A movie like PadMan, progressive in its pitch but with nothing else to sustain it, settles the issue of our liberals taking their good taste too seriously.

For this is not truly a liberal world if we keep searching for alternatives to regressive ideas in an R Balki film.

My worry is that many who are not fond of Kashyap’s usual complex sensibility would like this latest move: They’ll applaud the fact that he’s going for the tear glands with brass knuckles on.

The tragedy of Mukkabaaz is not that it aims low; the tragedy is that it aims low and hits.

In movies like Qarib Qarib Singlle, we don’t even get that sort of pleasure, only a deadness that never goes away.

If you happen to like this film, I have to assume there’s something seriously wrong with your idea of a journey.

Tu Hai Mera Sunday has delightful women characters, sketchy men, and individual threads that work better than the whole package…

The noise of the crowd, the badly phrased banter of the unthinking mob, the music in the butcher’s knife, the tiny dreams of little people, these asides were the true essence of Raj and DK’s first two movies, and it seems like they’ve stopped stepping out and recording them.

Indu Sarkar opens with the declaration of Emergency but its true beginning-point is a disclaimer proclaiming it as a work of fiction bearing nothing more than a chance resemblance to people, places, and events.

I found that disclaimer to be less of a mandatory insert and more an apology for the film’s artlessness.

Lipstick Under My Burkha touches, fleetingly, upon this aspect of female bonding that is removed from the compulsions of protesting.

When the film is not making points, it has some life.

When it goes off into conscious revolting, it’s just distributing pamphlets.

2 hours and 20 minutes later, I walked out of Sachin: A Billion Dreams learning not one additional thing about Tendulkar: Not one factoid, not one statistic.

Maybe it’s convenient filmmaking, or maybe just the essence of God.

Ram Gopal Varma is back with Part Three of that series, which presented to us the first clear evidence that the great man was slipping…

Despite its gargantuan cast, there are not more than 10 people in Baahubali who actually talk; the others merely exist as echoes. These are people forever chanting their support, nodding their heads in accord, or following directions.

If you think about it, this lop-sided view of heroism is in complete disagreement with the spirit of great movies. But in a world of sheer campy values, as this one, such problems became the very essence of the experience.