Rahul Desai

Some shows are so long and expansive that they become like senior family members — you don’t know if you like or dislike them because you’re inherently attached to them. Especially if nearly 500 minutes are consumed in one day, for professional reasons. Sankalp is (finally) over, but I have to be honest: I find myself missing how talkative and busy and overbearing and old-fashioned it was. I’m not sure what to do with my time anymore. There’s a certain sort of antiquity to a Prakash Jha directorial in this age: a narrative that’s about politics without being political, a potboiler about grassroots power and wise teachers and manipulative king-makers and faithful students, a traditional assortment of characters with shifting allegiances, mythology-fuelled dialogue, a chessboard that’s supposed to convey mind-games and twisty moves and metaphorical pawns. Even when I wasn’t paying attention to one of its 15 subplots, I grew to respect the scale. It’s not peak storytelling, but it’s the kind of committed mid-tier entertainment that reclaims the genre from the algorithmic clutches of modern streaming. In short, Sankalp is watchable because it doesn’t pretend to pander.

One must embrace certain rules to engage with a TVF setting. (Read this in the Fight Club voice). First, you only have the right to criticise the country if you are willing to serve it: an extension of the “don’t criticise movies until you’ve made one yourself” or “you can’t commentate on cricket without playing it” line of argument. It’s a bit more hostile than “be the change you want to see”. Second, Civil Services is the be-all-and-end-all of all careers; there is no greater honour than clearing the UPSC exams and working for the government. Third, India is a perfectly functioning democracy in which inquiries on officers happen without any ulterior motives and political prejudice; corruption is an exception, not the norm. Fourth, every department cares solely for the development of the nation; pro-establishment vibes are good vibes. Fifth, women exist in service of their male counterparts; they’re partners or lovers. And last, caste and religion don’t exist at the grassroots level; only class and opportunities do. Within these rules, and within the truth that nearly every TVF show can be called Aspirants, this series is more adept at exploring the aspirational genre called Walking the Talk.

It’s comforting to watch something like Jab Khuli Khitaab. It’s a bit like going to a small circus in the age of curated theme parks. It’s clumsy at times, you can see the strings, some of the treatment is dated, but there’s an old-fashioned goodness seeping through its veins. Based on his play of the same name, Saurabh Shukla’s film opens with a 70-something man, Gopal Nautiyal (Pankaj Kapur), going about his morning routine with his wife Anusuya (Dimple Kapadia). He catches her up on the news, helps her get dressed, jokes around, and discusses their adult children who are now visiting them at their family home in the mountains. They’ve been together for ages. Except this is a one-way conversation: Anusuya has been in a coma for two years. He misses her; all she can do is listen. The story kicks into gear when Anusuya suddenly wakes up from her coma, and her husband’s unconditional care guilts her into confessing to an affair 50 years ago. The rest revolves around a mopey Gopal wanting a divorce, Anusuya resisting, even as they try to keep their ‘spat’ a secret in the busy household.

Most of us prefer to view great art as an act of magic: unexplainable, beyond the realms of reason, otherworldly, divine. We often speak of a landscape-altering movie or book like it’s conjured from nothing but fateful creativity and limitless vision. We perceive their creators as those who create; as those blessed with a little extra, almost as if they see worlds that we cannot. It’s not dissimilar from how we think of top athletes as supernatural beings. Terms like “gifted” and “immortal” are freely employed to describe record-breaking feats. Reframing talent as a cosmic value is the most traditional way of preserving the sanctity of ordinariness. We see them as extraordinary because it not only gives us something higher to trust in, it also absolves us from the complexities of being human. It’s easier to believe that they’re built superior so that we can reckon with our own regularity.

A brooding man returns to his hometown. Lots of emotional baggage. Plenty of memories of the wife he just lost. Estranged daughter. Roguish best friend. All he wants to do is live. But the town has other ideas. Nothing is right; there is chaos and oppression everywhere. A local goon makes it his life’s mission to bully our brooder. You know it’s a matter of time before the goon provokes the John Wick out of the griever. You know it’s coming. His violence is activated, so is a conscience; a personal mission morphs into a virtuous one. Subedaar stars Anil Kapoor as the scowler whose heroism is unplanned; Aditya Rawal plays the goon who summons the rampage. It’s a classic action-hero arc: scowl, scowl, scowl, explode. That’s how it usually goes.

Hello Bachhon (“Hello Children”) is the perfect example of how not to tell a real-life story. It’s also the perfect example of how not to tell a story. And how not to tell. And just how not to. Based on the life of Physics Wallah (PW) cofounder, YouTuber and EdTech star Alakh Pandey, the TVF-created series unfolds like a 5-episode-long corporate video that, at its best, becomes an unwitting Shark Tank parody. Why not just make a branded documentary with fictional recreations instead of a chatbot-coded dramatisation with zero curiosity and project-graded nuance? What is the point of using fiction when every line sounds like a motivational quote, every character sounds like a brown-washed hologram, every scene looks like a live-action brochure, every student storyline feels like a reality-show montage, every exchange has the depth of an Amar-Chitra-Katha-esque moral lesson, and every note looks designed to romanticise middle-Indian aspiration and the predatory education empire? I can safely say that the Hindi biographical drama has reached its nadir with Hello Bacchon, a series I could’ve watched on mute and been none the wiser. Sincerity has never felt so insincere.

It takes a considerable amount of skill to make big-budget action movies — in this case, a period pirate swashbuckler — that are neither great nor terrible. How is it possible to be so safe when the scale is lavish and the stakes are high? How is it possible to be so deliberately sterile and precisely average when the resources are limitless? But one of the magic tricks of this decade has been the way streaming platforms have legitimised the middling-and-forgettable genre. Heck, it’s almost an art form. “Produced by the Russo brothers” is usually a tell, and The Bluff is another bullseye for ambient action (I vowed to get through this review without using the word “algorithmic”). The Bluff has some texture, a pinch of personality, bone-crunching violence and gore, a spirited lead even, yet I can’t remember a single moment right now. And it’s been only 8 minutes since the end credits rolled. I suppose that’s a win for the content ecosystem.

t’s bittersweet when you learn of an independent film releasing against all odds. The more inspirational the journey is, the more complicated it gets for film critics who must approach it objectively. What if it’s not good, despite the sincerity and courage? What if the inventive process of making it is the best part of its legacy? What if the craft is consumed by underdog hype and passion? What if the behind-the-scenes story is more interesting than the film’s story? What sort of euphemisms might one have to use to be kinder to gutsy ‘outsider’ art? The anxiety is more heightened with a film like Tanmaya Shekhar’s Nukkad Naatak: a crowd-funded, self-promoted and self-distributed indie whose guerrilla marketing campaign features a recent cross-country road trip in a rented caravan. It wears its defiance on its sleeve. The premise is even designed to be curious and socially expressive — a sign that commentary might be used to offset a lack of depth.