metro (2007), that elegiac hymn to urban loneliness and love. Where the earlier film rode on the late Irrfan Khan’s quiet gravitas, this one blooms with a new ensemble of characters—a tapestry woven with fresh threads but dyed in the same bittersweet hues of metropolitan melancholy. If love is a constant, it is so not because of its predictability, but because it defies time, space, and season. That is the foundational pulse of Metro… In Dino: the unbelievable becomes believable, the mundane profound. Basu doesn’t just craft stories—he paints atmospheres, where cityscapes become emotional landscapes, and each window, each narrow alley, tells a tale of yearning. This spiritual successor traces the contours of contemporary relationships—fractured, ephemeral, tender, and quietly devastating—against the backdrops of Mumbai, Delhi, Kolkata, and Bangalore, cities not just as settings but as sentient beings. They breathe, they pulse, they ache along with the lovers they cradle.

Kajol stars in Maa, a 2025 Bollywood horror film that blends mythological themes with supernatural suspense, directed by Vishal Furia. Set in the eerie village of Chanderpur, the film follows a mother’s fierce battle against ancient evil to protect her daughter. Featuring standout performances and visual effects, Maa continues the Shaitaan cinematic universe while offering a fresh take on Indian horror. Despite powerful moments, it struggles to sustain emotional impact. Perfect for fans of Indian mythology, psychological thrillers, and dark family dramas, Maa is a bold but uneven entry in Bollywood’s evolving horror genre. For decades, Indian filmmakers have treated the theme of “Maa” with the reverence usually reserved for temple bells and home-cooked dal. The maternal muse has inspired more scripts than there are grains of sand on Juhu beach—an exaggeration, perhaps, but only just. In a culture where mothers are venerated both on-screen and off—be they divine deities or domestic dynamos—it’s no wonder filmmakers can’t seem to get enough of her.