…we’ve seen it impersonating so many Indian properties on screen over the years that it now feels more like a party plot in Thane.

…this film is torturously dated, and runs far too long even as a glorified television episode. There have to be better ideas out there – like a spinoff movie on Sonam Kapoor’s computer-genius character from ‘Players’. You’re laughing already. See.

Certain classics, novel and inventive, because of the eras they occupy, don’t need to be remade or franchised with similar strokes. Unless one redefines the grammar of its genre (‘Mad Max: Fury Road’), it makes no sense; like building the Titanic again and promising passengers a whiter iceberg. Even Indominus, a fair-complexioned creature who takes forward recent female-centric themes, would much rather stay in test tubes. While the nostalgic child in me is curious, the adult in me is disappointed.

Mohit Suri, who has progressively lost control over his craft, is only a step away from fashioning moving pictures out of illustrated music albums.
As gratingly mediocre as Ek Villain was, this is easily Suri’s worst film.

There’s nothing wrong in making a rich film about hollow ‘rich’ problems.
That she generates empathy for characters whose introspective sessions happen in luxurious suites and velvet bathrobes instead of cramped flats doesn’t make this a lesser representation of mournfulness. These folks are victims of their own becoming, and it’s as compelling to watch, if not more, than a caricatured rags-to-riches journey.

This isn’t the first time Rai has left us gasping for more at interval point, only to overindulge with his treasure trove of actors. Tanu Weds Manu derailed similarly with some strange behavior-powered formula, and Raanjhanaa self-immolated with passion and soul. Mr. Sharma is a skilled writer as far as situational awareness is concerned. Now only if he can string lesser situations together in a more coherent manner.

Many Indians leave in search of a better life, convinced that a dollarwielding pauper is more respectable than a rupee-wielding pauper.

Surkhaab exposes their naivety, albeit with dignity, despite an awry third act that threatens to dilute the strength of its hero. As a frustrated Kuldeep wryly notes, Jeet eventually lives up to her name. In a way, this film does too.

Had this universe existed in a film not directed by Kashyap, I suspect it would have been appreciated more. But his voice precedes him, for he represents a fearless brand of Indian cinema. In this context, Bombay Velvet is a moderate Hollywood imitation; significant for the craft it brings on screen, but little more than an excessive footnote in a universal genre. I’d rather revisit On The Waterfront or Goodfellas instead.

This is the kind of seedy effort that makes me wonder if director Dholakia wrapped up shooting every night, met friends at a bar and cackled at lewd jokes about which body part got maximum screen time. Before another male director has Leone play a nurse so that innuendos revolve around body exams and instruments, I suggest a blanket ban on bananas and Indian sex comedies.

Unlike its cagey titular character, Piku is a film that’s hard to dislike. It is structured as a journey that relies, at times forcibly, on the relatable nature of its protagonists. The music feels like a warm breeze, worldviews and personalities seem familiar, and the quiet final minutes reiterate the circular motion of life.