Rahul Desai

It’s present-day Punjab but it could be Punjab 1995; it could be India 1984. The village of Gujjarwal bristles with unsaid questions and silent answers. Big Bollywood movies (like Dangal) have been shot in the region, but the place is haunted by its own fictions. Everyone’s story is interconnected, like desperate organs of a wounded body. A young man named Keshav is absent from one household; a young father named Balwinder is missing from another. The police go around camouflaging bloody encounters as separatist violence and communal unrest. They assure Keshav’s family that his Sikh killers will be brought to justice; they visit Balwinder’s family to keep an eye on their voices.

It’s no secret that mainstream Hindi cinema today is so empty that we tend to look at previous decades — and even their most middling movies — through rose-tinted lenses. It’s why so many of them become ‘cult classics’. A song here, a mood there. A brooder here, a plotline there. In that sense, Emraan Hashmi is the Vibe Resurgent. I mean 2000s Emraan Hashmi, but it goes without saying. As The Ba***ds of Bollywood recently surmised, it’s the only Hashmi that stopped time in the commercial landscape: the antihero blessed with a musicality that made his movies heard harder than they were seen. In that sense, the nostalgia for Mohit Suri’s Awarapan (2007) is so strong that even a 140-minute-long slow-mo sequence of a smoking Hashmi striding towards the camera to the sound of ‘Toh Phir Aao’ would’ve done the job. Credit to director Nitin Kakkar and writer Bilal Siddiqi for conceiving a whole sequel around it to farm that aura. The moments that matter still revolve around the buildup and use of Pritam’s hits across love and violence; the rest is just narrative padding. It counts on our relationship with music and lyrics past, even though the original songs — like ‘Ve Junoon’ and ‘Yeh Awarapan’ — do well to cultivate some Saiyaara-coded soil.

It’s easy to admire a film like Ohh My Dog. I was admittedly thinking of punny headlines like “Paw-some” and “Canine and Able” before the screening. In an age of mainstream storytelling that thrives on social posturing and performative faith, it’s almost strange to encounter a movie about the agenda-less bond between children and dogs. Even grumpy skeptics (like myself) can’t doubt the pup-loving intent of it all. Both bases are covered — one journey features geeky boy Apu’s search for his missing pooch Momo across the underbelly of Assam; one journey features lion-hearted indie Oscar single-pawedly solving the case of his abducted young human Prince across the underbelly of Bihar. I can only imagine the logistics of shooting with kids and dogs in chaotic Indian cities without leaning on visual effects. Not to mention the ‘courage’ of showing cops as the bad guys in both narratives.

One would imagine gender-based violence is the ‘safest’ way to be critical these days. It’s the most acceptable method to scrutinise a country without offending the world and its father(s). But some of the most potent takes on Indian patriarchy come from the voices shaping contemporary Gujarati cinema. It’s not as simple as “the region is full of repressed masculinity and casual sexism”. Given how tricky it is to be politically expressive in the state, there’s an overt sense that the patriarchy in these stories is not isolated from the society that breeds it. The genre itself is political. The characters and craft work harder to catch our eye because they stem from a culture where misogyny and moral policing are normalised as rhetoric by leaders and campaigns.

Movies can be forgettable for many reasons — objectively bad, boring, self-indulgent, long, unfunny, silly maybe. But Bhai Tera Star Hai is memorable for how forgettable it is. It is aggressively high on film-making and random chaos, like a dog on a deadly sugar rush after wolfing down hash brownies by mistake. I went in blind (my fault), and of all the things I expected it to be, the actual movie has absolutely nothing to do with the title. Given that it stars Raghav Juyal, you’d imagine this might be a high-pitched comedy that extends his scene-stealing Ba**ds of Bollywood performance and reframes him as the spoofy protagonist. But no. Not even close. Juyal is not only wasted, he is reduced to a hammy mess in a peculiar production that defies labels.

Once the nostalgia of watching a new Spider-Man movie after nearly five years wears off, a worrying thought emerges: Is Spider-Man: Brand New Day really just Spider-Man: All Over Again in disguise? Is Destin Daniel Cretton’s film just a factory reset of the New York-based comic-book superhero tale, but with the same actor? Does anything ever truly end in the Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU)? Will my trust issues ever subside? Every new MCU cycle feels like a post-concert encore of the previous one. The framework is not foolproof. Dr Strange’s spell in the admittedly sweet Spider-Man: No Way Home (2021) means that the world no longer remembers Spidey’s secret identity, Peter Parker. Young Peter hoped the spell could be customised, but nobody had the memory-wiping machine from Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

There are bad movies, and then there are movies that make you cringe so hard that you can’t bear to look at the screen. So I grimaced and looked away during Milap Zaveri’s Tera Yaar Hoon Main, the way a squeamish viewer does when confronted with graphic violence and gore. But looking away from the screen meant that I had to make peace with the young couple making out in the row ahead. So I turned my face to the other side, but there was another couple enjoying the privacy of the matinee show. Lest they found my frantic head-turning creepy, I concluded that the safest thing was to look at the screen again. But for how long? The film continued to make direct eye contact with me. This became a circular loop of embarrassment and coyness for 145 minutes, and now I’m so dizzy that I should be seeing stars but I’m not (because 0 stars out of 5).

For most of its 8 episodes, Musafir Cafe has the aesthetic of streaming television from the 2015-16 days (also known as the Little Things age). This natural-artifice aesthetic thrived when YouTube was still the platform for millennial motifs wrapped in modest productions: relatable DIY ‘content,’ relationship-core characters, designer dialogue (“travelers don’t just change places, they travel within themselves”), a gooey soundtrack and title montages, pastel-coloured narratives and branded locations. As watchable as these shows were, they were almost indistinguishable from each other. Given the current onset of true-crime fatigue, this romantic drama might feel either dated or nostalgic — or both at once.