Rahul Desai

I’m running out of polite ways to say that most Bollywood launch vehicles are vanity vans parading as commercial movies. I’m running out of impolite ways to say that most Hindi rom-coms feature nepotism hires and Gen Z characters who speak like outdated youngsters at a debutante ball imagined by out-of-touch boomers. I’m also running out of ways to say that I’m running out of ways. Kunal Kohli’s Bobby Aur Rishi Ki Love Story looks like it was written in 1995, shot in 2005, scored in 2015, edited in 1985, colour corrected in 1975 and released in 2025. Remember the annoying animated couple from Kohli’s hit, Hum Tum (2005)? Those two were still more realistic and less cringey than the live-action couple in this film, who do the walking-and-talking-in-Europe (or post-Brexit Britain) jig as if Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge and Before Sunrise were in-flight tourist videos rather than classic landscape changers. They start as enemies, become frenemies and turn into screechy soulmates — all with the artistic spirit of a paid vacation and the emotional awareness of an oblivious meme.

On paper, Anuja is a noble project. It’s made in association with Salaam Baalak Trust, a Delhi-based non-profit organisation that supports street kids. It stars one of its children, Sajda Pathan, as a gifted nine-year-old garment factory worker who is conflicted between earning a livelihood and getting an education. It’s an Indian American production. It is backed by diaspora-global celebrities like Mindy Kaling, Priyanka Chopra Jonas and Guneet Monga Kapoor. And it’s about spirited orphans in a big bad world. Which is to say: Anuja is so noble that it’s only a project. At its best, it’s a creative presentation slide. At its worst, it’s less of a short film and more of a look-poor-people-hungry-people aesthetic. It brings back memories of the famous and infamous Slumdog Millionaire (2008) — and not in a good way.

Sweet Dreams has a sweet premise. It begins with a J.R.R. Tolkien quote, setting the stage for a fantasy-coded romcom. And it opens with a dreamy date between a flirty Diya (Mithila Palkar) and the cool Kennith (Amol Parashar) at a cafe. We soon learn that this is a shared dream between two strangers — a recurring habit for both — leading completely different lives. Kennith, an influencer and recycle artist, is newly single and he speaks to his psychiatrist (Faye D’Souza; a surprise-but-meek cameo) about this mysterious girl he keeps meeting in his dreams. He’s convinced she exists. Diya, a career drifter who writes and sings, is in an autopilot relationship with Ishant (Meiyang Chang); she, too, is baffled by how real and tangible her dreams feel. The film follows their attempts to find each other and (re)unite.

There are two ways to be disappointed with Sky Force. One, through the lens of its creators. Up until now, the production company Maddock Films — on a high following the dizzying success of its horror-comedy multiverse — has managed to innovate and stay interesting without conforming to mass trends and jingoistic patterns. It’s worth noting that Sky Force is its first real foray into this zone. But within the contours of the herd-mentality move, it tries something different. It chooses to dramatise a real-life story that’s equal parts war movie and investigative drama.

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.