Rohan Naahar

Everybody just needs to calm down in Havoc, the long-awaited new movie from Welsh director Gareth Evans. Starring Tom Hardy, it appears to be an attempt by Evans to deliberately distance himself from his two Raid films. Those movies introduced the world to a Pencak Silat, an Indonesian martial art that had previously never been represented on screen in such delectable detail. Evans filmed the combat scenes in those movies the way that Quentin Tarantino films feet. In Havoc, however, he replaces the frenetic fisticuffs with gory gunfights. The result is about as brutal, and far more stylish than anything he’s ever done before.

Many years ago, Netflix announced a grand prequel series to SS Rajamouli’s landmark Baahubali films. A cast was assembled and paraded before the press in Singapore; the series was even given a title: Baahubali: Before the Beginning. It was filmed at Ramoji; people were taken on tours of the set. But the final show was deemed unworthy of Netflix’s server space, and, in an admirable display of creative integrity, it was decided that the project be revamped before being shown to the world. A new creative team was brought on board, and the entire thing was redone with a different cast. Remarkably, even the 2.0 version failed to meet Netflix’s high standards — we are, after all, talking about the same streamer that nodded in approval when presented with Jewel Thief: The Heist Begins — and the mega-budget project, on which hundreds of crores had already been spent, put out of its misery.

When Edgar Wright dropped out of directing the first Ant-Man movie for Marvel, pretty much everybody agreed that it was for the best. He ended up making the wholly original Baby Driver instead. Ditto for Ava DuVernay, who passed on directing Black Panther for the studio. They went with Ryan Coogler, who delivered a true cultural touchstone; Black Panther became the first superhero movie to earn a Best Picture nod at the Oscars and catapulted Coogler into a club normally restricted to white visionaries such as Steven Spielberg and Christopher Nolan. But it seems like Coogler always knew that the invite was conditional; while his white counterparts could go on to do whatever they wanted next, as a Black filmmaker with one blockbuster under his belt, he’d have to provide further proof of his capacity to comply — a guarantee, if you will, before he could be allowed to make something as audacious as his fifth feature, Sinners.

The thing about movies that are easy to pitch is that they’re also highly unoriginal. You could imagine the writers of Fight or Flight strolling into an executive’s office and giving them an animated breakdown of the story, describing it as ‘Speed meets Bullet Train’, and promptly being given a green light. Directed by James Madigan and starring Josh Hartnett, Fight or Flight borrows liberally from B-movies past, struggling and failing to come up with something novel. It isn’t a long movie, but it doesn’t feel as short as its 90-minute run-time might suggest either. Hartnett plays Lucas Reyes, a mercenary who is hiding out in Bangkok after a job gone wrong. He is awoken from a liquor-induced slumber one morning by his ex, who operates some sort of shady organisation dedicated to world peace or something. Lucas is instructed to hightail it to the airport and board a flight bound for San Francisco. Aboard the flight is a mysterious, high-value target known only as ‘The Ghost’. Needless to say, Lucas isn’t the only person after them.

One of Javed Akhtar’s favourite stories to tell is about fishing. Regardless of the venue — it could be an international seminar or one of those ‘naastik parishad’ meetings that he enjoys attending — he regales the audience with a carefully constructed bit about why fishing is considered a relaxing recreational activity while hunting is mostly outlawed across the world. The only reason for this, he declares in his punchline, is because fish don’t have vocal chords. They can’t shriek in agony when they’re pierced by a hook, scaled alive, and left to suffocate. Fishing has great PR, as do the folks behind the blockbuster film Chhaava, even though it incited a riot.

Tears are just grief leaving our body, says Dr Michael Robinavitch in The Pitt. It’s one of the many pearls of wisdom that he drops through the 15-episode first season of the medical drama, which is streaming in its entirety on Jio Hotstar. Known as ‘Dr Robby’ to everyone around him, and those who will never see him again, he is the ‘chief attending’ at a Pittsburgh hospital’s emergency department. His job is to run the day shift as smoothly as he can, despite all the difficulties that the modern healthcare system throws at him. He must do his best with an under-staffed and under-funded team; he must deal with belligerent patients, and, towards the end of the season, an unprecedented tragedy that will require him and his fellow doctors to go above and beyond the call of duty.

Viola Davis is an EGOT. She’s one of only 20 people in history — fewer, when you consider persons of colour — to have won at least one Emmy, Grammy, Oscar, and Tony. She’s done August Wilson on the stage and screen; she went to Juilliard, like Jessica Chastain and Adam Driver. For her to star in a movie like G20 — think Air Force One, but worse — isn’t unlike Javed Akhtar waking up one morning, slipping into a crisp kurta, and deciding to script one of KRK’s rant videos. Released on Prime Video, G20 is a glorified bargain bin movie — the kind of movie for which Amazon should be paying you, and not the other way around. Davis plays POTUS Danielle Sutton, an Iraq War veteran who became famous after being photographed carrying a baby out of a bombed building. The movie doesn’t show us what happened next, but you could easily imagine Danielle being deified in the press, buying into her own myth, and deciding to run for president. America loves its celebrities, and electing Danielle into office is exactly what you’d expect from the folks who’ve voted Ronald Reagan and Donald Trump into power. We first meet Danielle as she’s disciplining her teenage daughter for giving the secret service the slip, and partying with her friends at a local bar.

Contrary to what Hussain Dalal might have you believe, there is an art to writing bad television. A bad show owns its contrivances instead of making excuses for them; a bad show embraces its heightened drama without pretending that it wants to be taken seriously. It scoffs in the face of concepts such as internal logic and organic character development. It chooses twists over tact, and chaos over narrative control. But what makes a bad show good? It all boils down to an indescribable self-awareness. And while Netflix’s medical drama Pulse checks all the above boxes — it’s trash TV of the topmost order — it never fully commits to the cause. Pulse is bad in the traditional sense of the word, in that it’s utterly incoherent, laughably plotted, and contains such a shocking depiction of sexual harassment that you might momentarily be confused into thinking that Bollywood was somehow involved. Incidentally, Pulse happens to be star Willa Fitzgerald’s second anti-feminist project in a row, after the thriller film Strange Darling. Directed by JT Mollner, Strange Darling seemingly took offence at the indisputable fact that the serial killer genre is dominated by men. “Are you saying women can’t be serial killers?” the movie seemed to ask. “How dare you; now watch this.”