Priyanka Roy

Stranger Things is engaging TV. It is affecting TV. It is emotive TV. And nine years, four seasons and 34 episodes later, we know that Stranger Things is no longer simply TV. What more can be said about this Netflix phenomenon that first came into our lives in the summer of 2016, bringing in a potent mix of science-fiction, horror and mystery packaged in a coming-of-age drama that evoked unbridled ’80s nostalgia, that hasn’t been said before? As the seasons have rolled, the adventures of a rag-tag team of teens taking on forces mythical and supernatural have only grown bigger in scope, scale and storytelling. It has spurred a booming universe of merchandising, live experiences, a Broadway show, a fandom that has made it a pop culture landmark, resurrected interest in things as diverse as Dungeons & Dragons and Eggos, brought Kate Bush back to the top of the charts and rocket-launched the careers of the majority of its young actors. The launch of every season of Stranger Things has been an event, eliciting the kind of tingling-in-the-neck sensation — we know that could be a stretch, but hey, this is Stranger Things — that Will experiences every time he feels Vecna (or as we know by now, is Vecna).

In Hindi cinema, foreshadowing has somehow become a go-to formula for a war film. In 120 Bahadur, the latest in Bollywood’s canon of real-to-reel combat cinema, the signs are all there very early on — a promise to return made to a beloved, a son imagining the happy times he will get to spend with his parents again, a father writing a letter to his young son from a zone of strife, with special emphasis on words like ‘saahas’ (courage) and ‘balidaan’ (sacrifice). When our leading man — Farhan Akhtar’s braveheart Shaitan Singh Bhati — is asked to cut short his leave and called back to duty ahead of the festive season, he tells his wife: “Agle saal Diwali aise manayenge ki iss saal ki kasar poori ho jaaye”. It is such a predictable route to take that one knows he will never make it back.

Any mention of the Kapoors elicits certain images — a twinkle-toed Raj Kapoor in Mera joota hai Japani, Shammi Kapoor’s ducktail hair having a life of its own as he brought every scene and song alive, a boyishly handsome Shashi Kapoor memorably declaring: “Mere paas maa hain” and Rishi Kapoor’s infectious smile, easy moves and enviable collection of pullovers…. What also comes to mind when we think of the Kapoors is the clan — across generations — gathering for their annual Christmas lunch, a tradition that the youngsters in the family have made a point to keep alive.

Blending humour with heart, marrying honesty with ingenuity and melding the geopolitical with the personal has been the trademark of The Family Man. It is a formula that has worked for the eyeball-grabbing, almost-cult series across two seasons. Except that none of it has ever felt like formula. That is primarily — if not solely, in many instances — been because of its Everyman protagonist. Manoj Bajpayee’s Srikant Tiwari aka “The Family Man” has never been a conventional secret agent. His looks are deceptive and his ticking time-bomb of a mind is masked by an otherwise imperceptible demeanour, but every time The Family Man has come perilously close to falling prey to convention, its unconventional hero has pulled it back. That also forms the bedrock of its latest season, one that has been feverishly anticipated ever since the curtains came down on its sophomore outing four years ago.

Bhooma is pursuing her Masters in literature at a college and staying in the hostel. A simple girl with solid values, Bhooma is lured — partly by circumstances, partly by other factors which are beyond her control (or not) — into a relationship with college jock Vikram. As the days go by, Bhooma — though doted on by Vikram on the surface (‘on the surface’ being the operative words here) — finds herself trapped in an increasingly toxic relationship that she sees no escape from. Till one day, driven against the wall (or, rather, door) she decides that enough is enough.

The law of diminishing marginal utility is perilously close to catching up with Delhi Crime. The Netflix series, widely regarded as the gold standard in storytelling, and not just in the OTT space, ups the ante in terms of scale — the new season travels from Silchar in Assam to Rohtak in Haryana, with Delhi as its epicentre — and players (Huma Qureshi features as the antagonist this time around), but doesn’t offer anything that is remotely novel. Why fix something that ain’t broke, you may ask. Truth be told, in this era of increasing competition for viewer eyeballs and decreasing levels of audience attention, bringing in something new, even within the limits of a tried-and-tested format, is #basic.

Horrors of the land, horrors of the mind and horrors of the past coalesce in Baramulla. The result is an intriguing concoction which may often feel unique, but also one that makes for an uneven ride. Set against the potent backdrop of Kashmir — as is evident from its unequivocal title — Baramulla explores the historically ravaged land where the terror of the present and the trauma of the past co-exist on an everyday basis, one often seeping into the other.

An individual’s right to dignity being sacrosanct forms the bedrock of Haq. This is especially resonant in the setup in which the film operates — a time and space where religion, laws, societal norms and gender bias are heavily stacked against its protagonist, but one who refuses to go down without fighting the good fight. That is the battle — both in court and outside it — that Shazia Bano (Yami Gautam Dhar) wages for more than a decade against her husband Abbas Khan (Emraan Hashmi). Her demand? That Abbas pay maintenance towards their three children even after he claims to have divorced her through the highly contentious ’triple talaq’ route after marrying a second time.