Rahul Desai

A mainstream remake of a non-Hindi-language movie is often a license to hijack, not adapt. If the original depends more on the treatment and cultural rhythm of an old formula, the imposter has nowhere to hide. Girish A.D.’s Malayalam romcom Premalu was about the scrambled identity of love and ambition for middle-class strivers who enter the adult world; it isn’t perfect (especially a copout airport climax), but the humorous ‘youngness’ of the film sells the point. But Apoorv Singh Karki’s Prem Keetanu is flattened by its Bollywood habits. It is tonally greedy, and the gentrified story is demarcated into genres: it starts out as a TVF-style campus-slacker comedy, morphs into a loud love triangle, collapses into echoes of an obsession tale, briefly flirts with the idea of a coming-of-age drama, and ends as a lightweight romcom. It has the grammar of a music-video montage, where every genre behaves like an entitled lover fending off one another to woo the reluctant viewer.

It’s entirely natural to question the existence of the third film — not first, not second — of a crime franchise, regardless of box-office success. Especially if the premise revolves and revolves around a movie-mad father who keeps hiding the body of his daughter’s abuser to protect his family. Especially if the first two are Bollywood remakes of superior Malayalam thrillers. Especially if the third movie, which has “conclusion” in its title, has nothing to do with the third Mohanlal starrer (released in May) and insists on charting its own narrative path. How dare we be original? The signs are ominous, not least because the background score of this Hindi film series has been partially responsible for my hearing problems over the years. How much is too much? Rinse, Roar (that’s Singham, the other Ajay-Devgn-in-Goa franchise), Repeat. Do it once and it’s novel; do it twice and it’s suspect; do it thrice and the cash-cow is mooing.

Pooja Meri Jaan opens with a dramatic Romeo and Juliet rendition on a Delhi stage. The Shakespearean tragedy ends with both deaths, there is applause, and the lead actors proceed to hijack the spotlight: ‘Romeo’ Aniket (Vikram Singh Chauhan) proposes to ‘Juliet’ Pooja (Mrunal Thakur) in front of a packed theatre. Seconds later, she rejects him backstage. He is devastated, her words hurt, he rides home in the rain like a broken Vishesh Films hero — and kills himself. Pooja is soon booked for abetment of suicide, and the rest of the film revolves around her trial in the court of public opinion.

Dupahiya is a homegrown series that’s difficult to write about. Not because it’s mediocre or anything, but because it’s the kind of low-stakes, minor-key and watchable satire that strives to be forgotten the second it ends. It’s almost too easy to engage with as ambient and family-friendly entertainment; the cast is likeable; the craft is playful; everyone gets a track (read this in Oprah’s “everyone gets a car” voice); the setting is familiar. Season 1 revolved around a stolen dowry motorbike in the crime-free village of Dhadakpur. The Panchayat hangover was strong, despite a broad storyline connecting its several characters. But Season 2 sheds the hangover — ironically, Panchayat itself has mutated into its own imposter — by being more thematically distinct. Besides the dramedy, it grows up a bit and stays tethered to the India of today. I’ll remember it more than the first season because it’s not as…content. Pun unintended.

Don’t Be Shy revolves around 20-year-old Shyamili “Shy” Das: that fourth-wall-breaking and self-involved student with a foolproof life plan, a rich boyfriend she needs, a hunky childhood friend she disowns, a trendy college she attends, a first name she’s ashamed of, a middle-class Bengali upbringing she hides, and a family shop she resents. Shy (Aarushi Bajaj) parents her fun-loving parents at home and plays the popular-cool-mean girl on campus. She’d be an influencer in most worlds, but her folks are apparently too poor to buy her a BlackBerry, so social media is ruled out. You know she’s going to be humbled and come of age, learn the value of authenticity, and get all her missteps settled with the neatness of shiny wrapping paper and a bow on top. But the question a movie like Don’t Be Shy unwittingly leaves you with is: Why are kids so annoying?

A 17-year-old girl walks into a police station. Her name is Meenu Rawat, but anonymity is going to be her shield. Her anxious parents try to lodge her complaint. But the first hurdle is a sign of things to come. A devout officer going around distributing prasad to his colleagues puts a sticky ladoo in her hand. The girl is paralysed with fear. The sacred sweet not only reveals the permeation of blind faith in a law enforcement space; it also reminds her of a trust betrayed. By her elders, who admitted her into a god-fearing school run by a spiritual organisation. By the teachers and parents, who were too brainwashed to question their holy ways. By a middle-class culture that forces its citizens to seek refuge in the flowery proverbs of dodgy orators. And by the beloved godman, who preyed on her under the guise of a ‘purification ritual’. Meenu, a minor, breaks the gaze of the sweet, regains her numbness, and places herself in the sticky hands of a system that normalises poisoned apples. The family takes all night to file a sexual assault report against the cult leader, Sunil “Baapji” Chakosi. And it’s only the beginning.

I’ve reviewed thousands of Hindi films over the years, so I don’t say this lightly: The Vvaan: Force of the Forrest is one of the foremost painful experiences I’ve had in a cinema hall. There are times I looked around to confirm that this was indeed a legitimate screening, and I was indeed awake — and alive. The liberal desecration of language in the title (Vvaan, Forrest) for astrological reasons is a warning that the stars have forsaken us. Because The Vvaan is a 136-minute-long devotional video (composed with Windows 1997 tools) masquerading as a movie. It’s a K-serial on cheat day, a Zee Horror Show imposter on memory-loss medicines, a mythological fantasy on a fake witchcraft internship, and last of all, an insincere and soulless Bollywood production that becomes a ghastly parody of itself.

When I was little, my mother’s very North Indian family would clink glasses, raise voices and play card games on winter nights. As the only sober primate in the room (I wasn’t sure about the wayward dog), calling the adults’ bluff was a cinch, because their intoxicated minds and muscles kept failing them: they’d place the cards face-side up by mistake, coughed harder every time they tried to lie, or even forgot the name of the suits (“3 of Souls!”) before playing their hand. If they ever played poker, I thought, we’d end up homeless. Shaque: Trust No One is the cinematic equivalent of those nights: the harder it strives to be serious (or just convincing), the funnier it gets. Some might call that entertainment; I call it the comforting embrace of mediocrity. At times, I got excited at the prospect of those farcical, downright incompetent card games.