Rahul Desai

Rahu Ketu is the sort of inane and aggressively stunted Bollywood comedy in which the interval is so long that it feels like the movie doesn’t want to continue. But it does continue. For 70 more minutes. In all directions and no directions, unfolding like it’s made for a human demographic that doesn’t exist. I know there are takers for this brand of leave-your-brains-and-veins-at-home gibberish, but I am not one of those takers. I’d like to believe I’m a giver, because nothing else explains the fact that my body stayed seated in the cinema hall throughout, even though my spirit escaped (and probably had an accident on the way back). If it sounds like I’m exaggerating for effect, it’s true. There’s no other way to open the review of a movie where Piyush Mishra is still playing a Himachali storyteller who pretends he’s not in Tamasha, Manu Rishi Chadha is playing a writer who pretends he’s not in RK/RKay, Chunky Panday is playing a retired Mossad spy turned drug kingpin whose punchline is “Karma is a switch, join me and I’ll make you rich,” and Varun Sharma and Pulkit Samrat play dim-witted buddies who pretend like they’re not in Fukrey. Everyone seems to be pretending — except me.

Growing up in the 1990s, I spent many summer evenings fiddling with a Panasonic remote and searching for a very specific brand of TV entertainment. My father had his old movies and news channels, my mother had her Hollywood soaps, but my obsession with sports led me to expect that elusive beast on the small screen: an Indian cricket-themed serial. There were plenty of army stories, family sitcoms, horror shows, mythological dramas, campus romcoms. But not enough cricket stories were being told in a decade where Sachin Tendulkar had elevated the game to mythical heights; it’s almost like filmmakers were afraid to mess with India’s newest religion. So I settled for Bodyline reruns instead. LBW: Love Beyond Wicket is probably the kind of serial my 11-year-old self was craving for — a slice-of-life, tacky, tropey, clumsy, but oddly sweet college-cricket television serial (not web series, mind you) with bite-sized episodes, Disney-coded stakes and a soap-opera aesthetic.

There’s a wistfulness about Ikkis, a period action drama based on the life of India’s youngest Param Vir Chakra awardee, Second Lieutenant Arun Khetarpal. The 21-year-old Indian army officer was immortalised during the 1971 Indo-Pakistan war; the film outlines his undying sense of duty. But the wistfulness is something we’ve come to associate with brave love stories. I last felt it after Merry Christmas, Sriram Raghavan’s soft-hearted romantic thriller rooted in war-coded emotions like sacrifice, guilt, rage, deceit, redemption, heroism and loyalty. Raghavan’s Ikkis (“21”) is a war movie rooted in love-coded emotions: longing, regret, naivety, mutual respect, trust, compassion and hope. Beneath all the bullets and armour, it’s a tender and kind film — one that reclaims patriotism as the quest for humanity, not identity or faith. I went in expecting a reverential biopic, but came out thinking of Yash Chopra and other vintage legacies of cross-border nostalgia. It’s a story in which soldiers aren’t killed; humans die. It’s a post-partition tragedy in which two nations are united by memory and divided by borders. In other words, Ikkis is a minor miracle in a genre landscape that often sells valour in the currency of hate and victimhood. It’s hard not to feel protective of it.

He’s a pop-culture geek, a trivia nerd, an aspiring (and annoying) YouTuber, and a relationship seeker. She’s a go-with-the-flow-er, a commitment-phobe, a covert romantic, and a situationship enthusiast. Their chatty first date ends in his smokey bedroom. He thinks they’re dating, she thinks they’re not; he needs certainty, she needs ambiguity. “I want more than just animal sex” competes against “Why do you care for labels?”. Most of Vaibhav Munjal’s 90-minute indie is composed of vignettes of this clash: he pines and whines, she grinds and minds. In between the escalating resentments, they find happy pockets. Their intermittent moments of intimacy unfold as if they’re fuelling themselves to survive the fights. Breakup hugs and bitter accusations fly thick and fast. Apparently Udit (Vaishnav Vyas) and Tanisha (Shreya Sandilya) are soulmates, but the whims of modern love are stopping them.

Rarely have I seen so much used to achieve so very little. Unless you count the US invasion of Iraq — which, in the Avatar universe, would amount to cocky American soldiers looking for an excuse to plunder a mineral-rich planet after destroying their own. I want to say “empty spectacle”, but to be honest, Avatar: Fire and Ash is not much of a spectacle either. Spectacles do more than just look vast and technically proficient and convoluted and greedy in 2025; they do more than just go round and round and round in the painstaking and now-dated worlds they’ve built; they do more than employ disorienting 3D motion-smoothing effects to impress the fans rather than express the stakes; they do more than take two decades of technological advancements and old-fashioned originality only to end up feeling precisely like those superhero overkills they were once an antidote to; they do more than be a legacy of groundbreaking CGI; they do more than do more. James Cameron has made a career out of dreaming big and heavy, but with this third Avatar film, he’s a bit like that mad scientist who gets so obsessed with creating and reinventing that he bypasses the basic essence of the medium.

Nagesh Kukunoor’s had quite the year: an uncanny performance in Paatal Lok 2, the maker of the meticulously dramatised The Hunt: The Rajiv Gandhi Assassination Case, and now the director of a series in which Madhuri Dixit plays a serial killer. It’s no small deal, particularly because Dixit’s role in and as Mrs. Deshpande feels like a spiritual sequel to her role in Anjaam. This six-episode series is based on a French thriller called La Mante, but Dixit’s homemaker is very much the future of that vengeful widow who slaughtered all the evil men that ruined her life. As a character, Mrs. Deshpande is less personal and, in keeping with the times, more patriotic. The stillness about her borders on inertia. Her vague modus operandi revolves around finishing off societal villains like paedophiles, rapists and corrupt politicians. (Add film critics to her list this month). An ethical vigilante of sorts, the show opens with the middle-aged woman being summoned from Hyderabad jail when a copycat killer seems to be on the loose. The style of murder is hers, so she is the only one who can help an absurdly trustful police team to solve the case. A young inspector named Tejas Phadke (an awkward Siddharth Chandekar) leads the investigation, and he’s very suspicious of Mrs. Deshpande — who has renamed herself as Zeenat — and her chequered history. He takes a while to warm up to her in the safehouse. She loves cooking for everyone, but he wonders what plan she’s cooking.

In Raat Akeli Hai: The Bansal Murders, a family that runs a journalism empire is slaughtered in the middle of the night. Five members are brutally killed in a mansion built on half-truths and media sensationalism. The three survivors include a grieving mother, Meera (Chitrangada Singh), whose devotion to a shady godwoman (Deepti Naval) makes her a suspect. She claims her drug-addicted brother went on a rampage. It’s the most logical tragedy. But Inspector Jatil Yadav (Nawazuddin Siddiqui) is not convinced. As he learned in Raat Akeli Hai (2020), the shadows are stronger than the light in rich dysfunctional families. He knows there’s more. A forensic expert, Dr. Panicker (Revathi), becomes an unlikely ally. He is wired to dig deeper because men like him know what it is to be buried. The story slowly excavates the void between the haves and have-nots. A class-rage drama poses as an eat-the-rich thriller. Jatil chases the case, but it’s really the case chasing him.

A small-town woman, Kavita (Radhika Apte), feels out of place at a South Delhi party. It’s a rainy day; she looks at a tree outside the window. Her husband’s friends are snooty and patronising. He has a roving eye. She catches him making out with one of the guests. She then gathers the high-society gang around her and starts to narrate a story in an earthy accent that makes them smirk. But the smirks don’t last long. Her “fiction” revolves around a housewife named Smita (Apte), a previous version of herself that they don’t know about. It goes thus. When Smita’s provocative cousin Shalini (Sauraseni Maitra) visits, her loan-riddled husband Pankaj (Anshumaan Pushkar) falls for the younger woman and the two start a torrid affair in the house behind Smita’s back. That’s not all, Shalini two-times Pankaj with a crooked cop named Ratan (Divyenndu); she’s stringing along two horndogs because why not. Needless to say, a heartbroken Smita is not pleased. And when a seemingly docile homemaker trapped in a setting full of predators and cheaters is not pleased, darkness is always around the corner.