Uday Bhatia

The last thing we hear in Dhurandhar is: Yeh naya Hindustan hai. Yeh ghar mein ghusega bhi, aur maarega bhi — this is the new India. It’ll break into your home, and kill you too. It’s a callback to Aditya Dhar’s previous film, Uri: The Surgical Strike, also about an Indian operation conducted on Pakistani soil. The word ‘ghusna’, with its connotations of an initial breach, feels more appropriate for the 2019 film, which ventures a few miles across the border for a short while. Dhurandhar, on the other hand, barely steps out of Karachi after setting down its bags there in the first half hour. The film is so immersed in Pakistan that India becomes a blip on TV screens.

Mukti’s stalker has just turned up at her engagement party and thrown Molotov cocktails. She responds by hugging and trying to reason with him. He blames her for everything, threatens to kill her, kill himself, suggests the two of them die by suicide. When he’s finally dragged off by the police, she breaks down in the arms of her fiancé, tells him their tortured history. What manner of comfort might Jassi offer his future wife? The first thing he says is, “Shouldn’t you apologize to him?"

Partly by choice, partly through circumstance, 120 Bahadur is out of sync with the times. Razneesh Ghai’s film, about a famous battle in the Sino-Indian war of 1962, chooses to be stirring, even square. Most Hindi war films adopt a very different tone now. Some viewers might be reminded of the wholesomeness of Lakshya, directed by Farhan Akhtar, 120 Bahadur’s lead actor. That film was made 21 years ago but it may as well be 40 considering how little it has in common with hard, cynical, triumphant films like Uri and Shershaah and Fighter.

Ajay Devgn used to throw himself into comedies. I never thought he was a great comic (compare his effortful style to the ease of Akshay Kumar), but he more or less got the job done. But now, as with every other facet of his acting, Devgn’s comedy has lost its edge. In De De Pyaar De 2, he’s a beat behind everyone else, draining the energy in scenes when he should be cranking it up.

There’s a scene in “Dhoom Dhaam” (2025) where Yami Gautam’s character goes off on a rant about patriarchy. It felt to me a moment written for the express purpose of being able to share on social media as a ‘mic-drop monologue’—which is exactly what Netflix did a few days after the release. I was reminded of this by a scene in Haq , where Gautam’s Shazia Bano, accosted in the marketplace, exhorts onlooking women to really read the Quran and not submit meekly to their husbands. Another mic-drop, I guess, but one complicated by the subject, the times, and the actor.

One of several things franchise filmmaking has taken from us is the satisfaction of seeing entire stories play out. When you always have one eye on the future, and when you aren’t sure which parts of your current project viewers will take to, the easiest thing is to keep all options open. Decision-making is replaced by decision-deferring and the audience is stuck in storytelling hell.

OTT lighting. Killer of scenes. Destroyer of aesthetic. The flat, boring, unengaged style that says, we know this looks terrible but no one expects better anymore.

Don’t buy that bowl, I muttered, as Dwayne Johnson cradled it in his huge hands. It’s a Japanese bowl and will obviously break at some point, and will then be repaired by someone who can’t quite pronounce ‘kintsugi’ but says it anyway, upon which Oscar voters will have their minds blown by the realization that you’re a broken man who needs putting together.