Sometimes a film isn’t just cinema. It’s a statement. Our art is a reflection of the society that we live in today. And Aditya Dhar’s Dhurandhar is a statement – that this is a new India that is unapologetic and gives back as good as it gets. Our soldiers enter our enemy’s homes and beat them to pulp. Our artists and storytellers are now doing the same.

Dhurandhar feels like a classified dossier opened for the public — every frame signalling an India that has moved from defence to offence, turning cinema itself into a cultural surgical strike against decades of narrative assault by D-gang filmmakers.

Bollywood finally gets a political action drama that isn’t scared of Pakistan, the ISI, or the Congress ecosystem—and most importantly, a film that doesn’t tiptoe around historical realities.

But before we go ahead with the review, it helps tremendously to know the real figures whose shadows loom large over the film.

The Real Men Behind The Reel

Rehman Dakait Played By Akshay Khanna

The feared Karachi crime lord, was more than a gangster—he was a quasi-political actor protected by Pakistan’s deep state. His reign over Lyari forms the violent texture of the film’s Karachi underworld, and Akshay Khanna infuses that biography with a menacing and terrific performance.

Chaudhry Aslam Played By Sanjay Dutt

Pakistan’s infamous “encounter specialist” who led the Lyari Task Force against Karachi’s underworld before terrorists assassinated him in 2014. Sanjay Dutt’s role is clearly modelled on him—steely, haunted and built on a lifetime of combat with Karachi’s monsters.

Ilyas Kashmiri Played By Arjun Rampal

Former Pakistani commando turned global jihadi asset, deeply tied to ISI operations and cross-border terror campaigns. Arjun Rampal’s character channels the cold-blooded tactician Kashmiri was.

Ajit Doval Played By R. Madhavan

And in unmistakable shadows stands Ajit Doval, India’s living legend of covert doctrines and national security strategy. Dhar never names him, but the film breathes Doval’s worldview—the doctrine of offence as defence.

The Hits

The film begins, in classic Aditya Dhar style, in sharply defined chapters—each chapter world-builds, introduces new characters, creates a texture, ends with a bang and shifts us into a deeper labyrinth. By the interval (two hours into the film!) you don’t even realise time has passed. The pace is relentless.

This isn’t Bollywood’s usual cardboard Pakistan. Dhar takes us into the dirty gutters of Lyari, the gang alleys, the ISI-controlled shadows, and Pakistan’s terror breeding underbelly with frightening authenticity. It feels like Dhar himself air-dropped into Karachi taking notes like a R&AW operative to draw the viewers into the dirty miserable hellhole called Pakistan and Pakistanis are shown like they deserve to be shown.

The authenticity hits like a gut-shot: Dhar’s research feels forensic, as if he embedded with ghost operators, sketching Lyari’s bullet-riddled bazaars and Peshawar’s teeming madrasas. Dhar can probably add “Expert on Pakistan Affairs” to his Insta bio—he’s earned it. Dhar deploys Guy Ritchie-esque on-screen text blasts to tag characters.

The violence in the film is Tarantino-esque in its rawness and unflinching brutality, but it goes a step further. The gore doesn’t feel stylised—it feels disturbingly real. Dhar doesn’t just show violence, he makes you feel it. Unlike Tarantino, where you admire the craft of bloodshed from a safe cinematic distance, Dhurandhar drags you into the visceral pain of it. You don’t just witness the violence—you absorb it.

Akshaye Khanna’s Rehman Dakait is the film’s feral heart—tight-lipped menace propelling the plot more than Singh’s brooding Hamza, who arrives looking every inch the chiseled “chad” but shines in quiet vulnerability. Sanjay Dutt’s Chaudhary Aslam is a powder-keg patriarch, his gravelly Pashto inflections evoking the real cop’s doomed valor. Arjun Rampal slinks as Ilyas Kashmiri, all icy calculation, while Sara Arjun slips into Yalina’s skin, though their romance feels like the one soft spot in this ironclad tale. R. Madhavan pops as the Doval-like RAW head, his silences louder than soliloquies during the first 10 minutes of the film.

Shashwat Sachdev’s score isn’t merely background music—it becomes an active character in the narrative. The vintage tracks, layered with his contemporary signature sound, melt seamlessly into the film’s fabric, elevating every frame. And then there’s the camerawork—especially in the action and chase sequences—which deserves a standing ovation. Every shot feels carefully choreographed, immersive, and purposefully raw.

The Misses

If there’s one place the film overindulges, it’s in the length of the action and chase sequences. A tighter edit would’ve made them far more impactful, because after a point the outcome becomes predictable.

The romance between Hamsa and Yalina, too, needed more emotional depth. The stakes feel oddly low, making the track come across as formulaic rather than integral.

And while the narrative relies heavily on dialogue to unfold the larger conspiracy, there are moments where it slips into a cinematic-documentary tone. A more organic integration within the screenplay—rather than spoken exposition—could’ve made these revelations even more powerful.

Dhar, The Dhurandhar

Aditya Dhar holds no punches and rips apart Congress laying bare its sins. If you’ve brushed up on UPA-era scandals or 26/11 intel lapses, every frame lands heavier.

The film reveals how the Congress-led UPA sourced Indian currency security material from the British firm De La Rue—the very same company supplying Pakistan—jeopardizing India’s national security, implicating a senior Congress leader and his son in the process.

There’s a scene involving Ajit Doval look-alike Madhavan briefing the Minister while the R&AW head who resembles AS Dulat, is seen going soft on Pakistan.

The film also discusses how counterfeit notes, terror funding make their way into India through illegal slaughter houses in Uttar Pradesh and the ‘secular’ politics that shield them. It feels like Dhar asking the viewers “Do you understand the reason behind demonetization now?” but without preaching or cinematic dialogues.

Perhaps the most devastating is Dhar’s portrayal of 26/11 Mumbai terror attacks and the events leading upto it.

In the second half comes the most haunting moment of the film. It’s not even a scene—just a blood-red screen, stark black text, and chilling voices echoing in the background. No characters, no action, nothing “cinematic” in the traditional sense. Yet Aditya Dhar folds a real-life incident into his fictional universe with such precision that the hall froze in pin-drop silence. The audience wasn’t watching a scene—they were experiencing a cold, uncomfortable truth.

He drives home the point that never ever should Congress come to power.

Aditya Dhar practically lined up Congress, Pakistanis and the ISI like guilty suspects, pulled out a lathi of cold facts, and landed blow after blow—right on their backs. The line “Ghayal hun isiliye Ghatak hun” (I am wounded, therefore I am lethal), delivered near the film’s climax, isn’t just a dialogue—it’s the declaration of Dhar and the New India itself.

Anupama Chopra has called the film laden with “shrill nationalism” and “inflammatory anti-Pakistan narrative”. Dhruv Rathee compared Dhar to ISIS because he cannot digest India finally portraying Pakistan exactly as it is — a terrorist manufacturing factory calling itself a country.

Their outrage proves Dhar’s accuracy. Period.

Dhurandhar isn’t cinema.
It’s a debriefing.
It’s a counter-attack.
It’s a cultural surgical strike.

And yes—Congress, Pakistan, and their loud online lackeys will cry. If Pakistan and its loyal Indian proxies are rattled, Operation Dhurandhar is already successful.

Waiting for more of their meltdown in March 2026.

S Kaushik is a political writer and a film buff.

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The post Dhurandhar Review: Aditya Dhar Rips Apart Congress, Pakistanis And ISI Dry, That’s Gonna Make Its Lackeys Cry appeared first on The Commune.

In his pre-release interview with Sudhir Srinivasan, Mari Selvaraj spoke of offering the people of his region and community a bird’s-eye view — showing them how he sees them, from the perspective of an outsider who has journeyed far in his evolution as a filmmaker.

And that’s precisely what he does in Bison Kaalamaadan. He lays bare how impulsive rage has kept old flames smoldering, how small grievances are fanned into generations-long conflicts, and how this cycle shapes the lives of those trapped within it.

Mari Selvaraj’s Bison Kaalamaadan isn’t just a film — it’s an act of cinematic courage. Set against the volatile socio-political backdrop of southern Tamil Nadu during the Pasupathi Pandian–Venkatesh Pannaiyar era, Mari blends historical realism with haunting fiction. The result is a deeply rooted, emotionally stirring tale that looks caste, conflict, and identity straight in the eye — without flinching, without sermonizing.

Right from the opening frame, Mari signals that we are in for something audacious. The first shot — a breathtaking bottom-up view of the inside of a cylindrical high-rise, with identical floors circling upward — evokes the horns of a bison stacked behind one another. Something like this:

It’s both a literal and symbolic tunnel: the viewer being drawn into the world of the Bison, and a visual metaphor for the odds the protagonist must rise above. As a big fan of Mari’s visual grammar, I was hooked – this is the world of Bison, and we’re being pulled right into its spine.

At its heart, Bison Kaalamaadan tells the story of Kittan (Dhruv Vikram), a young man from a so-called “untouchable” community whose life revolves around kabaddi — a sport built on touch. Mari uses this irony brilliantly, turning the game into both metaphor and battleground. Kittan’s journey is one of discrimination, betrayal, and redemption — but not in the simplistic “oppressor versus oppressed” binary we’ve been fed by recent Dravidianist narratives.

Mari does something far more honest and courageous. He holds up a mirror to his own community, revealing the caste prejudices that thrive even among those who are generalized as “oppressed”. Kittan faces discrimination and violence both from members of his “rival” community but also from within — from an extended family member, a caste zealot who rallies behind the Dalit leader Pandiarajan. And Mari doesn’t resort to token symbolism or virtue signaling. He doesn’t show someone cutting a poonool to make a statement. Instead, he stages a far more powerful image — the PT teacher snipping away the caste-marker threads of red-green, green-blue, yellow-red. The message lands quietly yet firmly: on the kabaddi ground, caste doesn’t speak — talent does. It’s a moment of profound self-introspection and rare honesty, one that few filmmakers in Tamil cinema would dare to attempt.

And yet, it’s people from the so-called “rival” communities who lift him higher. The PT teacher (Madankumar Dakshinamoorthy) who first encourages him, Kandasamy (Lal) — a kabaddi coach from the “dominant” caste who spots his talent and breaks bread with him — and Kaandippan (Azhagam Perumal), whose home proudly displays a portrait of freedom fighter Arthanareesa Varma, all become agents of change in Kittan’s life for the better.

This is where Mari Selvaraj’s brilliance truly shines. He doesn’t villainize. He doesn’t glorify. He humanizes. Even when Kandasamy’s relationship with Kittan fractures under the weight of social violence, Mari refuses to demonize him. Instead, he lets pragmatism and pain coexist — Lal’s Kandasamy isn’t evil, just trapped in a brutal world order. And even in separation, he ensures Kittan’s growth by recommending him to another club. It’s rare empathy in today’s polarizing cinematic landscape.

Cinematically, Bison Kaalamaadan is a masterclass in pace and tension. Despite running close to three hours, the film never drags. The rapid-fire edits, the claustrophobic camera work, and Nivas Prasanna’s tense score create an atmosphere thick with urgency and danger. The qualifying match sequence, intercut with Kittan’s father dancing in a trance before their clan deity, stands as one of Mari’s most powerful visual montages — a scene where religion, sport, and emotion merge into something almost transcendental. The pounding Rajamelam that we heard in Karnan and Dhruv’s fierce energy make it pure goosebump cinema.

Like every Mari Selvaraj film, animals in Bison Kaalamaadan carry deep symbolic weight. From Karuppi the dog in Pariyerum Perumal to the tied donkey in Karnan, the pigs in Maamannan, and the cow that wanders into a banana plantation in Vaazhai, Mari has always used animals as living metaphors — pivots that elevate the story, heighten the tension, and mirror the human condition. In Bison, it is a goat that pisses inside a bus.

Dhruv Vikram delivers a deeply committed performance, his physical transformation as a kabaddi player evident in every move. But it’s Pasupathi who owns the film. It wouldn’t be unfair to say that he’s the real hero. His portrayal is extraordinary — every flicker of his eyes, every muscle under his cheek tells a story of trauma, endurance, and pride. His performance alone is reason enough to watch Bison Kaalamaadan.

Lal and Ameer have also done their job quite well giving a sense of what the rivalry between Pasupathi Pandian and Venkatesh Pannaiyar would’ve been like.

What’s perhaps most striking about Mari’s evolution is how he rejects the tired Dravidianist clichés that plague modern Tamil cinema. There’s no Brahmin-bashing. No north-versus-south sloganeering. No preachy political inserts. In fact, a Tamil man casually speaking Hindi becomes a quiet but powerful moment — a reminder that embracing another language isn’t betrayal, and that identity and inclusivity can coexist without bitterness.

And then comes the final image — the Indian tricolour flying high. It’s not jingoism, but a visual of triumph and unity. After all the blood, discrimination, and chaos, the flag becomes a symbol of transcendence — of belonging to something larger than caste, creed, or conflict. When was the last time you saw a Tamil film end with the Indian flag shown with such dignity, such purity?

And underpinning it all is Mari’s central message — that anger, when channelled right, can be transformative. For Kittan, anger births achievement; for Mari, it births art. The film stands as a testament to what righteous fury can create when guided by compassion and self-awareness.

“Everything that you speak out loud, let it be spoken from within the seeds”

Those were Mari’s opening words in the video of Naan Yaar song from Pariyerum Perumal — and with Bison Kaalamaadan, he has done exactly that. He has spoken from the roots, from the soil that shaped him.

As noted in my review of Vaazhai, Mari Selvaraj is a gifted filmmaker at the height of his cinematic mastery and storytelling craft — a storyteller who should continue to chronicle his life, his journey, and his community’s struggles through such deeply rooted, resonant tales.

Kaushik is a film buff and political writer. 

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The post Bison Review: Mari Selvaraj’s Most Mature, Honest, And Fearless ‘Raid’ Of Self-Introspection That Lands As A Masterstroke appeared first on The Commune.

When Rishab Shetty released Kantara in 2022, it became more than a film—it was a cultural phenomenon, a spiritual storm that gripped the nation. Now, with Kantara: Chapter 1, Shetty dives deeper, crafting a prequel that transports audiences to the misty forests of Kadamba-era Karnataka, where myth, faith, and human frailty clash in a blaze of cinematic grandeur. The film isn’t just a story—it’s an invocation, a spectacle that thunders with both divinity and philosophy, while daring to counter the divisive narratives of Dravidianist cinema.

But does this ambitious saga live up to its predecessor? The answer lies somewhere between spiritual magnificence and cinematic imperfection.

A Spectacle Forged In Fire And Faith

From the opening frame, Kantara: Chapter 1 declares itself a visual and sonic odyssey. Cinematographer Arvind S. Kashyap paints the forests as both sanctuary and battlefield—mist curling around ancient trees, fire consuming ritual altars, and armies clashing in bursts of primal energy. The dense jungles themselves are a feast for the eyes, captured with a richness that makes the screen breathe with life. It’s the kind of world-building that feels mythic yet tangible, like stepping into a legend told around tribal fires centuries ago.

The VFX, a noticeable leap from the original, doesn’t scream technology but whispers devotion. Animals—majestic and godlike—emerge as symbols of power and reverence. The divine possession sequences, where Shetty’s Berme channels the deity Panjurli, transcend performance. They don’t feel staged; they feel summoned. Only a person with sincere devotion and guided by the divine could’ve pulled it off!

And then there’s B. Ajaneesh Loknath’s music. If the film is the body, the score is its heartbeat. Tribal drums pound like war cries, flutes soar like whispers of the divine, and crescendos crackle with energy. The nerve-shredding clash between the tribes and the kingdom—erupts with a force that leaves audiences breathless at the interval. The climax is just audacious, an equivalent to Lord Krishna revealing his Vishwaroopam avatar that leaves the viewers mesmerized in devotion.

Performances Anchored In Devotion

Rishab Shetty is the film’s soul. As Berme, the tribal leader, he embodies both primal fury and spiritual surrender. This isn’t mere acting—it feels like a man possessed, channelling something larger than himself. His sincerity seeps into every frame, convincing you that only someone guided by devotion could pull off such a role.

Rukmini Vasanth rules the screen as Princess Kanakavathi, balancing elegance with sharp intelligence as she navigates a patriarchal court. Jayaram lends gravitas as King Vijayendra, while Gulshan Devaiah’s Kulasekhara, though compelling, doesn’t get the narrative space he deserves. Still, the ensemble holds strong, with Shetty’s raw energy anchoring the storm.

Where The Film Stumbles

For all its grandeur, Kantara: Chapter 1 isn’t flawless. The screenplay takes its time—too much time—meandering through exposition-heavy setup before the story truly ignites. What should feel like mythic immersion occasionally drags like a heavy trek. The editing, too, could have been tighter; several stretches would have benefitted from sharper cuts to sustain rhythm and urgency.

Then there’s the humor. In a film steeped in mysticism and reverence, the clunky jokes and misplaced banter fall embarrassingly flat. Instead of offering relief, they rupture the atmosphere, leaving viewers shifting uncomfortably in their seats. The gags “hardly tickle your ribs” and feel like filler in an otherwise thunderous narrative.

The Philosophical Counterpoint

But the true power of Kantara: Chapter 1 lies not just in its cinematic craft but in its philosophy. At its heart, the story pits the Kantara tribe—guardians of the sacred forest—against a kingdom blinded by greed and arrogance. This echoes the eternal oppressed-versus-oppressor trope, yet Shetty flips the narrative lens.

Unlike Pa Ranjith or TJ Gnanavel, whose films (Kaala, Jai Bhim) reduce oppression to caste binaries—vilifying Brahmins, Vanniyars, or Thevars as monolithic villains—Shetty refuses to demonize entire communities. Instead, the oppressor here is not a caste but an exploitative system of hubris motivated by individual greed of those in power.

On one side stand Dravidianist propagandists like Pa. Ranjith, dismissing the Chola era as a ‘dark age’ simply because the dynasty openly upheld Vedic Hinduism. On the other side, we have filmmakers like Rishab Shetty, who rise above petty politics and instead seek to unite people through the realm of spirituality.

This is where the film becomes an antidote to the poison of hate. Berme’s resistance, rooted in his communion with Panjurli, is not a call to resentment but a spiritual rebellion against desecration. The climax doesn’t end with vengeance; it ends with restoration of dharma. Unlike Dravidianist cinema that thrives on anti-Hindu hate and confrontation, Shetty’s story finds resolution in transcendence and spirituality. Justice here is divine, not divisive.

It’s a radical narrative choice—and a powerful one. Instead of perpetuating blame, Kantara reasserts that unity lies in aligning with the divine, not in tearing communities apart. This is the film’s greatest victory: a reclamation of cultural pride that uplifts rather than divides.

Final Verdict: Flawed, But Towering

Yes, Kantara: Chapter 1 has its faults. The dragging first half tests patience, the humor misfires, and parts of the narrative feel uneven. The editing could have been leaner, sharpening the storytelling without compromising depth. Yet when weighed against its ambition, its sincerity, and its spiritual firepower, these shortcomings seem minor.

This is not just another prequel cashing in on a franchise—it is a statement, a cultural beacon. Cinematically, it demands the big screen. Philosophically, it dares to counter the rhetoric of hate with the resonance of faith. Spiritually, it revives an old truth: that dharma, not division, restores balance.

Rishab Shetty has not just made a film—he has offered an experience. Kantara: Chapter 1 is flawed, yes. But it is also magnificent, a towering achievement that roars with devotion and resonates with hope in a fractured world.

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The post Kantara – Chapter 1 Review: Rishab Shetty’s Epic Visual Spectacle Is A Flawed Roar But The Perfect Antidote To The Divisive Dravidianist Poison appeared first on The Commune.

The Tamil film industry’s insidious tradition of peddling anti-Brahmin propaganda finds its latest champion in Christian actor Vijay Antony, whose 25th film “Sakthi Thirumagan” represents yet another shameless attempt to vilify the Brahmin community while masquerading as ‘progressive’ (when it is actually regressive) cinema. Directed by Arun Prabhu, the film postures as a political thriller tackling corruption and power games, but scratch a little, and it becomes clear: the entire exercise is nothing but a vehicle to peddle brahmin hate, glorify EV Ramasamy Naicker (hailed as ‘Periyar’ by his followers) and shift blame for Tamil Nadu’s rot onto the Central Government.

A Plot Built On Stereotypes, Vendetta, And Moral Bankruptcy

The film follows Kittu (Vijay Antony), a powerful broker in the Tamil Nadu Secretariat who takes on a mighty “crony capitalist,” Abhyankkar Srinivasa Swamy (named after Subramania Swamy?) but modelled explicitly after figures like Adani and Ambani. However, in a lazy and inflammatory narrative choice, the director Arun Prabhu and actor-producer Vijay Antony choose to portray him as a sloka-chanting crony capitalist, stripped of realism and stuffed into a Brahmin caricature. He is shown performing pujas for power and openly justifies crushing the weak (add a random sloka here). His ultimate goal? To become the President of India. A laughable aspiration presented as though the post is an omnipotent seat that can “change everything.” Who are the makers fooling?

The supporting cast reeks of ideological shoehorning – they highlight a so-called “Brahmin lobby” ad nauseam, with even a corrupt central minister character clearly modelled on an a woman minister who is a Brahmin – right from her facial structure to hair colour fits one person – you can take your guess. Yes, Vijay Antony and the makers want you to think of Nirmala Sitharaman. The police officer assigned to torment the hero is named Ram Pandey, another deliberate communal marker. The film’s message is not subtle: all the ills of the nation stem from a specific community, a dangerous and divisive trope that belongs in the dustbin of hatemongering, not in modern cinema.

Glorifying Criminality As A Path To Justice

The film’s morality is not just ambiguous; it is outright toxic. In a deeply problematic sequence – one of its most disturbing subplots, the “hero” Kittu’s method of obtaining justice for a rape (committed by a character pointedly identified as a Brahmin pedophile principal) and covered up as suicide/accident is to seek not legal recourse but violent revenge. He is shown coldly manipulating a young, impressionable boy, convincing him to commit murder. To make this heinous act palatable, Kittu offers the boy a payment of 50 lakhs to carry out the killing and serve the ensuing 7-year prison sentence. This is celebrated in the film as a form of “justice.” What message does this send to society? That revenge killings and minors sacrificing their lives for vendetta are justified?

The film frames this as a righteous, albeit dark, necessary evil. However, the message it sends is appalling that the legal system is irredeemable, and that the correct solution is to corrupt the youth, incentivize murder with money, and embrace vigilantism. This is a socially irresponsible narrative that could have dangerous repercussions, glorifying the very lawlessness it pretends to critique.

Kittu himself is no saint either. He is shown engaging in shady cryptocurrency trades and other unlawful activities to fund his schemes. When Kittu sells his NFT for a staggering $23.7 million and uses the proceeds to fund bombing campaigns and cyberattacks, the film presents these criminal acts as heroic endeavors. This irresponsible portrayal sends a chilling message to audiences that the ends justify the means, no matter how violent or illegal. Glorifying vigilante justice did no society no good.

The film pretends this is all noble because he is “using the rot in the system to fight the system.” In reality, it is nothing more than the glorification of breaking the law to achieve self-styled justice. The audience is left with a hero who endorses shortcuts, crime, and manipulation as legitimate tools of activism.

Hypocrisy At Its Core: EVR’s Ideology Force-Fed

The most glaring contradiction lies in the character of the EV Ramasamy Naicker following grandfather (Vaagai Chandrasekhar) who raises the hero who is abandoned at a garbage dump after his tribal mother is raped and murdered by people close to the villain (Abhyankar) and the killing covered up as suicide. The same EVR who infamously derided Tamil as a “barbaric language” is portrayed here through a character mouthing Tamil sayings and wisdom. This revisionism is breathtaking. The grandfather is shown as a noble soul, yet his method of activism is defacing public and private property with his paintings/writings – the film actually glorifies vandalism.

Vijay Antony, a professed Christian, seems to have no qualms about championing an ideology fundamentally opposed to his own faith’s tenets, as long as it serves a politically convenient narrative. The hero is shown as a believer – applies vibhuti/goes to temple, despite growing up fed with E.V. Ramasamy’s (EVR) ideology, creating a confusing and incoherent character arc that serves only to peddle the director’s agenda.

A Cinematic Failure On Every Level

The title Shakthi Thirumagan is itself a deception. One might expect a divine connection, a reference to Devi. But apart from a token birth scene, the goddess has no place. Instead, the “Shakthi” is redefined as a man molded by EVR ideology, sneering at faith while masquerading as a champion of justice.

The film is pacy, the first half shows the hero is an all-powerful influencer but things keep happening superficially and go over your head. It offers no compelling visuals or sequences to prove it. We are simply told he is powerful, a fatal flaw in screenwriting. If the first half was engaging to some extent, the second half is too quick and leaves you so confused that you lose track of what is happening.

The attempt to appear “hi-fi” with shallow mentions of Bitcoin and NFTs fails to scratch the surface, leaving audiences confused.

The heroine is utterly redundant, and Vijay Antony’s performance face has a perpetual scowl.

In the end, you don’t even remember why the hero did all what he did and what was the purpose of the film in the first place.

Tamil Cinema’s Systematic Bias

Sakthi Thirumagan is merely the latest example of Tamil cinema’s systematic bias against the Brahmin community. From hiding the Brahmin identity of heroes like Major Mukund Varadarajan in “Amaran” to creating elaborate villain characters specifically to demonize Brahmins in this film, Tamil cinema has proved that it exists only to serve the Dravidianist interests. The film industry’s tolerance for such blatant communalism while preaching tolerance elsewhere exposes the hollow nature of its progressive pretensions.

Director Arun Prabhu Purushothaman, previously known for films like “Aruvi,” has chosen to abandon artistic integrity in favor of pandering to the lowest common denominator. His decision to transform a potentially meaningful critique of corruption into a vehicle for communal hatred and vigilante violence is very telling.

The Great Tamil Nadu Whitewash

Last but not the least, the most pathetic aspect of this film is its cowardice. It is set in the corridors of the Tamil Nadu Secretariat, a hotbed of well-documented corruption and caste-based politics. Yet, the film conveniently sidesteps any meaningful critique of the state government. Instead, it redirects all blame to a nebulous “Central Government” and the “Brahmin lobby.” This is a calculated move to appease the Dravidianist political quarters while avoiding any real, relevant commentary.

Verdict

Sakthi Thirumagan is not just a bad film; it’s a toxic sh*t film. It seems to be a film that was made to launder money – that which the hero does in the film. It uses the platform of cinema to spread communal hatred, glorify criminal vigilantism, and push Dravidianist political propaganda. By making this film, Vijay Antony and director Arun Prabhu have revealed their true intent: that they have jumped into the septic tank of Dravidianist propaganda and willfully scapegoat the Brahmin community, peddle lies as need be.

Hydra is a political writer.

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The post Vijay Antony Jumps Into Dravidianist Septic Tank With “Sakthi Thirumagan”: Peddles Brahmin Hate By Showing Them As Pedophiles And Evil Cronies, Shows Nirmala Sitharaman Look-Alike As Corrupt, Blames “Brahmin Lobby” And Central Govt For Everything Wrong appeared first on The Commune.

Following the controversial release of Empuraan, Malayalam cinema has sparked another round of debate with anti-Hindu film Lokah, which is being hailed as a groundbreaking superhero film rooted in Kerala folklore. However, critics argue that beneath its cinematic appeal lies a narrative with clear ideological overtones particularly one that casts Hindu traditions in a negative light while portraying Christian imagery in a glorified manner.

The protagonist, Kalliyankattu Neeli, is a figure from Kerala’s traditional folklore, historically feared as a Yakshi, a spirit known for its vengeful nature. In Lokah, however, she is reinterpreted as a liberator of the oppressed. A key turning point in the story involves her killing a Hindu king who had ordered the massacre of her people for entering a temple. This portrayal positions Hindu rulers as brutal and exclusionary, and temples as symbols of systemic oppression framing defiance against these structures as heroic.

Interestingly, the character who guides Neeli toward becoming a force for good is not a Hindu figure such as a sage or protector but Kadamattathu Kathanar, a Christian priest. He is depicted as the one who recruits Neeli to serve a greater moral purpose. This narrative choice places the Christian cleric in the role of the redemptive guide, a common trope in stories where religious authority is used to frame morality.

The underlying message, as critics see it, is unambiguous: Hindu figures are cast as antagonists, while Christian characters are shown as moral saviors. This theme continues into the climax, where Neeli and her companion defeat Nachiyappa, a Hindu police officer portrayed as corrupt and abusive. They also dismantle the Garuda Force a fictional elite military unit resembling the Indian armed forces in a location named the Holy Grail Café. The symbolism here is carefully chosen: Hindu law enforcement is villainized, the military is portrayed as oppressive, and Christian symbols like the “Holy Grail” represent righteousness and victory.

Though marketed under the themes of folklore, feminism, and fantasy, the film has drawn criticism for allegedly embedding a polarizing ideological message into mainstream entertainment. Detractors believe that traditional Hindu symbols are vilified, while Christian motifs are upheld and celebrated.

The timing of the film’s release has also been questioned. Arriving during Onam, Kerala’s most significant Hindu festival, Lokah’s reimagining of folklore and cultural memory has struck a nerve with some viewers, who feel that it seeks to redefine long-standing traditions at a moment when they are publicly honored.

(This article is based on an X Thread By The Jaipur Dialogues)

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The post Lokah Chapter 1 Weaponizes Kerala Folklore To Push Anti-Hindu Propaganda While Glorifying Christianity appeared first on The Commune.

The moment the first look dropped, you could smell what was coming — Coolie was bound to be another glossy, overhyped dud in Rajinikanth’s post-Kabali streak of mediocrity. Rajini fanboys went into a frenzy, flooding timelines with edits and posters, while on the other hand, Lokesh Kanagaraj’s name was tossed around like a magic seal of genius who is making a time travel film part of a meta pan-Indian cinematic universe and what not. But to be frank, Loki is no better than Atlee. Both of them have the skills to elevate a mass hero using their already existing star status.

In my view, Lokesh Kanagaraj has delivered only one truly terrific film — Maanagaram. And that too we’re beginning to wonder if it was really and solely his effort or was it someone else’s because he has not been able to recreate the same magic.

Cinephiles know that Kaithi is just a Tamil rehash of Assault on Precinct 13 that ended up as average at best. And everything that followed — Master, Vikram, Leo — were not just mediocre but simply bad films. Yes, you read that right. Master was nothing but a brainrot version of Kamal’s Nammavar. A History of Violence was butchered and messed up into Leo. Vikram is nothing more than a celluloid on cocaine rush. Once the frenzy wears off, you see it for what it is: just another overhyped star vehicle under Red Giant banner, one that conveniently chauffeured Kamal Haasan straight to the Rajya Sabha. If not for Anirudh’s adrenaline pumping music, all of them would’ve gone down the Cooum.

So, given the track-record of Rajini since 2016 and Loki’s underwhelming filmography, I had the least expectations from Coolie. Rajini is not the Rajini of his heydays. Lokesh is not the best director in K town. So, I wasn’t expecting a cinematic feast.

But is it too much to ask for these so-called best of the best to serve a simple Sambhar Saadham atleast?

As the saying goes, too many cooks spoil the broth. And that’s exactly what happened with Coolie. The promotions and hype packaged it as a grand pan-India spectacle bursting with big names — the cinematic equivalent of walking into a swanky, overhyped five-star restaurant, ordering their “signature spicy special” expecting an explosion of flavours… only to be served a cold, watery donkey’s diarrhea that the waiter — and Rajini fanatics — insist is gourmet.

Let’s call Coolie for what it really is – a hollow spectacle, shallow in substance, a mere façade of a film to launder the ill-gotten wealth of those in power.

But let’s not go there. Let’s stick to the film that has been presented to us. Even as a mass commercial entertainer, it raises more questions than it answers. This isn’t “mass” cinema. This is a shoddy, insincere, stitched-together patchwork of lazy writing, tied together by Rajini’s star persona which now feels more like a crutch than a strength.

Here’s what I want to ask the Rajini fans gushing about Coolie — acting like a Sun Pictures sleeper cell on a mission to brand it a “super duper hit”:

1. If for major part of the film, Rajini is someone who owns a mansion, he’s not a Coolie. He’s a mansion-owner, a businessman. Title e gaali!

2. Why hype up a luxury watch smuggling plot in the first place if you’re going to abandon it completely?

3. There’s another subplot of human organ trafficking and that’s also abandoned. Why even think of subplot when your main plot itself is dangling in the air?

4. How on earth does Sathyaraj jump from being a harbour coolie 30 years ago to suddenly becoming a ‘scientist-inventor’ who creates an electric chair for disposing bodies?

5. If Nagarjuna’s gang can kill people openly in front of thousands, why the hell do they need a secret cremation chair? Since, their business is in the port, wouldn’t the simpler thing to do have been to tie a rock to the body and drop it to the sea for fishes to eat?

6. Why on earth does Aamir Khan randomly start shooting people at the end? Wait, why does Aamir Khan even exist in this film?Matlab! Kuchi Bhi!

This is exactly why Aamir should actually read scripts before saying yes. Just because Rajini is in a film doesn’t mean that a serious filmmaker of his stature should stoop to committing to crap masquerading as cinema.

7. Sathyaraj gets killed by Soubin, who’s revealed as undercover police. Rajini, decides the logical thing to do is… continue burning bodies in chair with Shruti Haasan.

8. Rajini is brother-in-law of Satyaraj. Satyaraj disapproves of Rajni’s drinking habits. Rajini enforces a no-drinking rule in his mansion. Since Satyaraj is killed, Rajini takes this as a symbolic “permission” to drink Powerhouse again? Enna karumam da idhu!

9. Why is Rajini hiding coolies like Pokémon in a mansion?

10. How was Soubin caught by Nagarjuna as an undercover cop? How a Coolie like Rajini was so powerful? What’s the need to show Rajini cutting mutton in the beginning? How can a son of a smuggler and criminal become a customs official? Wouldn’t IRS not conduct a background check? We can keep going on and on but mudila!

Fine. You want to blow your money on a worthless script — your money, your choice, your stars. But why on earth drag a masterpiece like Breaking Bad into your trash fire? From ripping off the ‘I’m the Danger’ phrase, to shoving in the ‘Say My Name, You’re Goddamn Right’ line in Powerhouse song, to showing Mahesh Manjrekar like Hector Salamanca—except written by a Sun TV serial writer. This crime can never be forgiven. I think Vince Gilligan should sue everybody – Lokesh, Rajini, Sun Pictures for not just copyright infringement but for trampling his stellar work in the name of ‘inspiration’.

Now for the larger questions:

1. Considering you’ve locked Rajini into doing X number of films for you as part of a ‘deal’, and you claim you want to deliver Kollywood’s first ₹1000-crore blockbuster, who at Sun Pictures looked at this donkey’s diarrhea of a script and thought, ‘Yes, we hit the jackpot’.

2. In the pre-release interviews, Lokesh is described as a master story teller who is fabulous at narration. What did he narrate? How did he narrate? What story did he narrate?

3. For how long and how many more directors will keep milking Rajini’s stardom—rehashing stale nostalgia in songs and scenes, and dressing up a lazily written, poorly made fan-service vehicle as a ‘Superstar miracle’ for the blinded brigade to hail?

4. And how long will Rajini fans keep propping up every mediocre mess their demigod churns out—glorifying it as a ‘pure Rajini film’ or hailing it as some grand ‘Thalaivar Sambavam’?

And to the Rajini fans who’ll come charging at me for saying this—calm down. You can scream ‘Look at his style, bro! Look at his laugh, bro! Look at his mass, bro! The man is still mesmerizing at this age bro’ all you want, but don’t expect every average moviegoer to chant along when the film itself is trash. We’ll happily cheer all that if he at least stars in a halfway decent commercial entertainer. I’m not even asking your Thalaivar to give us another Baasha. Just give us something like Sivaji, Chandramukhi… hell, I’d even settle for a Lingaa.

Final Thoughts

Telugu cinema gave the world RRR, a global sensation. Pushpa and Baahubali organically became pan-India blockbusters. Kannada cinema stunned with KGF, Kantara, and now Hombale is creating a cinematic universe with Vishnu’s Dashavataram with the animated film Mahavataram Narasimha becoming a runaway hit and doing big business across India.

And what does Tamil cinema have to show? An endless parade of zombies screaming “Rajini, Rajini, Rajini” or “Vijay, Vijay, Vijay,”.

The harsh truth is this: Tamil cinema, once a trailblazer of pan-India hits, has not been able to produce even one oflate because its biggest stars and directors are trapped in the cycle of churning out mindless fan-service for Rajini, Kamal, Vijay, or Ajith, instead of daring to create stories with vision and universal appeal.

The industry keeps feeding this cult of stardom, and the zombies keep lapping up every bit of garbage as long as it has their idol’s sticker on it. The moment someone points out the rot, it’s instantly brushed off as ‘hate’ or rival fan noise. And so Tamil cinema stays stuck in this toxic loop—stars too scared to take risks, fans too blind to accept flaws—while other film industries march ahead with stories that are conquering the world.

Kaushik is a writer and filmbuff.

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The post 0% Rajini, 0% Loki, 100% Diarrhea: A Brutally Honest Review/Roast Of Coolie Scam That Will Make Rajini Or Loki Fans Angry appeared first on The Commune.

Warning: Rajini fans are advised to not proceed with reading this review as truth bombs will surely hurt.

Coolie, directed by Lokesh Kanagaraj (Loki) and starring Rajinikanth, had all the ingredients for a blockbuster: mass appeal, high-octane action, and a gritty premise bringing together a powerhouse cast including Nagarjuna, Soubin Shahir, Upendra, Shruti Haasan, Sathyaraj, and Aamir Khan.

However, the film ultimately disappoints, delivering a clumsy, uneven experience that tests the audience’s patience more than entertains.

Lokesh Kanagaraj has often been hailed as a master of the “mass film,” yet Coolie only strengthens the argument that he’s overrated. Like Master, Leo, and Vikram, this outing also suffers from the same fatal flaw: no good story, no engaging screenplay, and an overreliance on fan service.

Story and Screenplay

The narrative revolves around a former coolie union leader who stands up against a corrupt syndicate exploiting workers at a port. While the premise has potential, the execution is weak. The screenplay is clumsy and inconsistent, with the story oscillating between friendship-revenge drama, mass hero moments, and forced flashbacks. Weak characterization leaves most of the cast underutilized, including Rajinikanth himself, who, despite being central, has limited scope in the early portions.

First Half

The film starts with promise but quickly loses steam. Nagarjuna adds style and charisma, especially in sequences like the “I Am the Danger” song, but his character is poorly fleshed out. Soubin Shahir holds his own and emerges as one of the film’s few saving graces. Shruti Haasan and Rachita Ram perform well but are constrained by the weak storyline. The first half has moments of entertainment, including the interval block, which briefly showcases Lokesh’s signature style, but overall, the pacing is sluggish, and the story feels thin.

Second Half

The second half is the true test of endurance. The pacing is slow, with dragged-out flashbacks, repetitive action sequences, and irritating character arcs. Action scenes are overlong and occasionally cartoonish. Even high-profile cameos, such as Aamir Khan’s, feel entirely unnecessary. Attempts at infusing “Rajinism” into the film are overdone and fail to energize the story. How long will directors keep milking Rajini’s stardom and nostalgia to churn out one failure after another?

What (Barely) Works?

Nagarjuna’s Charisma – The film’s brightest spark. His swagger in “I Am The Danger” and flashback sequences are the only moments with real energy.

Anirudh’s Soundtrack – The background score is pulsating, though it can’t salvage the weak storytelling. This is the only saving grace, films are surviving because Anirudh’s thumping songs and BGM elevate the hero during slow-motion scenes. Nothing else.

A Few Well-Choreographed Fights – Some action sequences (especially a women-led brawl) are well-shot, but they’re buried under repetition.

Despite the high-profile cast, the production feels cheap. Most scenes are confined to Vizag or a port set, with minimal grandeur. Even the much-hyped Monica song fails to impress. The film’s attempt to create a pan-India appeal, with flashy visuals, mass sequences, and post-credit scenes, falls flat as audiences walk out mid-show.

Overall Verdict

Till 14 August 2025, Leo was the weakest film in Loki’s filmography. Coolie has now replaced Leo. Coolie is Lokesh Kanagaraj’s weakest outing so far, a formulaic, overstuffed film that fails to balance mass appeal with coherent storytelling. This film will probably be at the top of the list of mega flops following the release of Indian 2 and Thug Life, big hype, star power, but zero satisfaction.

Bottom Line

Coolie is a time-waster, a patience tester, and a big-budget flop hiding behind star names. Nothing can save this one, making it a disappointing experience for cinephiles expecting a pan-India action spectacle.

Having one token star from every state and one Hindi big name like Aamir Khan won’t magically give you a pan-India blockbuster. Please don’t think audiences are “Kena Coo Coo Coo*ie”.

If you want to be the next KGF, Pushpa, RRR or Baahubali, you need actual substance. Even if the story is thin, the way you tell it matters even more. Sadly, Tamil cinema is in a deep crisis of good storytellers. Lokesh Kanagaraj showed promise with Maanagaram and Kaithi, but most of his later films have been overhyped fan-service spectacles — nothing more. Thankfully, Anirudh’s music salvaged those otherwise underwhelming projects.

And to Rajini fans: stop going over the moon for every subpar film just because it stars him. As fans, you should demand better scripts — or urge him to retire gracefully — instead of forcing cinephiles to endure cheap rehashes clinging to his glory days.

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The post Coolie Review: All Hype & No Substance, Wanna Be Pan-India Rajini Starrer Is A Disaster, Loki Once Again Proves He’s Overrated appeared first on The Commune.

Bollywood’s latest attempt at woke filmmaking, Dhadak 2, is not just a failed remake of the critically acclaimed Tamil film Pariyerum Perumal, it is a deliberate, manipulative distortion of the original’s powerful message against caste violence. Instead of faithfully adapting the story of Dalit oppression that was set in rural Tamil Nadu, the filmmakers have shamelessly twisted the narrative to vilify Brahmins, turning a nuanced social drama into a lazy, agenda-driven propaganda piece.

A Dishonest Remake That Betrays The Original

Pariyerum Perumal was a searing, authentic portrayal of caste oppression, where the protagonist, a Dalit law student, faces systemic violence and humiliation at the hands of dominant intermediate castes (OBCs). The film’s strength lay in its unflinching realism; it showed caste as it exists on the ground, not as some urban elite fantasy.

The strength of Pariyerum Perumal’s director Mari Selvaraj lies in his honest storytelling that steers clear of inciting hatred. He resists the temptation to villainize any community by deliberately avoiding caste markers—be it through names, symbols, or traditional cues.

But Dhadak 2 guts the soul of the original and replaces it with a caricature. The villains in this version are no longer the actual oppressors (Thakurs, Yadavs, or other dominant castes who historically wield power in North India) and instead, they are turned into Brahmins, a soft target that Bollywood loves to demonize without consequence.

Brahmin-Bashing: A Cowardly Cop-Out

The film is out and out a Brahmin bashing one – it starts out by indicating who the male lead is, which community he is from. Then he is shown to be studying in a college where he is surrounded by people with Brahmin surnames. Let’s come back to reality for a bit – which government institution do you see so many Brahmin students? Reservation has eaten up so many bright students that you will only see other dominant castes in any institution. Either the film must have been shown to be set way back in time or must show the reality of who occupies the seats in government institutions.

The decision to replace the original oppressors with Brahmins reeks of intellectual dishonesty and political cowardice. In reality, Dalits in North India face violence primarily from dominant OBCs and feudal castes like Thakurs, not Brahmins, who have little political or social power in rural oppression today. But showing dominant influential castes as villains would invite real backlash, so the filmmakers take the easy way out which is blatant propaganda.

There is also a scene where they try to show meat-eating Brahmins mingling with non-meat-eating Brahmins – trying to call out the so-called hypocrisy.

A Messy, Half-Baked Narrative

Beyond its manipulative politics, Dhadak 2 is simply a bad film. The storytelling is inconsistent, the emotional beats feel forced, and the social message is diluted by unnecessary subplots. Siddhant Chaturvedi’s suffering as Neelesh lacks the raw intensity of Kathir’s performance in the original. A few brutal scenes land, but the film never sustains the tension.

Worst of all, it fails where Pariyerum Perumal succeeded – by turning caste oppression into a simplistic “evil Brahmins vs. noble Dalits” fairy tale, rather than a complex, systemic issue. The original showed how caste violence is perpetuated by multiple layers of society; this remake reduces it to cheap villainy.

Final Verdict: Exploitative & Cowardly

Dhadak 2 is an irresponsible film that weaponizes caste politics for shallow sensationalism. By distorting reality and scapegoating Brahmins, it does a disservice to the very cause it pretends to champion. If Bollywood truly wanted to make a “powerful political statement”, it would have had the guts to show the real oppressors. Instead, it took the path of least resistance, peddling hatred against a community that is already a favorite punching bag of the elite.

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The post Dhadak 2: A Cheap Propaganda Film That Kills The Soul Of Pariyerum Perumal To Peddle Caste Hatred Against Brahmins appeared first on The Commune.

Sekhar Kammula’s Kubera is an ambitious film that swings for the fences with a promising plot and Dhanush’s towering performance, but it stumbles mainly because of the runtime. The film manages to deliver as a family entertainer, but falls short of being a slick power-packed thriller.

Dhanush, as expected, is the heartbeat of Kubera. His portrayal of a beggar is nothing short of extraordinary, reaffirming that he is a ‘Nadippu Asuran’ (the acting demon).

Be it his introduction scene or the scene at the Gateway of India, where he begs with raw intensity, is charming, goosebumps-inducing and worth it. Dhanush’s audacity to dive into any role and emerge shining is on full display.

Nagarjuna’s performance is convincing but generic with limited scope for acting. Jim Sarbh on the other hand has his moments but doesn’t come across as the menacing villain he ought to be.

The film’s core strength lies in its intriguing premise between the haves and have-nots. There’s ample conflict for the director to play around and set the stage for satisfying character arcs. The screenplay, for the most part, keeps you hooked with its engaging twists and turns. But again, it is the same screenplay that wears out thin as the film progresses.

At a bloated three-hour runtime, the film tests the audience’s patience, with a screenplay that could’ve been tighter. Just when you think the plot is wrapping up, it stretches needlessly, diluting the impact of what could’ve been a taut thriller. The cat-and-mouse dynamic, while intriguing, lacks the pace and believability to fully grip viewers.

Emotional disconnect is another sore point—character deaths fail to resonate, and a misplaced death song feels jarring. Sunaina’s role, unfortunately, seems pointless, adding little to the narrative. The climax, rushed and underwhelming, leaves you wanting more resolution.

In the end, Kubera is a mixed bag—a film with a solid foundation, elevated by Dhanush’s brilliance and engaging moments, but bogged down by its length and uneven execution. Trimmed by 30 minutes and with a sharper focus, it could’ve been a knockout. As it stands, it’s a good watch for Dhanush fans but it falls short of being a classic.

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The post Kubera Review: Dhanush The Performer Shines Like Gold In This Overstretched Tale About Haves And Have Nots appeared first on The Commune.

Aamir Khan, Bollywood’s perennial perfectionist, has had a rough patch with back-to-back disappointments in Thugs of Hindostan and Lal Singh Chaddha. The latter, in particular, saw him lean into an over-the-top performance that left audiences cringing. In Sitare Zameen Par, directed by RS Prasanna, Aamir steps back from that exaggerated style, delivering a more restrained act. But Aamir, please stop raising your eyebrows to let us know that you’re acting.

The film, centered around a group of neurodiverse children and their mentor, aims to tug at heartstrings while delivering a feel-good narrative. It’s a premise that echoes Aamir’s own Taare Zameen Par, but Sitare struggles to capture that same emotional depth or the rousing inspiration of a Chak De India. Instead, it lands somewhere in the middle—pleasant but not profound, heartfelt but not unforgettable. The screenplay feels like it’s stuck in a time warp, with a predictable arc that might have charmed audiences a decade ago. In 2025, however, audience sensibilities have evolved, and the film’s old-school approach feels a tad out of touch.

The pacing doesn’t help. The story starts sluggishly, taking its time to introduce the specially-abled characters who are, without question, the heart of the film. Their extraordinary performances—raw, authentic, and brimming with life—steal the show, and director RS Prasanna deserves applause for coaxing such brilliance from them. In fact, a behind-the-scenes look at how the crew nurtured these performances might have been more compelling than the film itself. Yet, the delayed introductions make the audience wait too long for the story’s emotional core to kick in, and there’s no gripping hook at the intermission to keep you invested. RS Prasanna story-telling talent turns out to be ‘good for nothing’ in its failure to truly inspire.

Humor, a key ingredient in feel-good films, is a mixed bag here. Some scenes land well, tickling the ribs with genuine charm, but others try too hard, coming off as forced and flat. The bigger issue, though, is the film’s tendency to preach. Lines about man’s ego or the neurodiverse children being the “real teachers” feel heavy-handed, as if Aamir and team don’t trust the audience to get the point without spelling it out. In an era where subtlety is king, these moments of overt moralizing—especially the forced “gyan” on disability and what’s “normal”—feel dated and cringe-inducing.

Despite these flaws, Sitare Zameen Par isn’t a misstep on the scale of Aamir’s recent flops. It’s a step toward redemption, showcasing his ability to anchor a story with sincerity, even if the magic of his earlier classics remains elusive. The specially-abled cast is the film’s shining light, their performances a testament to Prasanna’s skill in bringing out their potential. But with a predictable narrative, uneven pacing, and a tendency to over-explain, Sitare doesn’t soar as high as it could. It’s a film that warms the heart but doesn’t quite set it ablaze, leaving you wishing for a spark that never fully ignites.

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The post Sitaare Zameen Par Review: Good For Nothing – Aamir Khan Redeems Himself Partially In This Preachy And Predictable Film With Stale Storytelling appeared first on The Commune.