Uday Bhatia

I was trying to keep an open mind about Ashwiny Iyer Tiwari’s System when Neha (Sonakshi Sinha) says, “Uski vibe hamesha off thhi par woh murderer type kabhi nahi laga.” And that was that. I don’t expect every lawyer to speak in iambic pentameter or quote Thomas Cromwell. I do, however, feel it’s not unreasonable to have a protagonist in a legal drama—one who’s trying hard to prove she’s not a lightweight—speak like a professional and not some millennial at brunch. Neha is a public prosecutor, though she’d rather not be. She doesn’t like the sweaty courts, the desperate cases, the grind, her boss. She’s also not particularly competent. The first time we see her in court, the judge explains that she needs to prove the accused actually committed the crime, not that he might have—and she looks shocked. So when her famous lawyer father, Ravi Rajvansh (Ashutosh Gowariker), makes her a deal—win 10 cases in a row and join my practice—it feels like a little exercise in humility, or humiliation.

Aarav (Lakshya) and his wife, Chandni (Ananya Panday), are cracking under the strain of caring for a newborn. Their frustrations boil over into an ugly yelling match. Aarav grabs her face. He’s motionless for a few seconds, then backs away, mortified. She runs into the other room and balls up in a corner, shaking in shock as he begs her to open the door. The moment when Aarav grabs Chandni is in the film’s trailer. I think it’s there because Dharma doesn’t mind giving the impression that this will be an ‘intense’ love story in the key of Sandeep Vanga or the Anand L Rai/Dhanush collaborations. Yet, Chand Mera Dil is nothing like those films, treating the brief physical contact with utter seriousness. Aarav is immediately contrite, but it doesn’t matter. The entire story turns on this moment. PSA films like Thappad are lauded for presenting characters who won’t stand for any kind of abuse, but Chand Mera Dil is equally steadfast without resorting to moral grandstanding.

By the time four thugs corner SHO Pawan Malik (Saif Ali Khan) in his home, Kartavya has been simmering for an hour and 15 minutes. Threats are made; Saif folds his arms and tells them to do their worst. I was ready for him to knock them out cold, but then something interesting happens. There’s a fight. It’s not even close. Saif barely gets two punches in and he’s overpowered. It took me a while to realise this wasn’t some clever ploy on the cop’s part. When’s the last time an Indian film hero lost a fight? It doesn’t take the small-town cop film anywhere new. There’s nothing in its view of khap panchayats or corrupt local police forces that hasn’t been explored before. Still, it’s hard to argue that Pulkit’s film doesn’t capture something of the spirit of these dejected times. Everyone in the film is resigned to their place in a rigged system, so much so that Pawan’s attempts to ensure justice are seen by well-wishers not only as foolhardiness but irresponsibility towards his family and his own prospects.

Ritwik Pareek’s film opens with the image of a temple on a hill after dusk, prayer bells on the soundtrack. This gives way seconds later to shots of distant highway traffic and a great reverberating spaghetti western guitar chord. A man stumbles out of a dive bar, slurs a farewell “Jai siya Ram” and rides off into the night. In the world of Dug Dug, the distance between sacred and profane can be covered in one drunken lurch. The opening stretch, around 11 minutes, is as mesmeric as anything I’ve seen in this decade of Indian film. Walking out of the bar, the man stands in semi-darkness, takes a swig from a quarter bottle, tries to light a beedi. He’s successful on his third try. At this exact moment, lights come on overhead, a brilliant mesh of blue and purple neon. A gravelly voiceover mulls the mystery of life. The man sets off on his motorbike, straight down the middle of a badly lit highway. More ominous twangy music. Vehicles whiz past; some curse at him and he curses back. He veers off the main road onto a less crowded one, but having got this far, skids and crashes. Under a gaze of a lurid billboard announcing a magic show, he lies, gasping. The camera pans away just in time for a passing truck to run him over.

It’s telling that one of the producers of Michael is John Branca, an entertainment lawyer and co-executor of the Michael Jackson estate, played in the film by Miles Teller. This feels like a film produced by a lawyer—a soulless document sure, but one that’ll hold up in court. Another producer is Graham King, the man behind Bohemian Rhapsody. That this 2018 Freddie Mercury biopic was directed, for the most part, by Bryan Singer, accused multiple times of sexual assault, had no visible bearing on its box office. And King has good reason to hope that the allegations of child sexual abuse against Michael Jackson won’t dent the success of this new biopic.

In the week of her passing, Toaster has a doozy of an Asha Bhosle joke. Distraught Glenn (Abhishek Banerjee) has to address the small gathering at his mother’s funeral. To get their attention, he taps his glass: clink clinkclink, clink clinkclink. This is, of course, the opening of ‘Chura Liya Hai’, sung by Asha in Kati Patang, a rhythm so distinctive Glenn’s not even finished when Ramakant (Rajkumar Rao) tells his wife, Shipla (Sanya Malhotra), “He’s going to sing.” It’s worth noting that Toaster immediately follows its best joke with a flat one, which it underlines. Glenn announces he wants to say ‘two words’ about his late mother. But he can only blubber “Mumma” twice before he breaks down. Cue comic score. “True to his word,” Shilpa says. “He only said two words.” More comedy music.

Long before The Drama unveils its central conflict, the filmmaking clues us in on where we’re headed. Kristoffer Borgli’s film opens with a Hitchcockian closeup of Zendaya’s ear. The camera stalks and skulks. The ambient sound fades in and out. Robert Pattinson spies, stammers, lies. It’s a meet-cute, but the tone is just shy of psychological horror. With days to go for their wedding, Charlie (Pattinson) and Emma take their friends Mike (Mamoudou Athie) and Rachel (Alana Haim) to dinner. Several drinks in, they stumble into a truth game: each person will tell the group the worst thing they’ve ever done. Charlie’s and Mike’s confessions are fairly innocuous; Rachel’s is more shocking (locking a developmentally challenged child in a shed overnight). All the while, Emma looks distinctly uncomfortable. But she’s too drunk to lie, and admits that, when she was 15, she’d planned a school shooting, opting out only at the last moment.

Of all the possible callbacks to Dhurandhar, there was one scene that was always going to be revisited in the sequel. At the start of the first film, Intelligence Bureau chief Ajay Sanyal (R. Madhavan) negotiates with Pakistani hijackers. Their leader, Zahoor (Vivek Sinha), mocks his attempt to get the passengers to complete his cry of ‘Bharat mata ki…’ and tells him that Hindus are a cowardly race. In the sequel, Sanyal speaks to Zahoor again, on video call, after Indian spy Hamza (Ranveer Singh) has beaten him bloody and is pointing a revolver at him. Sanyal gloats a bit, then asks him to complete the slogan he couldn’t all those years ago. This is Aditya Dhar’s cinema in a nutshell: Bharat mata ki jai, down the barrel of a gun.