Rahul Desai

A Real Pain, starring Eisenberg and Kieran Culkin as cousins, is exactly the kind of film you imagine if Eisenberg and Culkin played cousins. It’s funny, awkward, edgy, poignant, light, chatty, alert, minor-key and Sundancey (an adjective for the brand of tragicomic American quirk that the snowy festival loves to showcase). There are echoes of the uptight mom and no-filter teen from the actor’s directorial debut, When You Finish Saving The World, in the uptight David (Eisenberg) and the free-spirited-but-troubled Benji (Culkin). Family man David and drifter Benji head to Poland to process their Jewish heritage through a guided Holocaust tour and, more importantly, visit their late camp-survivor grandmother’s childhood home. As in most movies, it’s the interiority of the oddball journey that matters.

In Emergency, Kangana Ranaut plays Indira Gandhi who plays Kangana Ranaut. Let me explain. Ranaut performs as the former Prime Minister of India when the politician is flawed, cruel, paranoid, a nepotism hire, power-hungry, guilty, and the mother of Sanjay Gandhi. Her voice becomes high-pitched, uneven and shaky in these parts. But Indira Gandhi seems to perform as Ranaut when the woman is defiant, patriotic, headstrong, resilient, reverential towards the opposition (Janata Party leaders Jayaprakash Narayan and Atal Bihari Vajpayee), and the mother of the nation. Her voice becomes firm, furious and confident in these parts.

A beloved political leader from Nagaland is found brutally murdered in Delhi. The timing is dubious. It’s on the eve of a landmark business summit between the ‘mainland’ and the ‘margins’: The central government is primed to invest thousands of crores into the development and tourism sector of Nagaland. Protests break out in Kohima; conflicts erupt between the slain man’s loyalists and the rebel factions against this soul-selling deal. The case is given to ACP Imran Ansari (Ishwak Singh), fresh from topping his IPS batch. The optics are irresistible: A Muslim officer must lead an investigation into the killing of an unprotected guest — an Indian outsider — in the capital. If things go wrong, Ansari is a readymade scapegoat. Meanwhile, jaded protagonist and Ansari’s ex-boss Hathi Ram Chaudhary (Jaideep Ahlawat) continues to bat in the minor league. He flirts with the idea of quitting, but an inconspicuous case of a missing husband puts him on a collision course with the high-profile investigation. Most officers are expected to do their job, but Hathi Ram is destined to do his duty.

Azaad is fit, handsome, muscular and agile. His flowy hair is the talk of the town. He plays hard to get. He looks away and sighs if he isn’t interested. He loves his whisky neat — and straight from the bottle. He sits on a bed when he’s tired. He loses his appetite when he’s sad; he eats only if his food is spiked with alcohol. He has expensive taste. He farts in a closed room. He isn’t afraid to defy outdated perceptions of masculinity: his eyes go glassy when he gets a whiff of his late companion’s scent from a turban. He remembers the day they met and necked. He remembers their adolescent-love song together: “Ab jeene ki koi wajah toh hai” (I now have a reason to live). He isn’t ashamed of weeping. He likes dancing. He loves racing, too. Azaad is an expressive action hero; this film is his big-budget launch vehicle. There’s only one problem though: Azaad is a horse.

You’ve heard of “Prestige TV”: the term for quality long-form film-making, cinematic production values, A-list acting and complex screenwriting. But in the Netflix non-fiction universe, Prestige TV is a far more literal term. It stands for self-produced and self-congratulatory celebrity documentaries with infinite access that explore the sanitised prestige of fame. The symptoms: prestigious movie and music legacies, prestigious anecdotes, prestigious lives, prestigious prestige. You get the gist. Or maybe you didn’t. Think of the line from Christopher Nolan’s The Prestige (2006): “Making something disappear isn’t enough, you have to bring it back”. This hagiographic genre is all about bringing things back. Some call it the magic of movies, others call it a nostalgia grab.

You can tell when someone—especially an actor—is directing their first action movie. The craft is more impressive than expressive. Sonu Sood’s Fateh, starring himself, has telltale signs. For instance, there’s that ambitious mirror shot in the beginning: The hero looks straight at his reflection but you can’t see the camera; it then floats through the glass like a ghost. There are the over-excited transitions and snazzy editing. At least twice, shots of spilled blood cut to ketchup on a plate; a cop ordering a steamed momo cuts to a villain eating a momo (“my long-time weakness”); a victim opens his mouth to scream and you hear a honking car. There’s an interval slate that reads “Brace yourself, you’ll need this break”. A pointless overseas sequence is inserted only so that a Hans Zimmer-composed track can be flaunted. A random close-up of a henchman’s ear is seen seconds before his severed ear is served on a plate.

Given the times we live in, it’s a source of constant intrigue that Hindi cinema’s politically aware film-makers have to be smart about expressing themselves. They have to be subtler and sneakier with their views, but also stay just as accessible. You see a push-and-pull balance with the more prolific storytellers like Hansal Mehta, Sudhir Mishra and Anubhav Sinha. But cult-status directors like Anurag Kashyap and Dibakar Banerjee have found it visibly harder. At times, their opinions are nearly too pure. You can tell that they have so much to say—there’s a lot of emotion, passion, cynicism and awareness—but they’re running out of commercial road.

The Pickle Factory is what happens when The Office (U.S.) and Better Life Foundation (India) reluctantly get married (arranged) and have a pious, Doordarshan-loving child that refuses to grow up. It’s the kind of stagey and adolescent workplace comedy that went out of fashion years ago. You want it to work, of course, for several reasons. The 10-episode show revolves around the quirky employees of a family-run pickle company; imagine the readymade Hindi ‘achaar’ proverbs.