Tusshar Sasi

Few Indian films have had their very existence validated so completely by the forces they are fighting. Honey Trehan’s Satluj (formerly Panjab ’95) concerns a man who bravely sought to expose state-sanctioned cover-ups and justice for the victims’ families. It then languished for years, awaiting CBFC approval, before being released on an OTT platform without any fanfare. The irony is brutal. Even before the first frame rolls, the film’s own painful journey to our screens is a mirror to the very silence it is trying to break. Trehan’s 1995-set film a somber and unsettling alternative to popular Indian cinema obsessed with hyper-masculine, uniformed heroes who shoot first and ask questions later (and sometimes never do). It gives up chest-thumping folklore for documented history and dives into a bleeding chapter of Punjab’s past that mainstream conversation has spent decades trying to forget. Satluj does not try to exploit the tragedy to create a cheap spectacle, but rather concentrates on the lives lost without explanation and the one man who refused to let them be statistics.

Hindi film history dictates that a family losing a child at the Kumbh Mela must reunite decades later for a greater cause. We’ve seen Amar Akbar Anthony wave the flag of communal harmony, and among countless others, I remember Sone Pe Suhaaga, where Nutan mistakenly flings a healthy child from a moving train while keeping the dead identical twin. It was an error on her part, but for the audience, the high came when the child grew up into Anil Kapoor. Shiv Rawail’s Alpha, the latest instalment in the YRF Spy Universe, borrows this classic template to cook up the most purposeless action film of the year.

It’s a different kind of reality check to battle the Mumbai monsoons to watch a film, only for the film to remind you that the very same showers might well have taken your life. In Baby Do Die Do, director Nachiket Samant imagines a world where Mumbaikars do not die by falling into manholes or getting swept away in man-made floods. Instead, the season’s biggest accessory – an umbrella – becomes the murder weapon. In an angle that strangely reminded me of Johnny Lever’s Chhota Chhatri in Awara Paagal Deewana, it isn’t just the weapon that adds spice to this dark comedy. Nor is it the fact that Samant’s protagonist is a woman. The third layer – that she is deaf and mute – gives the film the extra quirk it needs.

It is amusing to observe that Bollywood filmmakers seem to inhabit their own male multiverses. In Yash Chopra’s world, men serenade women with flowers and sweet nothings. For Sandeep Reddy Vanga’s men, romance is best expressed through anger issues and abuse. Imtiaz Ali populates his stories with man-children who require an older person to explain the meaning of love. Sooraj Barjatya’s men barely speak, whispering as though struggling to swallow the sanskari pill he personally concocted for them. And then there is Luv Ranjan, whose men are perpetual sufferers and whose women exist solely to ruin their peace.

“The tank is next to me.” “They are shooting at me.” “Come get me. I’m all on my own.” Few films begin with lines this freighted with irrevocability. The Voice of Hind Rajab confronts us with the real voice of a five-year-old girl whose fate is already known, stripping cinema of suspense and replacing it with something far more devastating: certainty. If urgency in the narrative holds it together as a piece of cinema, it is inevitability that makes director Kaouther Ben Hania’s docudrama an impossibly heartbreaking affair. The film is set inside the Palestine Red Crescent Society’s call centre in Ramallah on January 29, 2024. As the war between Israel and Palestine rages on, employees operate in a heightened emotional state, trained to respond to civilian SOS calls amid constant crisis. Omar (Motaz Malhees), Rana (Saja Kilani), Mahdi (Amer Hlehel), and Nisrine (Clara Khoury), the fictional leads, along with the late Hind Rajab’s real voice on a phone call, have guts of steel, but their hearts ache too, as do those of the viewers.

79 years have passed, and it is evident that India and Pakistan still bear the scars of the Partition. While the rare surviving victims and their descendants have somehow learned the quiet dignity of forgiving, a parallel political machinery remains ever-ready to weaponize the tragedy with convenient, revisionist theories. Against this polarized backdrop, Imtiaz Ali arrives with Main Vaapas Aaunga – a remarkably neutral, almost defiantly apolitical look at one of the subcontinent’s defining horrors. It is a film that approaches Partition not as a political failure but as a deeply personal one, choosing to focus on the people who were uprooted, separated, and left waiting for promises that would never be fulfilled.

The landscape of filmmaking has changed. So has the language of horror. Once defined by grand big-screen experiences, some of the most exciting and innovative horror content now emerges on YouTube. A prime example is filmmaker Kane Parsons’s Backrooms, which took the U.S. and horror communities worldwide by storm. Defying the notion that creativity peaks with age, the 20-year-old director’s feature adaptation delivers relentless terror without the backing of a massive budget, proving that atmosphere and imagination can be far more unsettling than scale. Set in 1990, Backrooms follows Clarke (Chiwetel Ejiofor), a failed architect who now runs the even more dubious Cap’n Clark’s Ottoman Empire, a vast furniture store fronted by a pirate mascot with a wooden leg. Seeking therapy, Clarke begins sessions with Mary (Renate Reinsve), who notices patterns in his aggression and gradually grows curious about his mysterious claims. By the film’s third act, she uncovers what Clarke, his colleague Kat, and Kat’s boyfriend Bobby have been through, much of which we have already witnessed through a series of unsettling grainy camera footage. This time, Mary becomes our eyes and ears inside the abyss.

Everything is random, proclaims Abhinav Sunder Nayak in his gutsy second feature, Mollywood Times. It is the story of a brilliant yet salty filmmaker, Vineeth Madhavan (Naslen), who simply can’t catch a break. The reason is never as simplistic as a talented filmmaker threatening the mediocrity around him. Nayak’s narrative tears apart the glossy dream of making it big in the film industry with talent alone. This very idea made me think of a street I walked down in Mumbai a decade ago. It was strangely full of young, glamorous people. They all looked hungry to be discovered in cafes or high-end gyms. “What is this lane?” I asked someone. “You don’t know? This is where all the strugglers live.”