Rahul Desai

Accused dives straight in. It has no time to mess around. We are parachuted into the life of Dr. Geetika Sen (Konkona Sen Sharma), a senior surgeon at a London hospital: smart, confident, married, on the brink of a major promotion and a move to Chester. She’s a taskmaster, but so good at her job that her social identity — a queer South Asian immigrant — is a footnote. Until it isn’t. HR receives an anonymous email by a patient accusing Geetika of predatory behavior and sexual harassment. Just like that, this life starts to unravel. Seeds of uncertainty are planted in the head of her wife, Meera (Pratibha Ranta), a doctor at a children’s hospital herself. Social media puts her on trial. Her colleagues look at her differently. An investigation begins. The film points in both directions, of course. Geetika’s personality is scrutinized in a way that invites the average viewer to interpret complexity as culpability. It says something that, even as an alleged perpetrator, she gets the victim beatdown: her past is dug up, mistakes are weaponised, judgment errors are revealed, evidence of moral ambiguity is shown, credibility is doubted. In short, she is viewed as guilty until proven innocent.

In terms of animated sports comedies featuring anthropomorphic animals, the bar is high. Surf’s Up (2007) set it nearly two decades ago; the mockumentary sports comedy about a young northern rockhopper penguin (voiced by a still-sane Shia LaBeouf) who dreams of becoming a professional surfer is unsurpassed in ingenuity, wit and underdog cinema (it’s one thing to make an animated film, it’s another to ‘shoot’ it like a live documentary). I’ll never forget the truth of the moment the protege discovers that his idol (Jeff Bridges) has been alive all along. The medium melts away, the cutesy humour pauses and out comes a classic genre trope. The heart doesn’t care if it’s not a live-action scene; emotions do not discriminate. Manufacturing them from scratch is arguably harder.

Anubhav Sinha’s latest, Assi (“80”), is a uniquely uncomfortable film to watch. There are two reasons. The first one is by design. The title lays it out: approximately 80 women are sexually assaulted in India every day. The film is built to convey the full force of this number. It revolves around one such ‘case,’ opening with what looks like a regular day in the life of Parima (Kani Kusruti), a Kerala-born schoolteacher residing in Delhi with her husband (Mohammed Zeeshan Ayyub) and son. There’s a tangible undercurrent to her middle-class routine; something bad is around the corner. While returning from a staff party one night, it happens: five men pull her into a moving car and rape her for hours, repeatedly and brutally. She is dumped on a railway track. It’s 2025, but the ghost of 2012 hangs heavy. It’s national news. The law-enforcement, trial-by-media and justice mechanisms take over.

The Mumbai of Kennedy is dark and dystopian. It’s straight out of a Bhavesh Joshi-coded graphic novel: the sort of city that breeds neo-noir lawlessness, stylised violence and broken vigilantism. Bodies are maimed to Tchaikovsky compositions (performed by the Prague Philharmonic Orchestra, no less); a lyrical voice-over haunts the central figure; an indie-hop soundtrack bleeds into set-pieces that use time and stillness as a narrative weapon; heroic masks are worn to protect and destroy. Except this place is real. The dystopia is Covid-era Mumbai. Face-masks are still mandatory. Cultural distancing is rampant. Capitalism is suspended between lockdowns and life. A desperate police force runs extortion and contract-killing rackets in a crumbling economy. They are part of the political pandemic, leaching on the power-dynamic between ruling parties and billionaire industrialists. Survival is a divisive religion.

For 8 impossibly long episodes, Bandwaale invents different ways to be forgettable. The musical dramedy is no Bandish Bandits (I’m no fan but that’s the genre bar), but to be fair, it doesn’t really try. The premise is almost reverse-engineered to justify its dearth of personality. Created by composer-filmmaker Ankur Tewari and writer-actor Swanand Kirkire, the series stages the modernity-versus-tradition conflict through a tiresome template: a small-town girl strives to break free with a little help from her friends. It’s a bit like seeing the alt-reality story of Simran from Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge — there’s only the million-and-fifth reference at yet another railway station; an oppressive father; a spunky kid sister — except her liberation is not love but art. Mariam (Shalini Pandey) is a covert poetess who uploads her work online so that she can go viral before her textbook-patriarch dad (Ashish Vidyarthi) marries her off to an eligible bachelor. Along the way, she finds two unlikely male allies: an outdated brass-band singer unwilling to evolve (Swanand Kirkire, as Robo), and a hunky-and-aloof DJ (Zahan Kapoor, as Psy) with a penchant for remixes.

You can see what Vishal Bhardwaj is trying to do with O’Romeo. The film is inspired by a chapter from journalist Hussain Zaidi’s Mafia Queens of Mumbai (Gangubai Kathiawadi was another). The chapter delves into the life of Sapna Didi, a damsel in distress who mutates into a femme fatale in her quest to avenge the murder of her husband and take down dreaded don Dawood Ibrahim. She takes the help of Hussain Ustara, a Dawood rival and sharpshooter, to disrupt the D-Company empire and aid her mission. The mighty Bhardwaj takes these factoids and runs with them; he also sprints, strolls, jogs and trips with them. The very loose adaptation means that O’Romeo — as per its title — reframes the Sapna Didi story as an Ustara tragedy. Keeping with the times, it is centered on a cold-blooded womanizer who is tamed by love. His masculinity finds purpose; even his violence becomes an ode to her. He doesn’t gatecrash her narrative; she supplies his. He is both man-child and male saviour at once. Her wish is his demand. Where have we heard that before?

The prominence of a crocodile in the promo material of Tu Yaa Main made me nervous. Don’t get me wrong. I love crocodiles. I’ve always had a soft spot for them; they like sunning and relaxing, and their snouts make it look like they’re always smiling. Before you think I’m weird (I am), there’s another reason for my fondness. You see, crocodiles have often gotten the short end of the stick at the movies. Unlike their more renowned colleagues — the dinosaur, the godzilla, the shark, the kong — they’ve rarely been the star of creature features. They’re often relegated to violent cameos in stories that don’t consider them agile enough to carry a whole film. Even the athletic ones in Mohenjo Daro and Phir Aayi Haseen Dillruba got a raw deal. That’s just reptile racism. So the publicity campaign of this film felt too good to be true. Given the names associated — director Bejoy Nambiar and Aanand L. Rai’s Colour Yellow Productions — I fully expected the crocodile to be a twisted gimmick. A red herring. Maybe the croc is hallucinatory, or worse, a brand prop (Lacoste?) used by two reckless influencers to go viral.

There is no dearth of slow-burning crime dramas in India. Every other show is a gloomy police procedural with an identical template: one gory case, two mismatched detectives, personal lives that reflect the subtext of the whodunit, and an investigation that doubles up as the postmortem of a country. The anticipation of the twist becomes its own cat-and-mouse game between the film-makers and the audience. The genre fatigue is real; it’s easier to blend into this fog of atmospheric puzzles than stand out. But Kohrra 2, much like Kohrra (2023), manages to do both at once. You sense the genre was invented for stories like these — stories where even the red herrings are just as socially valid as the reveal; stories where every detour supplies different shades of truth; stories where a place unfolds as an accumulation of time and not an isolated setting; stories where noir is nothing but reality persevering. It’s exceptionally staged, performed and written: a masterclass in suspense as a subset of cultural curiosity rather than narrative momentum. Its one-hour-long finale is close to television perfection. And it trusts the oppression of blending in over the tragedy of standing out.