Stutee Ghosh

There is a distinct moment in Aakash Kaushik’s Udta Teer where the film, much like its titular airborne projectile, loses its trajectory entirely. It begins with the intoxicating promise of a high-wire act. A sharp, irreverent subversion of the subcontinental spy thriller. The premise itself is delightfully absurd. Bilal (Ayushmann Khurrana), an undercover Pakistani mole embedded deep within India’s counter-terrorism service under the alias Vikrant, suffers a convenient bout of amnesia. He wakes up thoroughly convinced that he is a hyper-patriotic, flag-waving Indian counter-intelligence officer. What follows is a comedy of profound errors as a man who is supposed to sabotage the nation becomes its most zealous, unpredictable protector, leaving both sides of the border thoroughly bewildered.

For over a decade, Vijay Salgaonkar hasn’t just been a movie character. He’s been a permanent resident of Indian pop culture. Mention the date October 2nd and our minds instantly race to Panjim, Guruji’s satsang, and a plate of pav bhaji. It is a testament to the franchise’s grip on our collective imagination that a simple alibi became an immortal meme. Naturally, Drishyam: The Conclusion arrives not just as another theatrical release, but as a high-stakes farewell tour for a family we’ve watched navigate hell.

A land that worships the divine feminine yet treats its women poorly. This is a paradox that rings tragic and true both in reality and in the fictional world of Gandhari. The film is set in Joypurra, an unsettling place where the disappearance of young girls has been frighteningly normalized. The story opens by establishing a happy family of three. Taapsee Pannu and Ishwak Singh play a husband and wife and parents to a young girl Mishti. When Mishti suddenly goes missing the narrative dives straight into the conflict.

Do we really need to see another film on Partition? Especially one that comes right on the heels of Main WapisAaunga? Yours truly certainly had her doubts. After all, it’s not the first time Sunny Deol has crossed over to Pakistan. Who could ever forget the jatt driving the truck in Gadar? What was he going to do this time? Fortunately, all questions are answered and all doubts assuaged after watching Batwara 1947. To say that we “enjoy” the film feels perfectly fine as a sentence.However in the context of a movie dealing with Partitionthe word becomes problematic. How can anyone truly “enjoy” a film that spotlights the most painful chapter of our history? How do we grasp the enormity of a tragedy where millions were uprooted and forced to leave overnight leaving behind scars that remain raw to this day?

Most urban relationship dramas often confuse emotional honesty with high volume !Writer-director Padmakumar Narasimhamurthy goes the other way. There are no explosive confrontations engineered for applause. No manipulative background score insisting you cry. No characters screaming their feelings because the screenplay doesn’t know how else to express them.The film is entirely deliberate in its rejection of cheap melodrama opting instead to observe a splintered family slowly stitching itself back together. This film has the confidence to whisper. The narrative engine is deceptively simple. Young adults Max (Siddharth Menon) and Min (Medha Shankar) are navigating the messy wreckage of a breakup . As they divide up their shared life one sofa and book shelf at a time the ultimate battleground becomes the custody of Meowzaki, a rescue kitten named after their favourite animation maestro, Hayao Miyazaki. The sagacious feline here is a narrative anchor to explore a tender meditation on grief, loneliness and the different ways people survive both.

It’s a truth universally acknowledged that a star’s person eventually subsumes every character that they play on screen. With Sunny Deol, it’s never about whether he is good or bad in a film. It’s about Sunny Deol playing Sunny Deol in a Sunny Deol film! The necessary accoutrements are all in place. The slow-motion entry, the clenche d f ist , the admonishing finger, the fiery stare, the high-octane roar and of course, the “dhai kilo ka haath”. Together, they provide the intended comfort of familiarity. As for Akshaye Khanna, the Dhurandhar hangover continues to loom large. The hair is still there, though not quite as glorious as before, but recognisably similar. The tilted neck, the inverted smile and the studied mannerisms are even more pronounced. Bookended by these two larger-than-life performances is a story struggling to breathe and say something of its own. A young girl is brutally assaulted under mysterious circumstances. As she battles for her life in the hospital, the action shifts to the courtroom. Enter Arjun Mehra (Deol), a lawyer whose reputation precedes him.

Bhatt and Deol are undeniably talented actors, but here they find themselves entirely miscast. The character of Sita demands a raw, imposing physicality that cannot simply be compensated for by Alia’s natural charisma. Sita is written as an engineered attack machine bred strictly for combat, a “lab rat” raised entirely devoid of family, affection, or any semblance of normalcy. It is a compelling premise that the film fails to meaningfully develop. For a character who has never experienced filial bonds, friendships, or basic social interaction outside of her doctor and handler, her resulting persona makes little sense.

Not all movies ought to be dignified with a review. Yet here we are…. reviewing Welcome to the Jungle. Everyone is in this film. And I do mean everyone. There isn’t a face you won’t recognize. From Akshay Kumar, Suniel Shetty, Raveena Tandon, Disha Patani and Jacqueline Fernandez to Paresh Rawal, Kiran Kumar, Farida Jalal, Zakir Hussain, Krushna Abhishek and Kiku Sharda it’s a literal stampede of familiar faces and proven talent. What should have been a comic goldmine becomes a traffic jam of characters, each written with roughly the same attention to detail usually reserved for out-of-focus background dancers. You could swap one actor with another and absolutely nothing would change.