Sukanya Verma

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Haiwaan's staggeringly foolish notions make for unintended comedy.

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Cocktail 2 drags on the silliness far too long and lamely to ever work.

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It could not have been an easy decision to make given the diplomatic complexities, tricky logistics and looming criticism but director Mandlekar's flimsy writing fails to bring out the historic undertone in its trials and triumph.

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Main Vaapas Aaunga is about one such refugee's repressed memory whose fragments are pieced together in Imtiaz Ali's emotionally resonant drama. It's a love story not because of the transcendental ideas of romance it upholds but the legacy of hate it refuses to pass on among younger people. Reams could be written on the subject of Partition but a rueful 'why' encapsulates the futility of it all. At a time when the politics of hostility has engulfed the world and escalated it into senseless wars -- most evocatively captured in the end credits song Kya Kamaal Hai filled with devastating images of uprooted victims from conflict torn lands -- Main Vaapas Aaunga's unwavering belief in love is a testament to cinema's uplifting gifts.

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Despite a pleasant aesthetic and scenic locations, the show suffers from dull chemistry between the leads and a lack of compelling character development, particularly for Preeti.

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Dabba Cartel’s reluctant black comedy in the body of a crime thriller starts out interestingly enough to accomplish its Narcos: Thane aspirations.

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Nadaaniyan's lack of charm, chemistry and cheek fails to create any ripples. Set in a fancy schmancy Delhi international school where twelfth graders converse in social media catchwords, contemplate Ivy league education in designer totes and preppy chic, portray friendships as scrapbooks of selfies stamped in animated hearts and emojis and mock at classmates hailing from not-so-upscale parts of the city in such over-the-top snobbish tone, it's like back to college with Gulshan Grover in his windbag era all over again. Bollywood's Gen Z stories need more than a Orry cameo to snap out of its Gen X mindset if it plans to get anywhere with its Delhi vs NCR, SoBo vs suburbs, small town versus cities socio-cultural divide, in search of smarter arguments than the relentless 'Nyodda' jibes.

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John Abraham plays Jitender Pal Singh aka JP with a prim moustache and pecs poking through his crisply ironed slim fit formal shirt but the only action he delivers is a smile and some snark.

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Be it as a source of fire, secret or endgame, everything is seen through the prism of sex and good looks in The Royals, observes Sukanya Verma.

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Bollywood biopics have a tendency to shuffle chronologies, romanticise or overstate the truth. Ae Watan Mere Watan isn't above fictionalising Usha Mehta's story or depicting the Brits like one-note grimacing geezers (Alexx O'Nell). Yet, before it slumps into a needless overdrive of dramatic excesses and stagy hysterics, there's a sincere desire to capture the early 1940s. For a movie where radio acts as a powerful tool, Ae Watan Mere Watan exemplifies the importance of having a voice in Darab Farooqui's eloquent expressions. Director Kannan Iyer's world building relies on the everyday challenges faced by its young protestors upholding Gandhian values and rejecting capitalism yet bending over backwards to raise funds for their mission -- 'Bina paison ke inquilab tak laana namumkin hai batao', one of them shakes his head in amusement.

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Amar Singh Chamkila's social commentary comes alive in its musical elegy for a ribald rebel. Brimming in exuberant covers of his original numbers, performed in person by its leads, the biopic finds its alter ego in Irshad Kamil's kaleidoscopic song writing. Capturing an artist's gift to articulate his dirtiest desires before a sexually repressed crowd and say it like it is, the curse of censorship versus the demands of fans where you're damned if you do and damned if you don't and complexities of making music in the time of militancy, serve as a standalone movie. Composer A R Rahman is happy to accommodate the zeal of his many, many beautiful words in beats so sublime they do perfect justice to Punjab's fabled Elvis Presley. Amar Singh Chamkila streams on Netflix.

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Whatever little amusement the premise promised fizzles out as soon as the twain engage in a dreary battle of wits based on their food and phobias. Ammy Virk's vanilla appeal feels pale next to Vicky Kaushal's vibrant persona. His full throttle energy and Triptii's superiority in a slight role elevate the rom-com's favour, which loses all steam when it becomes a one-way contest between its two heroes and forgets about the heroine and her wants. It's not an equal contest by any measure. Vicky has all the advantages -- the songs, the swagger, the script and the enthusiasm designed to play to the gallery. And he works every inch of it. What doesn't help is Ammy and Triptii have the chemistry of a door-to-door salesman and disinterested customer. On the other hand, she and Vicky burn down the house with their scorching sensuality.

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For a franchise that's build itself around a catchy ear worm and a ghost who likes to introduce themselves in ways that's more Bong than Bond, Bhool Bhulaiyaa preserves its 'silly scary movie that knows it is a silly scary movie' tone for a good measure only to pleasantly surprise with its sympathetic take on transgender identity.

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Call Me Bae's snazzy momentum pursues social activism like a tagline not a punchline. Where its toxic office space is more in line with A Devil Calls Prada and Bruce Almighty, lifting the lid on influential men taking advantage of vulnerable women has the seriousness of a Nancy Drew investigation. Bae's history of dysfunctionality crops up in fleeting flashbacks connecting to her attention-grabbing tactics in the present but they aren’t as effective as the array of fields she specialises in. Mixology courses from Ibiza to climate resilience for the high net worth individual to following a diet of only oranges to fit into a bikini, Bae's talent is as wide ranging as it is wild. As evident in Karan Johar's Rocky Aur Rani Kii Prem Kahani, Moitra-the wordsmith precedes all else. The writer has a gift for puns, pop culture lingo and trends that change faster than the speed of light. Occasionally, the breakneck speed of her verbal volleys can be crazy to keep up with but it's a flavour of its own and Call Me Bae is all the better for it.

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Any major movie that has Part 1 in its title will translate to unfinished business. Only it's not due to the cliffhanger moment that Devara: Part 1 arrives at after three hours of slow-motion savagery and bombastic heroics but a glaring lack of end goal in Koratala Siva's generic spectacle. Unable to fully lure us into its furore or make sense of its ambiguity, the curse of the sequel relying on the first one to succeed is fast setting a worrying precedent of fragmented filmmaking. World building is of little consequence if the larger objectives remain unclear and Devara's hazy approach tells it doesn't wish to count its chickens before they hatch. Which is why you'll never understand why India hosting the cricket World Cup has anything to do with a cop's pursuit of a fabled seaside superhero on a remote island far, far away from the mainland.

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