by whatsonsidsmind

The Odyssey Review | Christopher Nolan’s Epic Voyage into the Human Spirit

Written by: Siddhartha Krishnan | 9 Min Read

What do you do with a Homerian epic that has left an indelible imprint on Western thought? One that has shaped literature, philosophy and culture for centuries, while continuing to influence thinkers, artists and generations of readers across the world. That’s what epics do to civilizations, isn’t it? They become frameworks through which we wrestle with questions of morality, justice, ambition, greed, courage and sacrifice. They are journeys not just across seas and kingdoms, but into the deepest corners of the human spirit.

Reimagining an epic for a modern audience presents a sea of creative possibilities. It also carries the burden of balancing fidelity with reinvention, especially for audiences who have held the story close to their hearts for generations. Yet we often forget that The Odyssey began as an oral tale before it became a cultural monument. Born from extraordinary imagination, it reflected the values, anxieties and questions of its own age. Every generation that revisits it must discover something new if the work is to remain alive. That is how great works of art endure for thousands of years. They remain timeless not because they are preserved unchanged, but because they continue to find new relevance without losing their soul.

Christopher Nolan, the maverick filmmaker, reimagines The Odyssey in a way only he can. With a diverse international ensemble cast, contemporary dialogue and his unmistakable cinematic vision, he manages to preserve the soul of Homer’s epic with remarkable grace. For all its layered storytelling, staggering technical ambition, breathtaking scale and the wild imagination that has become quintessentially Nolan, this is perhaps the director’s most accessible film. It is also his most deeply human and emotionally resonant work yet.

Story and Screenplay

Odysseus’ journey back to Ithaca after the Trojan War is one of the greatest stories ever told. It is, in many ways, almost unfilmable. To translate every verse into cinematic action would be as gargantuan a task as bringing its mythical creatures to life. But the filmmaker’s responsibility is not to remain imprisoned by the text, but to remain faithful to its spirit. To achieve that, the magic of cinema must be employed in ways that only the human imagination can conceive. After all, The Odyssey itself was born from human imagination. Its reinterpretation, too, should be an act of human creativity.

This is where Christopher Nolan’s The Odyssey truly takes flight. He revisits every major milestone in Odysseus’ long voyage home while constantly probing the deeper ideas beneath each encounter and what they reveal about human nature and civilization itself. The gods, the monsters, the prophecies and the spectacle are all here. But they are never ends in themselves. Their purpose is to provoke thought, invite reflection and forge an emotional connection rather than merely inspire awe.

In many ways, this marks a departure from Nolan’s earlier films, which often leaned heavily on intricate concepts and structural puzzles. Here, the emotional journey takes precedence. Nolan reaches out to his audience, showing them the path ahead and, at times, even choosing to explain rather than obscure. Yet it never feels patronising. Instead, it feels like a storyteller gently extending a hand and inviting us to walk beside Odysseus.

Questioning, reasoning, strategy and, above all, storytelling itself become the defining forces of this reimagining of Homer’s epic. It is less interested in myth as spectacle than in myth as a living conversation about what it means to endure, to return home, and ultimately, to be human.

Technical Aspects

The most striking feature of The Odyssey is how real and cinematic every frame feels. The use of practical effects instead of an overreliance on CGI, real locations and vast natural landscapes, the immense production scale and Nolan’s signature play with timelines are all recognizably his. Yet where the film departs from many of his earlier works is in the softness of its storytelling. The spectacle never overwhelms the emotion.

To achieve this, cinematographer Hoyte van Hoytema undertook an extraordinary challenge by filming the entire feature on IMAX cameras, a first in cinema history. Whether or not the story demanded such an ambitious technical leap, the results are undeniable. The compositions are meticulous, the scale overwhelming and the imagery often breathtaking. Frame after frame unfolds like a painting crafted by an artist of rare discipline and imagination.

Then there is Ludwig Göransson’s magnificent score. Instead of relying solely on a traditional orchestral approach, he blends Bronze Age-inspired instruments with contemporary electronic textures and haunting vocal layers. The music remains rooted in the world of ancient Greece while still speaking to a modern audience. To achieve this, Göransson collaborated with historians to painstakingly recreate ancient Greek instruments such as the lyre and the aulos. The result is both primal and cinematic, building tension when required and retreating into moments of unexpected serenity.

The production design follows the same philosophy. Rather than presenting a polished mythological fantasy, the film strives for something visceral and lived in. An imposing forty-foot Trojan horse was constructed on site. A massive 60 ft tall animatronic puppet was built directly inside a Greek cave to bring the monster Cyclops to life. Every element, from the ships and palaces to the fabrics, furniture and weaponry, feels functional, weathered and inhabited. You do not merely look at this world. You believe people have lived, fought and suffered within it.

Performances

Much of The Odyssey unfolds through people telling one another stories. Stories inherited across generations, discovered along the journey or simply chosen to be believed. Consequently, much of the drama is carried through conversation rather than action. Nolan stages these exchanges with a careful blend of intimate close ups and expansive ensemble compositions, allowing every conversation to feel purposeful and deeply immersive. There is a quiet confidence to the writing and performances, with narrative threads that gradually converge into a deeply satisfying whole.

Nolan also makes a bold casting choice by assembling an international ensemble rather than pursuing conventional historical or ethnic homogeneity. It is a creative risk, but one he embraces with conviction. Lupita Nyong’o brings quiet strength to Helen of Troy, Zendaya lends wisdom and grace as the Goddess Athena, John Leguizamo is memorable as the loyal swineherd Eumaeus, while Himesh Patel delivers a grounded performance as Eurylochus, Odysseus’ trusted second in command and brother-in-law. Elliot Page, as the Greek soldier Sinon, plays a pivotal role in one of the film’s most consequential narrative turns.

These actors may have relatively brief appearances, but each understands that they are contributing to something far greater than an individual performance.

The emotional weight of the film, however, rests on a handful of central characters. Anne Hathaway is exceptional as Penelope, bringing quiet resilience and aching longing to a woman who has spent years suspended between hope and despair. Tom Holland delivers one of his finest performances as Telemachus, capturing the vulnerability, uncertainty and quiet resolve of a son searching for both his father and his own identity. Robert Pattinson is suitably calculating and menacing as Antinous, making him a formidable presence whenever he appears.

Charlize Theron leaves a lasting impression as the immortal sea nymph Calypso, despite her limited screen time. Samantha Morton is mesmerizing as Circe. There is an otherworldly mystery to her performance that lingers long after she leaves the screen. One of the film’s most unforgettable scenes belongs to her, and it is bound to be a topic of conversation in the days to come.

But at its heart, The Odyssey is one man’s story. The story of Odysseus, brought to life by Matt Damon. Interestingly, Hollywood seems to have spent much of Damon’s career trying to bring him home. He has played variations of that journey time and again, whether as the stranded astronaut in The Martian, the soldier everyone is trying to return home to in Saving Private Ryan, the identity-seeking wanderer of the Bourne films or even Dr. Mann in Interstellar, a marooned traveler whose instinct for survival ultimately gives way to fear and selfishness.

So the idea of homecoming is hardly uncharted territory for Damon. Yet this may well be his most demanding voyage. In portraying Homer’s legendary king, his task is not merely to guide the audience through a treacherous physical odyssey, but through the shifting landscape of a deeply complicated mind.

Odysseus is no straightforward hero. He is flawed, burdened by trauma, haunted by loss and forced to confront the consequences of his own choices. To return home and reclaim his kingdom, he must rely not only on his martial prowess but also on his intellect, cunning and resilience. Nolan cleverly uses Damon’s inherent likeability to keep audiences invested even when Odysseus makes morally questionable decisions. Our sympathies are constantly tested, but never completely broken.

At no point is Odysseus presented as an invincible, god-like figure. Damon plays him first and foremost as a human being, driven by ambition, responsibility, pride and regret in equal measure. It is this humanity that makes his performance so compelling. By grounding a legendary hero in recognisable emotion, Damon ensures that we do not simply watch Odysseus’ impossible journey. We experience it alongside him, every step of the way.

Conclusion:

Christopher Nolan’s The Odyssey is more than a faithful adaptation of Homer’s epic. It is a reminder of why great stories survive in the first place. Beneath its breathtaking imagery, monumental technical achievement and remarkable performances lies a deeply human film that constantly invites us to question, reflect and engage. Even in its closing moments, Nolan turns his gaze towards the futility of war and the scars it leaves behind, reminding us that every victory extracts a price far greater than kingdoms won or lost. This is cinema that respects the intelligence of its audience without ever losing sight of its heart.

For lovers of storytelling, for cinephiles fascinated by the craft of filmmaking and for anyone who still believes in the magic of cinema, The Odyssey is an essential theatrical experience. Like the epic that inspired it, this is a film that reveals more of itself with every viewing. You will find yourself retracing its journey, discovering new meanings and, perhaps, returning home a little differently than when you began.

Verdict:

IMDb rating: 8.4/10

My rating: 5/5

Watch The Odyssey on the biggest screen close to you, preferably in an IMAX theatre.

Pic credits: Universal Pictures

Sources:

‘Happy to keep getting lost’: Matt Damon calls ‘The Odyssey’ another journey home

The Odyssey Cyclops Scene Used 60-Foot ‘Contraption’ On Set: ‘What Would This Be Like In Real Life?’

The Sound of ‘The Odyssey’: Composer Ludwig Göransson Used Ancient Greek Instruments, Scrap Metals and Gongs

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About the author:

Siddhartha Krishnan is the author of Two and a Half Rainbows – A Collection of Short Stories. A storyteller at heart, he writes about cinema, books, travel and the wonderfully ordinary moments that often make the best stories. His essays, travelogues and reviews can be found on his blog, www.whatsonsidsmind.com. When he isn’t writing, he is usually planning his next journey, chasing a good film or earning the trust of dogs far more easily than that of humans.

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by whatsonsidsmind

Balan: The Boy Review: Chidambaram Crafts One of the Year’s Most Immersive Thrillers

Written by: Siddhartha Krishnan | 6 Min Read

“A mother’s love for her child is like nothing else in the world. It knows no law, no pity; it dares all things and crushes down remorselessly all that stands in its path.”
— Agatha Christie

There comes a point early in Balan: The Boy when you begin to wonder where all this is leading. Director Chidambaram wants you to sit with that uncertainty, to inhabit the anxiety of a mother raising her five- or six-year-old son against impossible odds. A child she gave birth to in prison for a crime the film never fully reveals.

Although it presents itself as a thriller, the story is ultimately about motherhood, identity and survival. It is a film built less around plot than emotional experience, asking its audience to remain invested in people rather than revelations. Films of this nature often risk becoming too inward-looking.

The question is whether Balan: The Boy manages to remain both thoughtful and engaging.

Story

The film opens with a mother and her young son walking out of prison after serving an unspecified sentence. We know neither their real names nor the crime that brought them there. We know nothing of their past, their family or where they truly belong. That absence of information becomes the film’s greatest hook.

What follows is a life lived in transit. Moving from one place to another under assumed identities, they survive on carefully constructed lies, leaving before suspicion catches up with them. Every conversation is rehearsed. Every action is calculated. The mother takes whatever work keeps them fed, while survival remains the only constant.

Their journey eventually brings them to an isolated house, where the mother becomes caretaker to an elderly woman living alone. Fierce, sharp-tongued and feared by the village, the old woman has been abandoned by almost everyone, including a son whose presence is reduced to the occasional phone call. Ironically, that loneliness offers the mother and child something they have long searched for: anonymity and perhaps the possibility of finally settling down.

Whether they have finally found refuge is a question the film answers with admirable restraint, setting the stage for a quietly compelling thriller.

Screenplay

Writer Jithu Madhavan once again demonstrates why he is among the most exciting voices in Malayalam cinema today. After the wildly different worlds of Aavesham and Manjummel Boys, he shifts gears again, crafting a psychological thriller built less on twists than sustained unease.

The screenplay’s greatest strength lies in its control of suspense. Rather than relying on constant revelations, it immerses us in the anxiety that governs every waking moment of the mother and son. Every interaction carries the possibility of exposure. Every conversation feels like a test they cannot afford to fail. The tension comes not from what happens, but from what could.

The narrative unfolds in two distinct movements, with shifting perspectives that gradually deepen our understanding of the characters. Yet its emotional core never wavers. It remains a story about survival, displacement and the search for belonging. By the time the narrative threads converge, the climax delivers not only answers but genuine emotional weight.

The screenplay is not without flaws. The second half occasionally loses momentum, with a few scenes lingering longer than necessary. Some supporting characters also dilute the film’s focus without adding enough to the narrative.

At its strongest, however, the film keeps its attention firmly on the relationship between the mother and son. Their bond, expressed as much through silence as dialogue, becomes its most compelling source of tension. It is in those quiet moments, where every glance and pause carries meaning, that the screenplay is at its most assured.

Technical Aspects

Balan: The Boy is technically accomplished without ever calling attention to its craft. Every department works in service of the story.

Shyju Khalid’s cinematography is a lesson in visual restraint. Characters are frequently framed through windows, doorways and trees, creating a constant sense of concealment that mirrors their emotional and physical state. The camera observes rather than intrudes, often following the mother and son with measured patience. If Manjummel Boys relied on darkness and claustrophobic compositions to evoke fear, Balan: The Boy achieves a similar effect through naturalism. Diffused daylight, earthy greens and muted interiors quietly reinforce the characters’ transient existence.

The film’s world-building is equally impressive. Ordinary spaces gradually acquire an air of menace. A tea shop, a bus stop, a construction site or a police checkpoint are never inherently threatening, yet each carries the possibility of exposure. Danger is rarely visible, but always present.

Sushin Shyam delivers one of his most understated scores in recent years. Rather than announcing emotion, the music sustains a quiet unease that mirrors the protagonists’ fragile existence. Ambient sounds, natural silences and the score blend so seamlessly that they become part of the same emotional landscape, deepening the film’s psychological tension without overwhelming it.

Performances

Silence plays an integral role in Balan: The Boy, making it an inherently cinematic experience. Much of what the film communicates comes not through dialogue but through carefully composed frames and restrained performances.

Farzana Palathingal is exceptional as Balan’s mother, conveying fear, resilience and unconditional love with remarkable control, never once giving in to melodrama. Equally impressive is Adhisheshan K. R. as the young Balan. For a debutant, he displays extraordinary ease before the camera, matching Farzana’s quiet intensity and becoming the emotional anchor of the film.

Dolly June, as the formidable Granny, is one of the film’s finest casting choices. Reportedly discovered through Instagram, she inhabits the role with such authenticity that it is difficult to imagine anyone else playing it. Tovino Thomas, appearing in the latter half as Abbas, sheds his star persona to deliver an assured performance. While Abbas has some compelling moments, the character ultimately feels underwritten, leaving the impression that his emotional arc deserved greater depth.

The casting as a whole feels instinctively right. Every actor appears rooted in this world, reinforcing the film’s emotional authenticity.

Verdict

Balan: The Boy is one of those rare films that embraces the language of cinema without sacrificing audience engagement. It trusts silence over exposition, observation over spectacle, and emotional honesty over manipulation. At its heart, it is a quietly devastating exploration of motherhood, identity and survival, asking difficult questions about morality in a world where staying alive often demands impossible choices.

Anchored by a deeply affecting central relationship, restrained performances and uniformly excellent technical craftsmanship, Chidambaram delivers a film that is immersive, emotionally resonant and deeply humane. If there is one reservation, it is that the second half could have benefited from a tighter edit, with a handful of scenes and supporting characters contributing less than they should.

Even so, Balan: The Boy is another reminder of why Malayalam cinema continues to set the benchmark for grounded, character-driven storytelling in India. It lingers long after the credits roll, not because of shocking twists or grand revelations, but because of the humanity at its core. Thoughtful without becoming inaccessible, and cinematic without slipping into self-indulgence, it is a film well worth seeking out.

IMDb rating: 8.3/10

My rating: 4/5

Balan: The Boy is currently running in theatres.

Pic credits: KVN Productions/Thespian Films

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About the author

Siddhartha Krishnan is the author of ‘Two and a Half Rainbows – A Collection of Short Stories’. An enthusiastic blogger he shares his articles, essays, travelogues, book and movie reviews on his blog (www.whatsonsidsmind.com).

by whatsonsidsmind

Main Vaapas Aaunga Review: A Humane Film Lost in Its Own Poetry

Written by: Siddhartha Krishnan | 6 Min Read

Main Vaapas Aaunga is a film you want to like. It carries no visible agenda. Like every other Imtiaz Ali film, it follows a hero’s journey that is at once literal and philosophical, keeping a distance from the politics embedded in its themes, choosing instead to tell the human story underneath. It moves fluidly between past and present, treating memory as terrain rather than backdrop. There is much here to admire. But does any of it add up into a film that truly moves you?

The Plot

The story follows Ishar Singh Grewal, a 95-year-old man on his deathbed, battling advanced dementia. He is stubborn, difficult to converse with, resented by family members who have long grown weary of his suffering and, at this moment, as delusional as a man can be.

But he is also a survivor of Partition, and somewhere in Sargodha lies unfinished business he must resolve before he breathes his last. Despite his failing health and a family urging him toward peace, he clings to life because decades ago, he promised his college sweetheart that he would come back. Until that promise is fulfilled, even his last breath refuses to let go.

This conundrum forms the core of Main Vaapas Aaunga.

Screenplay

Main Vaapas Aaunga deals with familiar Imtiaz Ali themes: love transcending time, fractured timelines, journeys of self-discovery and the longing to return to one’s roots.

While Imtiaz fairly demands that his audience stay invested in the film’s abstractions and philosophical concerns, Main Vaapas Aaunga often undercuts itself by refusing to trust that audience. There is an innate need to verbalize everything. Conversations repeatedly articulate emotions and ideas that the images are already conveying, leaving little room for viewers to inhabit the film’s silences or arrive at their own conclusions.

This tendency extends beyond dialogue. The dreamlike imagery, musical interludes designed to establish character, and occasional comic passages that do not entirely land contribute to a sense of excess.

At two hours and forty-seven minutes, Main Vaapas Aaunga could easily have benefited from a leaner edit. Stripped of some of its embellishments, the film might have remained more firmly anchored to what it does best: examining Partition’s human cost and the emotional residue left behind by displacement.

The closest companion piece to Main Vaapas Aaunga in Imtiaz Ali’s filmography is Love Aaj Kal. Both films explore love across generations and time. But where Love Aaj Kal trusted its emotional beats to resonate on their own, Main Vaapas Aaunga too often feels compelled to explain itself.

That said, there are several moments in the film that are genuinely affecting. The big reveal, the horrors of Partition that unfold toward the end, and the family confrontations that seek to find humanity amidst pain. There is also the film’s refusal to be sensational, hyper-violent or controversial. It chooses instead to focus on the people caught in history’s crossfire.

It is in these moments, where the film transcends borders and politics to speak about loss, longing, and memory, that Main Vaapas Aaunga shines brightest. They offer glimpses of a deeply humane film, one that might have been even more powerful had it trusted its audience as much as it trusts its ideas.

Technical Aspects

The production design of the pre-Partition era is commendable. Main Vaapas Aaunga does not aspire to the grand visual scale of a Sanjay Leela Bhansali spectacle, but its rendering of 1947 Sargodha as simple, lived-in and uncluttered feels appropriate. These are not historical recreations as much as fragments revisited through the fading memories of a dying man.

Sylvester Fonseca’s cinematography complements this approach beautifully. The present carries the polished sheen of contemporary cinema, while the past is imbued with painterly compositions, warm earthy tones and a nostalgic softness that lends memory an almost tactile quality.

A.R. Rahman’s though music proves more uneven. Songs such as Maskara, Tere Paas Main and Kya Khamaal Hai linger, but the remaining tracks leave little impression. The background score occasionally elevates key moments but rarely carries the sustained emotional weight the film demands.

Performances

The film boasts a capable ensemble, led by Naseeruddin Shah at the top of his game. As Ishar Singh Grewal, Shah is utterly convincing, bringing restraint, nuance and vulnerability to a man suspended between memory and mortality. Much of the performance resides in his eyes, communicating years of longing, regret and unresolved grief. This is easily among his finest performances of the past two decades.

Vedang Raina, as the younger Ishar, and Sharvari, as Afsana, bring the innocence and tenderness their characters require. Imtiaz Ali stages their romance with the earnestness of Hindi cinema from the 1950s and 1960s, lending it a nostalgic charm. Both actors deliver sincere performances, though some of their scenes feel stretched, a limitation stemming more from the screenplay than the actors themselves.

Diljit Dosanjh, as Ishar’s grandson Nirvair, occupies a pivotal position in the narrative. Effective in both the lighter and more poignant moments, he nevertheless feels underserved by a role that deserved more emotionally charged scenes.

Rajat Kapoor, Kumud Mishra, Sanjay Suri, Anjana Sukhani, Banita Sandhu and Manish Chaudhuri lend solid support. The interactions among Ishar’s family members often emerge as some of the film’s most engaging moments, balancing humour, frustration and tenderness while grounding the story in recognisable human relationships.

Verdict

Main Vaapas Aaunga possesses many of the hallmarks of an Imtiaz Ali film. It is anchored by a powerful premise and a towering performance from Naseeruddin Shah, through whose memories we revisit one of the most traumatic chapters of modern Indian history.

The film had the potential to become a deeply affecting meditation on Partition, displacement and the wounds history leaves behind. Yet its tendency to over-explain and repeatedly drift away from its strongest themes prevents it from achieving the emotional impact it strives for.

And yet, Main Vaapas Aaunga is far from a failure. It contains moments of genuine poignancy, particularly in its final act, where history, love and memory finally converge. The closing song, Kya Khamaal Hai, sung by Diljit Dosanjh and played over the end credits, perhaps encapsulates the film better than anything that precedes it. Through its imagery, lyrics and melancholy warmth, it distils the compassion, longing and universality at the heart of the story.

If only the film had trusted those emotions to resonate throughout, instead of constantly articulating them, Main Vaapas Aaunga might have stood alongside Imtiaz Ali’s very best work.

IMDb rating: 8.3/10

My Rating: 3/5

Watch Main Vaapas Aaunga in a theatre next to you.

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About the author:

Siddhartha Krishnan is the author of ‘Two and a Half Rainbows – A Collection of Short Stories’. An enthusiastic blogger he shares his essays, travelogues, book and movie reviews on his blog (www.whatsonsidsmind.com).

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by whatsonsidsmind

Obsession Review: The $1 Million Indie Horror Phenomenon That’s Changing the Game

Written by: Siddhartha Krishnan | 7 Min Read

Once in a great while, a horror film emerges from the independent space and fundamentally alters the rules of the game. The Blair Witch Project (1999) redefined horror through found-footage realism. Paranormal Activity (2007) turned static security cameras into instruments of dread. Get Out (2017) proved that horror could be both socially incisive and commercially dominant, while Hereditary (2018) elevated the genre into the realm of arthouse tragedy. Obsession belongs in that conversation.

The Hype:

Made on a shoestring budget estimated somewhere between $7,50,000 and $1 million, Obsession has already grossed over $100 million worldwide in just its second week of release. Even more surprising is the fact that it comes from the mind of a YouTuber. Not that filmmakers haven’t made that leap before, but what has people talking is not the novelty of its origins. It is the sheer craftsmanship on display. This is a film that is as technically assured as it is relentlessly entertaining.

That said, Obsession is not for everyone. It is unlikely to satisfy fans looking for conventional scares, and it certainly isn’t for the squeamish. Its appeal is decidedly niche, aimed at a younger audience, perhaps the very generation to which its 26-year-old director, Curry Barker, belongs. While this may be Barker’s first theatrical feature, it is hardly his first brush with horror. His 2023 short film The Chair has amassed over 9.8 million views on YouTube, while Milk & Serial, a 62-minute found-footage feature released in 2024, has drawn more than 2.8 million views. Long before Obsession arrived in cinemas, Barker had already cultivated a loyal audience that understood exactly what he was trying to do.

The real question, then, is whether Obsession succeeds beyond its built-in fanbase. Does it work purely as a curiosity born from internet culture, or does it stand on its own merits as a genuinely great horror film?

The Story:

Obsession follows Bear Bailey (Michael Johnston), an awkward young man hopelessly in love with his longtime friend Nikki Freeman (Inde Navarrette). Desperate to win her affection, he turns to a mysterious object, that he bought from an occult shop, known as the “One Wish Willow,” hoping to finally make his fantasy a reality. What begins as a seemingly harmless wish soon spirals into something far darker, as Nikki’s affection mutates into a terrifying and unnatural fixation. As reality itself begins to feel warped by the consequences of his choice, Bear finds himself trapped inside a nightmare of his own making. What follows is a disturbing, darkly funny, and increasingly surreal descent into obsession, guilt, desire, and the horror of getting exactly what you wished for.

Screenplay and Direction:

In a recent interview, Currey Barker spoke about the influence of Jordan Peele on his filmmaking style, particularly his blend of comedy and horror. As Barker puts it, “making someone uncomfortable and making someone laugh is exactly the same thing” from a psychological standpoint. You can see that philosophy at work throughout Obsession.

For a film that is remarkably accessible, there is a lot happening in every scene. Yet none of it gets in the way of the viewing experience. There are moments that make the audience laugh, recoil in disgust, feel frightened, and scratch their heads in confusion, sometimes in rapid succession. What is surprising is how simple many of the techniques are.

Barker relies on familiar horror tools: shadows and silhouettes, unnatural body language and facial expressions, extended takes, and the strategic placement of the monster in the corners of the frame. Yet there is a freshness to the way these elements are composed that gives the film its distinct identity. He understands the value of not showing the monster, using absence as effectively as presence to build anticipation and dread. The jump scares are few, but they land because of the ingenuity of the framing, the sound effects, background score and the precision of the editing rather than sheer number.

The attention to detail is difficult to miss. What is especially refreshing is that these techniques are not employed merely to heighten the scares or make the film more entertaining. They also serve a symbolic purpose, reflecting the nuances of the story and its themes. Nothing feels ornamental. Every creative choice appears to be in service of both the narrative and the experience, which is why the craftsmanship never feels like an extra garnish on the plate.

Performances:

For a film that constantly shifts between horror, comedy, romance and psychological drama, a great deal rests on the shoulders of its actors, particularly the two leads. With much of the film built around their interactions, the success of Obsession depends on whether the audience buys into both the relationship and the nightmare it eventually becomes.

What stands out is the contrast between the roles they are asked to inhabit. Michael Johnston’s Bear is awkward, insecure, vulnerable, and emotionally repressed. Nikki, played by Inde Navarrette, begins as a free-spirited and confident young woman before transforming into something monstrous, predatory, and possessive. The exchanges between the two form the emotional and psychological core of the film.

In a recent interview, Navarrette cited Mia Goth’s performance in Pearl as a key influence on her work in Obsession. Looking back, the comparison feels apt. Like Goth, she brings an unpredictability to the screen that makes every scene feel slightly dangerous. You are never entirely sure what Nikki will do next, and that uncertainty becomes one of the film’s greatest strengths.

If Obsession has a secret weapon, it is Navarrette’s performance. She appears to channel something primal, slipping in and out of Nikki’s increasingly monstrous persona with unnerving ease. It is a performance that is as physical as it is psychological, requiring her to communicate terror, vulnerability, longing, rage, and obsession, often within the same scene. The result is mesmerizing. It is not only the film’s strongest asset but also one of the standout performances of the year so far, and an early contender for awards-season recognition.

Conclusion:

Obsession is far more than an accomplished indie horror film. It stands as a testament to how inventive, ambitious, and artistically rich the genre can be in the hands of a filmmaker with a distinct vision. Through its carefully structured escalation of tension, inventive practical effects, striking transitions between comedy and terror, and a visual style that turns ordinary suburban spaces into sources of dread, Currey Barker has crafted a film that demands to be experienced with a crowd in a theatre. The film’s dynamic camera work, imaginative production design, and expertly timed set pieces generate genuine scares while never losing sight of character or theme, and its dark humour lands all the more effectively because it emerges naturally from the escalating chaos. It is among the finest horror films of the last decade and seems destined to influence the genre for years to come. Aspiring filmmakers, particularly in India, should take note: Obsession proves how much remains possible when imagination, craftsmanship, and storytelling are given equal weight. This is not just a film to watch—it is a film to learn from.

Verdict:

IMDb rating: 8.2/10
Rotten Tomatoes: 96% approval rating
My rating: 4.5/5

Go watch Obsession in a theatre next to you. The hype is real!

Pic credits: Focus Features and Universal Pictures

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About the author:

Siddhartha Krishnan is the author of ‘Two and a Half Rainbows – A Collection of Short Stories’. An enthusiastic blogger he shares his essays, travelogues, book and movie reviews on his blog (www.whatsonsidsmind.com).

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by whatsonsidsmind

Send Help Review: Rachel McAdams Shines in Raimi’s Wild Survival Tale

Written by: Siddhartha Krishnan | 5 Min Read

Sam Raimi’s latest, Send Help, ends with a piece of advice from its protagonist Linda. In the scene, she breaks the fourth wall, stares straight into the camera and says: “No help is coming, so you better start saving yourself.” In many ways, that line captures the soul of the film.

Send Help, beneath its survivor thriller surface, wrestles with power dynamics at the workplace, gender politics, and the gradual escalation of unresolved resentment. But this is still Raimi territory, so the tension is constantly punctured by his trademark cocktail of slapstick comedy and gleefully exaggerated violence. In short, it has all the ingredients of a classic Sam Raimi entertainer.

The question is: does it all come together, or collapse under the weight of its own madness?

Story:

Linda Liddle, played by Rachel McAdams, works in the strategy and planning division of her company. She is competent and hardworking; perhaps too sincere for the corporate machinery she serves. Having been promised a VP position by her former boss, Linda believes her years of loyalty are finally about to pay off. But the company is now run by Bradley Preston, the newly appointed CEO and son of her late mentor, played by Dylan O’Brien. Bradley instead hands the promotion to Donovan, a recent hire and close associate, bluntly telling Linda that she lacks the attractiveness and charisma required for the role.

Humiliated and emotionally cornered, Linda confronts Bradley. Oddly enough, he seems impressed by her defiance and invites her to accompany him, Donovan, and a few senior executives on a private jet to Thailand to finalise a merger. Linda sees it as one last chance to prove her worth. But in true Raimi fashion, the setup quickly curdles into something far nastier. The trip is nothing more than an elaborate exercise in humiliation designed to break her spirit.

Then comes the turn.

The plane flies straight into a violent storm, suffers catastrophic engine failure, and crashes into the sea in a sequence Raimi stages with chaotic energy, panic, and just the right touch of grim absurdity. By morning, everyone is dead except Linda and an injured Bradley, who wash ashore on a deserted island.

Now stranded in isolation, the two are forced into the ultimate team-building exercise: survival. But with resentment, humiliation, and mutual hatred festering beneath the surface, coexistence becomes as dangerous as the island itself. Raimi crafts a deliciously tense setup here, blending survival thriller, psychological warfare, and his trademark streak of darkly comic cruelty into one wildly entertaining premise.

Screenplay:

Like most Sam Raimi films, Send Help wastes very little time getting to the point. Raimi has always been a visionary genre filmmaker obsessed with survival, both physical and psychological. From Evil Dead to Drag Me to Hell, his characters are constantly pushed into chaotic situations where survival becomes messy, painful, and often absurdly funny. What makes Raimi unique, however, is the way he wraps these primal survival themes inside wildly inventive genre frameworks, blending the supernatural, splatter horror, slapstick physical comedy, and known visual tropes into pure cinematic entertainment.

You can find almost all of those Raimi trademarks in Send Help. Yet what is surprising here is the restraint. Raimi occasionally steps back from the chaos to indulge in something far quieter: character study. Some of the film’s best moments are not the violent outbursts or elaborate set pieces, but the simmering exchanges between Linda and Bradley, where resentment, insecurity, and power games quietly bubble beneath the surface. These scenes remain tense and darkly humorous, but they also reveal an unusual level of patience in Raimi’s storytelling.

Even though the film largely revolves around Linda and Bradley, the screenplay gradually introduces several narrative threads that need resolution by the final act. The way screenplay writers, Damian Shannon and Mark Swift, tie these loose ends together is consistently engaging to watch. Themes of power, hierarchy, gender politics, resentment, and revenge are woven seamlessly into the survival narrative, often with surprising subtlety. This is not the relentlessly breakneck Raimi we are used to. Here, he allows certain moments to breathe, giving the film an unexpectedly reflective quality, within the madness.

That said, the screenplay does stumble when it tries too hard to connect every narrative thread. Realism has never really been Raimi’s strength, nor does it need to be, but some late-stage twists and revelations feel convenient, even by his standards. Certain discoveries toward the climax border on the outlandish and slightly dilute the grounded emotional tension the film works hard to establish. The ending, in particular, feels like it needed one more rewrite to fully land its emotional and thematic payoff.

Still, at a lean runtime of just 1 hour and 52 minutes, Send Help is rarely dull. Raimi keeps the film moving with his trademark energy, delivering bursts of gore, laugh-out-loud physical comedy, inventive jump scares, and the kind of restless pacing that reminds you why he remains one of the most distinctive genre filmmakers working today.

Performances:

At its core, Send Help is less about survival and more about the toxic power struggle between Linda and Bradley. Raimi refuses to make either character traditionally likable, forcing them into morally messy situations that test their humanity under pressure.

That challenge extends to the performances. Raimi constantly shifts between tension, violence, and exaggerated comedy, demanding actors balance emotional sincerity with heightened absurdity.

Thankfully, both leads fully commit.

Dylan O’Brien plays Bradley with controlled cruelty, while Rachel McAdams makes Linda feel volatile and emotionally explosive. Their opposing energies give the film much of its tension.

The film also keeps the audience morally unsettled. There are long stretches where neither character feels worth rooting for, and that ambiguity feels intentional.

McAdams is especially strong here. She understands Raimi’s heightened style without losing the emotional core, keeping Linda theatrical yet believable. The film largely rests on her performance, and she carries it confidently.

Conclusion:

Sam Raimi, the filmmaker behind the original Evil Dead trilogy and the first three Spider-Man films, has always been obsessed with survival. In retrospect, his move from horror to superhero cinema feels natural because even heroes trying to save the world must first save themselves. That idea lies at the heart of Send Help.

Beneath its gore, slapstick comedy, jump scares, and dark humor, the film is ultimately about power, resentment, and survival. While the screenplay occasionally relies on convenient twists and an ending that feels undercooked, Raimi’s direction and the committed performances, especially from Rachel McAdams, keep the film consistently engaging. More restrained than his usual work yet still unmistakably Raimi, Send Help is a messy, darkly entertaining survival thriller that reminds you why he remains one of the greatest genre filmmakers of all time.

Verdict:

IMDb rating: 6.8/10
Rotten Tomatoes: 92% approval rating
Metacritic: 75/100

My rating: 3/5

Box office:

Worldwide gross: $94 M
Production budget: $40 M

You can watch Send Help on JioHotstar in India.

Pic credits: 20th Century Studios/Raimi Productions

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About the author:

Siddhartha Krishnan is the author of ‘Two and a Half Rainbows – A Collection of Short Stories’. An enthusiastic blogger he shares his essays, travelogues, book and movie reviews on his blog (www.whatsonsidsmind.com).

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by whatsonsidsmind

Michael Review: Jaafar Jackson Shines in a Tribute That Stops Short of Inquiry

Written by: Siddhartha Krishnan | 5 Min

Michael as a biopic does something unique: it actively measures the audience’s threshold for acceptance.

There is a lot at stake. A musical superstar whose legacy feels almost untouchable. A once-in-a-century phenomenon, original to the core. A dancer who seemed to invent his own language of movement. An artist who could write, compose, and choreograph his own songs. The kind of genius some would call divine.

And then, the shadow that trails the genius.

The film chooses to foreshadow it all, offering glimpses of what lies ahead without fully confronting it. Some may call it cautious, even safe. But in a deeply polarized world, where restraint feels less like evasion and more like calculation, you must check the water before you swim.

That is the prevailing mood of Michael. The makers opt for tribute over interrogation.

But does it hold up as a piece of cinema?

Story and Screenplay:

The story begins in 1966 in Gary, Indiana, where Joseph Jackson is determined to mould his sons into the Jackson 5. At just eight, Michael Jackson emerges as the lead voice. The narrative then follows his ascent, from early recognition by industry figures like Suzanne de Passe and Quincy Jones, to his eventual break from the group and pursuit of a solo career by 1988.

Across this 22-year arc, the writing places sustained emphasis on his fraught relationship with his father, examining how control, conflict and ambition within the family shaped both his drive and his vulnerabilities. The film attempts to map how these early experiences informed his creative instincts and personal choices, without over-explaining them.

It also makes a concerted effort to enter the artist’s mind. There is attention to the finer details of how he wrote, composed and choreographed his music, and to the impulses that sparked some of his most defining work. These moments offer a glimpse into process rather than mythology, grounding genius in craft.

However, foreshadowing runs consistently through the screenplay. Recurring motifs such as his affinity for animals, his ease with children, and allusions to Peter Pan and the idea of Neverland Ranch are threaded across timelines. The film repeatedly signals his sense of otherness from an early age but stops short of drawing conclusions.

That said, a substantial portion of the film’s runtime is devoted to the staging of songs and their making. For fans of Michael Jackson, this functions less as narrative progression and more as an extended tribute, where the music itself becomes the central storytelling device.

Performances:

The film devotes considerable attention to the central father–son dynamic, and Colman Domingo brings a simmering menace to Joseph Jackson. The hostility is evident well before any overt abuse; a glance or pause often does the work. The character remains firmly in a dark shade of grey throughout. A touch more backstory might have added dimension, but the performance itself establishes the tension effectively.

As the young Michael Jackson, Juliano Krue Valdi carries much of the opening stretch with assurance. There is a natural ease to his presence that makes the early portions of the film feel grounded, even as the narrative moves quickly through formative years.

Nia Long plays Katherine Jackson with restraint, presenting her largely as a protective yet subdued figure. She conveys warmth and concern, though the writing around her leans towards a more sanitised portrayal, limiting the scope of the character’s internal conflict.

Michael ultimately rests on Jaafar Jackson, and his performance is the defining factor. Rather than an interpretation, it feels like a full inhabitation of the role. For a debut, the control is striking, from physicality to emotional transitions across the two decades depicted. The continuity holds even outside linear shooting, with no visible breaks in character. By the closing stretches, the distinction between actor and subject begins to blur. The prosthetics and makeup teams contribute significantly to the visual transformation, but it is the performance that sustains the illusion. The dance sequences, in particular, are executed with precision, reinforcing the sense of authenticity the film strives for.

Conclusion:

Michael works best when it leans into what it sets out to be, a character study anchored in performance and music rather than a definitive portrait. The writing occasionally holds back, especially in exploring contradictions, but the emotional throughline, the focus on craft, and a committed central performance ensure that the film remains engaging. By the final act, the distinction between narrative and nostalgia begins to blur, and the experience shifts gears. The theatre, almost inevitably, turns into a concert hall, with the audience humming Michael Jackson’s songs, swaying to the beats and tapping their feet. For fans, Michael is a glowing tribute to one of the greatest pop artists of all time.

A sequel to the film is already in development, with a tentative release window between 2027 and 2029. It is expected to chart Michael Jackson’s life from 1988 until his death in 2009, a period that saw him scale unprecedented heights as a global superstar while also becoming one of the most contested figures in modern American cultural history. It is, by any measure, the more complex chapter to attempt on screen, demanding not just scale but conviction. The massive success of Michael provides a foundation, perhaps even the confidence, to venture deeper. As audiences, the expectation now shifts, from admiration to insight, in the hope that the next chapter moves beyond tribute to deliver a more searching, unflinching portrait. For cinephiles that will be a compelling watch.

Verdict:

IMDb rating: 7.7/10

My rating: 3/5

Watch Michael in a theatre close to you.

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About the author:

Siddhartha Krishnan is the author of ‘Two and a Half Rainbows – A Collection of Short Stories’. An enthusiastic blogger he shares his essays, travelogues, book and movie reviews on his blog (www.whatsonsidsmind.com).

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by whatsonsidsmind

The Devil Wears Prada 2 Review: A Worthy Sequel Balancing Legacy and Relevance

Written By: Siddhartha Krishnan | 5 Min Read


Perhaps the most significant challenge facing The Devil Wears Prada 2 is simple: it arrives two decades after the original. In that time, the world has shifted dramatically, and weaving those changes into the fabric of a story so loved by its audience is no small task. In many ways, this challenge outweighs even the burden of legacy.

Then there are the characters. Their likability and relatability were so profound that we carried them home with us. They have lingered, almost personally, in the audience’s memory. Since then, Anne Hathaway and Emily Blunt have evolved into two of Hollywood’s finest actors, while Meryl Streep has only deepened her status as a legend. Any misstep with these characters now carries far greater risk.

Layered onto this is nostalgia. The film means something intimate to many who watched it, emotions that are difficult to replicate, let alone surpass. The challenge, then, is not just creative but deeply emotional.

Yet, in David Frankel, who returns to direct, the film has a steady hand that has lived with this story from its inception to its present evolution. Alongside him is writer Aline Brosh McKenna, who returns to write, ensuring continuity of voice. With a largely unchanged core cast, including the ever-brilliant Stanley Tucci, the film attempts to balance fidelity with the inevitability of change.

The question, then, is inevitable: does it resonate emotionally the way the original did?

The Story:

Two decades on, the sequel opens with Andy Sachs (Anne Hathaway), now an established journalist whose career abruptly collapses the very night she wins a major award, getting laid off along with her entire team. The irony is sharp, almost cruel. Yet within days, a call from the CEO of Runway pulls her back into the very world she once left behind.

Miranda Priestly (Meryl Streep), now older, still formidable, but no longer untouchable is the one Andy must collaborate with once again as the magazine’s features editor. Tasked with navigating a rapidly shifting, digitally driven media landscape where print feels increasingly obsolete, Miranda finds herself on uncertain ground. She remains as exacting as ever, but the cracks are more visible this time. Age, irrelevance, and the speed of change weigh on her in ways the original never allowed.

Complicating matters further is the return of Emily (Emily Blunt), the once harried assistant now turned powerful executive at a rival luxury brand. Her evolution sets up a compelling counterpoint to both Andy and Miranda, turning past loyalties into present-day rivalries.

As before, the film draws its strength from the shifting dynamics between these three women. Their relationships carry the narrative, even as the sequel folds in a measured commentary on corporate culture, the disruptive force of digitisation and AI in creative industries, and the shrinking attention spans shaped by social media.

The film makes a sincere attempt to stay rooted in its time while remaining faithful to characters that audiences have carried with them for twenty years. It does not always balance both seamlessly, but when it does, it finds echoes of what made the original endure.

Screenplay:

One of the defining choices shaping the sequel’s writing is an acute awareness of how audiences have evolved over the past two decades. That shift is evident in the screenplay’s rhythm and tone. The film understands that theatrical viewing now demands more immediacy and engagement, especially in an era where OTT offers a comfortable alternative. As a result, the narrative moves at a quicker pace, leaning into sharper twists, punchier one-liners, and a more pronounced sense of humour.

At the same time, the film weaves in contemporary social commentary. Themes around digital disruption, shifting workplace dynamics, and the changing nature of influence are present, but they unfold organically within the story rather than announcing themselves.

What screenwriter Aline Brosh McKenna gets right is resisting the temptation to let style overpower substance. She keeps the story rooted in its emotional core, preserving what made the first film resonate so deeply. There is a conscious effort to retain the humanity of these characters, allowing moments of humor to sit comfortably alongside those of vulnerability and introspection.

The result is a screenplay that delivers both levity and weight. It offers several genuine laugh-out-loud beats, but also moments of quiet catharsis that ground the film emotionally. While the original felt more restrained, almost brooding in its stillness, the sequel embraces a more layered and kinetic energy. It is more overtly entertaining, yet manages to remain just as emotionally engaging, even if it doesn’t always match the cinematic finesse of its predecessor.

Performances:

Much like its predecessor, the sequel places significant demands on its actors, and it’s reassuring to see a clear continuity in how these characters are brought to life. There’s an attention to detail in ensuring that Miranda, Emily, and Andy feel like natural extensions of who they once were, shaped by time but not disconnected from their core selves. That evolution, rather than reinvention, is what stands out.

All three actresses deliver performances that reflect not just physical ageing, but a deeper internal shift. There’s a lived-in quality to their portrayals, balancing chaos, restraint, and a certain hard-earned clarity with ease. It never feels forced.

The film’s pulse lies in their comedic timing and the chemistry they share, which remains as sharp as ever. That said, the sequel tilts more toward wit and rapid-fire exchanges, with fewer of the quieter, introspective pauses that once gave the story its emotional weight. It’s a conscious shift in tone, with the makers choosing a more entertaining, slightly edge-of-the-seat approach, driven by clever twists and well-placed surprises that keep the narrative engaging.

Conclusion:


Two decades on, the sequel to The Devil Wears Prada knows legacy alone won’t suffice, and adapts to a faster, more demanding audience. It preserves the core of its beloved characters, allowing them to evolve without losing their essence. The performances anchor the film, with chemistry and timing doing much of the heavy lifting. The writing leans into pace, twists, humor, and relevance, trading some depth for immediacy. The result is an entertaining, worthy sequel to a franchise whose legacy continues to endure.

Verdict:

IMDb rating: 7/10

My Rating: 3.5/5

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About the author:

Siddhartha Krishnan is the author of ‘Two and a Half Rainbows – A Collection of Short Stories’. An enthusiastic blogger he shares his essays, travelogues, book and movie reviews on his blog (www.whatsonsidsmind.com).

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by whatsonsidsmind

Dhurandhar: The Revenge Review — A Visually Explosive Sequel That Misses Emotional Depth

Written by: Siddhartha Krishnan | 6 Min Read

Chapter 1: Confession Before the Storm

Dhurandhar: The Revenge opens with an extended disclaimer, even more elaborate than its predecessor. It covers depictions of violence, substance use, and clarifies that the film does not intend to offend any community or endorse the views expressed by its characters.

A measured Hindi voice-over guides viewers through these caveats, emphasising that the film is a work of fiction, albeit one “inspired by true events.” It sets the tone for what follows, a narrative across timelines, sometimes blending fact with fiction, that asks to be viewed as cinema rather than commentary.

Not a documentary. Not a history lesson.

Much like this piece you’re reading, which is meant to be taken as a review, not mistaken for an essay or an opinion column.

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Chapter 2: The Birth of a Spy

The sequel builds on the foundation laid in the first instalment, where the promise of revenge was already established. What this chapter seeks to address is the motivation behind it.

The film opens with the backstory of Jaskirat Singh Rangi, an aspiring army recruit who finds himself on death row after committing a brutal act of violence tied to a land dispute involving a local political figure. The killing of his father and the assault on his sister serve as the emotional trigger.

The setup is effective, giving context to the character’s transformation. Ranveer Singh brings a measured balance of vulnerability and rage, anchoring the opening stretch.

The narrative then shifts as Jaskirat is recruited by Indian intelligence and drawn into a covert world, marking the beginning of his evolution into Hamza.

Director Aditya Dhar re-establishes the film’s universe with confidence, maintaining continuity with the tone and scale of the first part.

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Chapter 3: Chaos, Blood and Distance

A key shift in the sequel lies in its pacing. Where the first film allowed its narrative to unfold gradually, the second opts for density, layering multiple plot developments, twists, and action set pieces in quick succession.

While individual sequences are effective, the cumulative impact is uneven. The film struggles to sustain emotional engagement, often prioritising momentum over depth. Attempts to humanise its central characters remain brief and underdeveloped.

The treatment of Major Iqbal illustrates this imbalance. Positioned as the primary antagonist, he is given a detailed backstory, including personal and historical motivations. However, limited screen time restricts the character’s impact, preventing it from reaching the memorability of the earlier antagonist, Rehman Dakait.

In the first part, Dhar juxtaposed real-life footage of terrorist attacks in India with fictional scenes. In the sequel, he plays with timelines. In both cases, the creative liberties are evident, but it is the blending of truth and fiction that is a bit jarring. At times, this mix becomes so seamless that an unassuming viewer may find it difficult to distinguish fact from fiction. It is perhaps on the viewer to remain aware that the film is, ultimately, a work of fiction.

The film, however, maintains narrative tension. Dhar relies on frequent twists to sustain interest, ensuring that the story remains engaging. The trajectory may be predictable, but the execution keeps the viewer invested.

The violence, more intense than in the first instalment, remains highly stylised. It is designed for visual impact rather than realism, contributing to the film’s spectacle while reinforcing a sense of detachment.

Even with a runtime approaching four hours, the film sustains momentum and is seldom boring.

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Chapter 4: The Sound of War

The film’s music continues to be a defining strength. Composer Shashwat Sachdev blends Indian classical, Sufi, qawwali, and folk elements with electronic music, rap, and techno, all while staying rooted in the demands of the script. The result is a soundscape that fuels the film’s high-octane moments with adrenaline, while also evoking a lingering sense of nostalgia.

The reuse and reinterpretation of older tracks is particularly effective, with lyrics and placement aligned to narrative moments. While the first film’s soundtrack had immediate recall value, the sequel’s music operates more as a slow burn.

Tracks like Mann Atkeya (Vaibhav Gupta, Shahzad Ali), Main Aur Tu (Jasmine Sandlas), and Phir Se (Arijit Singh) fall into this category. At the same time, the film delivers crowd-pleasing, foot-tapping numbers like Aari Aari by Bombay Rockers, reimagined for this outing, and Khaled’s Didi, both of which tap directly into millennial nostalgia.

Overall, the sound design and score contribute significantly to the film’s atmosphere and pacing.

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Chapter 5: The Men, the Masks, the World

The ensemble cast delivers consistently. Alongside Ranveer Singh, performances by Arjun Rampal, Rakesh Bedi, R. Madhavan and Sanjay Dutt reinforce the film’s dramatic weight. Sara Arjun, while effective in parts, is limited by a role that lacks sufficient development.

However, the sequel is largely driven by Ranveer Singh, whose dual portrayal of Hamza and Jaskirat forms its emotional core. There is a distinct emotional and physical shift between the two, and he navigates both with control and conviction. It is the kind of rare, layered role that not only anchors the film but also stands to become a defining addition to the actor’s filmography.

The effort put in by the costume design, hair and makeup, and prosthetics teams is also noteworthy. The production design, spanning different parts of India and beyond, plays a crucial role in building a believable and immersive world.

Dhurandhar is not a perfect film by any means, but it is technically accomplished and hard to fault when it comes to attention to detail.

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Chapter 6: Borrowed Guns

Dhar’s filmmaking reflects a blend of influences. The stylised violence and narrative rhythm show traces of Quentin Tarantino and Guy Ritchie, particularly in the staging of action and use of montage.

At the same time, the film’s rawness and treatment of violence recall the work of Ram Gopal Varma, particularly films like “Satya”, “Company” and “Shiva”.

While these influences are evident, the film attempts to integrate them within a commercial Hindi cinema framework, combining stylisation with music, star-driven performances, and large-scale storytelling

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Chapter 7: The Verdict

Dhurandhar: The Revenge is an ambitious sequel that prioritizes scale and spectacle over emotional depth. Aditya Dhar expands the narrative world with confidence, supported by strong technical execution and sustained narrative momentum.

Anchored by Ranveer Singh’s performance, the film remains engaging despite its structural excesses. While it does not fully match the emotional impact of its predecessor, it succeeds as a visually compelling continuation. With its blending of fact and fiction, whether it reads as propaganda or provocation is open to interpretation, but it remains a work of fiction, not reportage.

Rating: 3.5/5

Dhurandhar: The Revenge is playing in a theatre near you.

Read the review of Dhurandhar (part 1) here: https://whatsonsidsmind.com/2025/12/16/dhurandhar-review-a-taut-spy-thriller-that-delivers-on-craft/

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About the Author:

Siddhartha Krishnan is the author of ‘Two and a Half Rainbows – A Collection of Short Stories’. An enthusiastic blogger he shares his essays, travelogues, book and movie reviews on his blog (www.whatsonsidsmind.com).

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by whatsonsidsmind

THERE IS NO WAR THAT ENDS ALL WARS | AN OPINION ESSAY

Written by: Siddhartha Krishnan | 2 Min Read

(Here is a short YouTube video adaptation of this piece – click this link)

THERE IS NO WAR THAT ENDS ALL WARS.

History has never witnessed such a thing.

We have always been at war in one form or another because war is sustained by a story.

And stories are powerful.

Just like religion, gods, ideology, money, and institutions. They exist because we collectively believe in them. They are sustained by shared faith.

And human beings do not surrender faith easily.
Not the right.
Not the left.
Not anyone who has built identity around belief.

In any conflict, labels may suggest ideological differences between warring parties.

Yet they all lean toward the same hunger. Power.
Because it was never truly about God.
It was never about religion.
It was never even about righteousness.
More often than not, it has been about control.

Those who seek power understand the force of narrative. They invoke religion, race, caste, nationalism,
and fear. They tell stories potent enough to move millions.

Stories that blind.
Stories that divide.
Stories that convince ordinary people to defend the very structures that exploit them.

Because when belief is weaponized, truth becomes collateral damage.

No war ends because one side wins. Wars truly end when the people who fuel them refuse to participate in the story any longer.

When they pause, question and see through the script.

Wars end only when enough people wake up and recognize the machinery behind it.

Not when leaders decide.
When people do.

In all this, if humanity is to find any method in the madness,
it must do something far more difficult than winning wars.
It must unite.
It must search for one reason,
one greater story,
one truth large enough
to rise above the smaller stories that divide us.
A story powerful enough to end all wars.

But what could that story be?
And is it even possible?

(Here is a short YouTube video adaptation of this piece – click this link)

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About the author:

Siddhartha Krishnan is the author of ‘Two and a Half Rainbows – A Collection of Short Stories’. An enthusiastic blogger he shares his essays, travelogues, book and movie reviews on his blog (www.whatsonsidsmind.com).

All rights reserved by http://www.whatsonsidsmind.com

by whatsonsidsmind

Jugnuma Review | A Himalayan Fable that Lingers like Smoke

Written by: Siddhartha Krishnan | 4 Min Read

Jugnuma premiered at the Berlinale Film Festival in February 2024, and took nearly a year and a half to arrive at Indian theatres. In his second directorial venture in a decade, Raam Reddy, who made the brilliant Kannada film Thithi (2015), ventures into a Himalayan village to tell a fable. The story follows Dev and his family, who live in a colonial mansion they have inherited, surrounded by hundreds of acres of fruit estates, abundant, picturesque, and seemingly at peace. But something mysterious begins to set the estates and the surrounding forests ablaze. Unravelling the reasons behind this slow annihilation of a once-harmonious world forms the crux of the film.

If Thithi was rooted in social realism, Jugnuma marks a striking shift, blending magic realism into its narrative, a rarity in Indian cinema. Mythology, folklore, the unexplained, and the magical seep into the film’s fabric. Yet, beneath it all lies a resonant truth that shines through like the first morning sun over the Himalayas. This is auteur cinema, not for everyone, but for those who love pure cinema, Jugnuma could turn out to be an exciting watch.

There is an unmistakable sense of newness to the storytelling. It announces itself right from the opening sequence, a single, continuous five-minute shot that begins in the realm of the utterly mundane, before unexpectedly taking flight into uncharted territory. Raam Reddy trusts the intelligence of his audience, leaving much not just to interpretation, but also to imagination. He never over-explains his ideas. With a stellar cast that includes Manoj Bajpayee, Priyanka Bose, Deepak Dobriyal, and Tillotama Shome, the film has the space and the craft to bring its complex ideas to fruition.

Jugnuma explores several themes: disconnect with nature, inheritance and privilege, the exploitation of indigenous communities, and quieter undercurrents of escapism and identity. None of these ideas are thrust at the viewer. Instead, they unfold allegorically, expressed through whimsical tales, mythology, folklore, and moments of the fantastical.

Shot entirely on 16 mm film, the imagery is dreamlike, almost painterly, transporting the viewer to the late eighties. These grainy, textured frames deepen the film’s magic realism. They are rich with information and subtle hints, yet remain gentle on the eye, inviting contemplation rather than demanding it.

The performances in Jugnuma significantly elevate the storytelling. Manoj Bajpayee, as Dev, a man born into privilege yet grappling with a quiet identity crisis and a tendency towards escapism, brings the full weight of his craft to a demanding role. Deepak Dobriyal, as Dev’s estate manager, delivers a finely nuanced performance within limited screen time. His character also serves as the film’s narrator, grounding the story even as it drifts into the ethereal.

However, some aspects of the film have invited criticism. In its refusal to over-explain, the writing leaves several threads unresolved. Whether this is a deliberate artistic choice or an invitation for the audience’s imagination is open to interpretation. There are also characters whose presence feels fleeting, appearing for a scene or two without their narrative purpose fully crystallising, Tillotama Shome’s character being a case in point. This avoidance of neat resolution may leave sections of the audience unsettled.

Yet, this very refusal to explain itself is also where Jugnuma distinguishes itself. The film is never sanctimonious. Instead, it invites repeat viewings, rewarding patience with the quiet pleasure of discovery, and the possibility of revealing new meanings and textures each time one returns to it.

Conclusion:

With Jugnuma, Raam Reddy continues to evolve as a filmmaker unafraid of ambiguity and risk. Moving away from the grounded social realism of Thithi, he embraces magic realism, mythology, and folklore to craft a fable that reflects our fractured relationship with nature, privilege, and belonging. Shot on evocative 16 mm film, anchored by assured performances, and guided by a director who trusts his audience, the film asks not to be consumed casually, but to be experienced with patience and openness. It may frustrate those seeking clarity and closure, but for viewers willing to surrender to its rhythms, Jugnuma offers the rare pleasure of cinema that lingers, invites introspection, and rewards repeat viewings.

Verdict:


IMDb rating: 6.6/10
My rating: 3.5/5

You can watch Jugnuma: The Fable on Prime Video.

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About the author:

Siddhartha Krishnan is the author of ‘Two and a Half Rainbows – A Collection of Short Stories’. An enthusiastic blogger he shares his essays, travelogues, book and movie reviews on his blog (www.whatsonsidsmind.com).