“Your duty is to uphold Dharma. Never to claim the reward. Let not the promise of victory guide you. The battlefield summons, be relentless in action.” — Bhagavad Gita (2.47)

Let me just say this right at the beginning – Dhurandhar 2 operates on such a high-octane, testosterone-charged frequency that the energy in the theatre is unreal. It’s the kind of film where the intensity is so palpable that it doesn’t matter who you are – you feel it. The tone, the aggression, the conviction… everything is dialled up to a level where the film doesn’t just play out on screen, it spills into the audience.

And that opening line from the Gita? It doesn’t just set the tone – it defines the entire journey that follows.

A Film That Knows Exactly What It’s Doing

From the very first act, it becomes evident that Aditya Dhar is in complete control of his narrative. This isn’t a film trying to navigate safe ground or appease different sections of the audience. It’s deliberate, pointed, and fully aware of the reactions it’s going to trigger.

There’s a certain sharpness in how the story unfolds this time. Dhar isn’t interested in ambiguity—he’s interested in clarity, impact, and follow-through. And that’s what gives Dhurandhar 2 its edge over the first part. It feels more assured, more aggressive, and far more gripping in the way it commits to its themes.

You realise that Aditya Dhar isn’t interested in playing safe anymore.

In fact, the film plays out like a direct, ruthless response to a certain section of critics and commentators—people like Anupama Chopra and Sucharita Tyagi, and the broader “Aman Ki Asha” ecosystem—especially in that moment when the protagonist’s full force is unleashed in a brutal, no-holds-barred sequence, with Aari Aari blaring in the background and that line hitting you square in the face: “Ladies and Gentlemen, you’re still not ready for this!”

He goes all in—taking Pakistan to the cleaners and tearing into its ecosystem with zero restraint, presenting its characters in a raw, unvarnished light while boldly highlighting the deep-seated hostility that Islamist forces direct at Hindus and Sikhs, with Arjun Rampal delivering dialogues that make your blood boil, your fists clench, and leave you simmering with anger as the scene unfolds.

This film is going to be a difficult watch for them. It’s going to trigger meltdown so bad that they might start having seizures in the theatre. They’ll need to talk to therapists for the rest of their lives to cope. Or they might just end up like Bade Sahab in the film.

Detailing That Feels Almost Too Real

One of the biggest strengths of the film is its insane attention to detail. Dhar doesn’t treat real-world references as mere add-ons; he builds them into the very fabric of the narrative.

These aren’t surface-level insertions. They carry weight, and more importantly, they make you think. By the time the film progresses, you’re not just following a story—you’re connecting it to real events and decisions in a way that feels unsettlingly immersive.

The casting department genuinely deserves applause here.

The actors portraying figures resembling a gangster-politician who was gunned down in full public display and a Pakistani politician are so convincingly chosen that you momentarily forget you’re watching actors. There’s a certain eeriness to how real they feel on screen, and that adds tremendously to the film’s authenticity.

For the sake of not giving away spoiler, I just want to say that there are going to be epic euphoric moments in the theatre.

Performance-wise, the film is tighter than Part 1. There’s a sense that every actor understands the weight of the narrative and plays into it with full conviction.

And then come the dialogues.

Some of them don’t just land—they linger long after the scene is over.

“Jab se ye chaaiwala Hindustan mein aaya hai, hamare logon ke andhar aur kauf bad gaya hai”

(Ever since this chaiwala (tea seller) came to power in India, fear has increased even more among our people)

Moments like these create a visible shift in the theatre. You can feel people reacting—not loudly, but collectively.

Echo Shots And Easter Eggs

For those who’ve followed Part 1, there’s a lot to appreciate here. Dhar has packed the film with subtle callbacks and narrative echoes that don’t immediately stand out but pay off beautifully later.

It’s the kind of writing that rewards attention without demanding it.

In the beginning, Hamza in Pakistan burns away his Jaskirat life. Later, Jaskirat in India burns away his Hamza life. Recall the “Hindu Bada Darpok Qaum Hai?” dialogue from the first part uttered by one of the terrorists to Ajit Doval look-alike Madhavan? In Part 2, the Madhavan character is in the middle of a Hindu ritual and gets a call and then the revenge is taken.

There are many such echo shots that reverbs throughout the film.

At nearly four hours, the film could have easily lost momentum. Surprisingly, it doesn’t.

It adopts a slow-burn structure, allowing the narrative to build gradually. There are minor inconsistencies in timeline transitions, but they don’t significantly disrupt the flow. For the most part, the film keeps you engaged, pulling you deeper into its world.

How Did 4 Hours Go?

The film could have easily lost momentum. Surprisingly, it doesn’t.

It adopts a slow-burn structure, allowing the narrative to build gradually. The film keeps you engaged, pulling you deeper into its world. And the interval block comes at an unexpected moment.

Tracks like “Aari Aari” and “Destiny (Mann Atkeya)” are not just good—they elevate entire sequences. There are stretches where the music takes over and does the heavy lifting emotionally, and it works beautifully.

It’s constructed with precision, building tension steadily and then delivering a payoff that leaves the theatre buzzing.

Just when you think the second half might ease off, it does the exact opposite—gathering momentum and getting better with every passing stretch, all the way to the end.

Balidan Paramo Dharma

At its core, Dhurandhar 2 echoes the spirit of “Balidan Paramo Dharma” – the ultimate duty is sacrifice. Beyond the spectacle and scale, the film stands as a quiet yet powerful ode to the countless unnamed operatives who live and operate deep within hostile territories, far from recognition or glory. These are the men who exist in the shadows, cut off from identity, family, and even history, so that the nation can breathe in safety.

Dhar doesn’t romanticise them excessively – he humanises their cost, their isolation, and their unwavering resolve, making you realise that the price of security is often paid by those whose stories are never told.

Towards the end, Jaskirat visits his home in Punjab to see his family. He doesn’t have any bags with him. But his journey so far is the baggage. He keeps look at his home and the road. Should he enter his home with this “heavy dirty baggage” of the past or should he continue with his journey? He breaks the fourth wall and looks deep into the viewer. A powerful scene indeed.

Dhurandhar 2 doesn’t try to be universally acceptable, and that is precisely what makes it stand out.

It is bold, it is intense, and it is unapologetic in its storytelling. More importantly, it is confident—confident enough to take a position and build an entire cinematic experience around it.

If Part 1 established the foundation, Part 2 feels like a statement. The deliberately provokes those who provoked us thus far.

Forget Anno Domini. In Indian cinema, it’s now AD and BD—After Dhurandhar and Before Dhurandhar.

S. Kaushik is a political writer.

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The post Dhurandhar 2 Review: Double The Dhamaka, Double The Meltdown; Aditya Dhar Goes Into Beast Mode Unleashing Hell Upon Pakistan And Its Simps appeared first on The Commune.

The first instalment of The Kerala Story left people shocked, enraged, aware – of how Hindu girls were being targeted by Islamists in order to achieve their own goals, converting them, making them pregnant as well as brainwashing them to join terrorist groups like ISIS – Kerala Story 2 will take you beyond that. It will give you a hard view of what is happening across the country, to our little girls.

The Kerala Story 2 is yet another hardhitting film that has to be watched by parents, families, especially young girls. We’ll tell you why.

A Brief On What The Film Is About

The Kerala Story 2: Goes Beyond follows three young women, Surekha Nair from Kerala, Neha Sant from Gwalior, and Divya Sinha from Jodhpur, each of whom enters a relationship that ends in coerced religious conversion, abuse, and family rupture.

The film opens with Surekha’s suicide and Neha lying injured after jumping from a building. What follows is three parallel stories cohesively converging around the same pattern: a relationship built on deception, escalating pressure to convert, and parents who are left with no legal recourse and no answers.

The three lead actresses Ulka Gupta as Surekha from Kochi, Aditi Bhatia as Divya from Jodhpur, and Aishwarya Ojha as Neha from Gwalior play their roles to perfection. The film’s real emotional weight falls on the parents and the actors playing them deserve far more credit than any review has so far given them. They show you how it feels to be the parent of a love jihad victim.

Mannan Shah’s music is one of the film’s strongest assets. The BGM does not manipulate the audience at every beat, and the song centred on the mother – O Maayi Ri is genuinely moving without being overexaggerated. The final 15–20 minutes with Shiv Shambho leave a powerful emotional impact, especially if you are a parent. Played at a moment when parents seek justice for their wronged daughters, the song with Manoj Muntashir’s stirring words feels deeply elevating and goosebump-inducing. It ultimately instils hope and the belief that justice will prevail against those who deserve punishment.

Some Words For Those Dissing This Film

Right from the get-go, across the board, leftists and news portals like The News Minute have been dismissing the film, just like they did for the first instalment – they claimed the film was based on WhatsApp University forwards, that it was demonising an entire community, that Namaz tunes were made to sound ominous; The Week called it “Group therapy for saffron-coloured dummies”; the mockery has been repetitive and unfunny.

What these reviews do not tell you, in fact they bury under the ground is that this film is based on real life incidents.

What They Do Not Tell You

Not one of these reviews mentioned Mohammed Umar Gautam. Not one mentioned that in September 2024, a Lucknow court sentenced him, founder of Delhi’s Islamic Da’wah Centre, along with Maulana Kaleem Siddiqui and 10 others to life imprisonment for running an organised conversion racket targeting over 1,000 people. This was an NIA-ATS prosecution that ended in a court conviction. Twelve people are serving life sentences for doing what this film depicts. Not one mainstream review found space to mention it.

They don’t mention Chhangur Baba, arrested by the UP ATS in July 2025, whose network is accused of converting over 1,500 Hindu women – with an actual rate list, categorising women by caste, recovered during the investigation. Pooja Prasanna told her audience those rate cards were a WhatsApp forward from 2010. The ATS recovered one during an arrest in 2025.Well, she is clearly wrong.

They don’t mention Mission Asmita – the July 2025 UP Police operation that dismantled a pan-India conversion and radicalisation syndicate spanning six states, with arrests in Rajasthan, Dehradun, and West Bengal, triggered by the disappearance of two sisters. Not one review mentioned Shekhar Roy and Usama Khan, operators of the Kolkata-Agra conversion corridor, arrested for orchestrating an interstate scheme that systematically targeted women from Bengal and UP. These are police operations with named accused, chargesheets, and arrests.

These reviews dismiss the bulldozer as a caricature lazily linked to UP CM Yogi Adityanath. In the film, however, the bulldozer moment lands as pure catharsis for viewers – much as it did for victims and their families in real life. The same UP government had actually demolished Chhangur Baba’s residence – the man who ran a massive prostitution racket, an important detail the film reflects. Yet outlets like TNM would rather sneer than engage with the facts.

TNM’s Pooja laughs off the “Ghazwa-e-Hind 2047” poster in the film with open mockery. The obvious question is whether she is dismissing the documented ‘2047 vision’ associated with PFI-linked discourse altogether or simply choosing not to engage with its implications. Either way, the flippant tone raises concerns about whether uncomfortable facts are being waved away too casually.

Another highly flawed take, especially from TNM’s Pooja is the “consenting adults” trope. This defence collapses at the first point of contact with the film’s actual content. Divya is under 18, she is not the only one – there are several victims like her who appeared at the promotional event done by the film’s producer/director team.

Divya’s parents try to file a POCSO complaint, but the opposite party proves her to be an adult and the police in connivance with the Islamists’ family sends her off to the perpetrator’s home! Where have you seen/heard this? Let us remind you that this happened very recently in Tamil Nadu too – Read this report.

Dear Pooja & TNM, the feminists that you all are, a minor cannot legally consent and no sophistication changes that – Divya is shown to be under 18 in the film and what was happening to Divya was grooming! Are you denying that?

In what world does staying in a relationship require you to change your religion, abandon your family, and answer to a new name, is this choice or coercion dressed in romantic language – Has anyone ever thought about it?

The leftist seculars and their portals who are dismissing the film as ‘WhatsApp University’ and what not are the first ones to give a Hindu name to an Islamist perpetrator. The film shows a Shraddha Walkar like instance – Pooja or other reviews do not talk about that, in fact TNM had secularised the gruesome murder. The portal casually shared the ‘report’ as “Man kills partner, chops her body and leaves pieces at various places in Delhi. The man strangled the woman in May after an argument over marriage, Delhi police said.”

And last but not the least – the most common grouse every single leftist seems to have – the name of the film. It isn’t rocket science to see the film’s title in its entirety – The title is “The Kerala Story 2 – Goes Beyond” – The Kerala Story of love lihad was identified first in Kerala before spotting similar modus operandi across the country. In Kerala, it made women enroll with terror organisations too. In other parts of India, it served the purpose/goal of Ghazwa-e-Hind and continues to do so.

It was not just Hindus who were crying hoarse, it was the Christians too. Can TNM or Pooja or Dhanya Rajendran deny that? Will they diss the stories of other girls who have been rescued by Hindu Seva Kendram or Aarsha Vidya Samajam? Whatever gymnastics they do with numbers to prove forced conversions do not exist, truth always reveals itself. Read more on this here.

The Kerala Story 2 Needs To Be Watched

The Kerala Story 2 is not a perfect film. It is direct to the point of bluntness and makes no effort to appear balanced. But it is documenting something real – confirmed by courts, by the ATS, by NIA chargesheets and it is doing so while keeping the camera on the people who have been most consistently ignored in this conversation: the parents. For that alone, it deserves a more honest engagement than it has received.

Do not pay heed to the negative reviews. Watch it, both parents and young adults need to.

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The post The Kerala Story 2 Review: A Hard-Hitting Truth On Love Jihad With Better Cinematic Aesthetics That Will Upset Seculars appeared first on The Commune.

After four hard-hitting films that took social issues head-on, director Mohan G returns with a historical that is not interested in comfort, consensus, or cosmetic neutrality. Draupathi 2 is not merely a sequel, it is a continuation of a worldview: that history matters, memory matters, and silence has a cost. When cinema in Tamil Nadu predominantly revolves around fake manufactured Dravidianist tropes, Draupathi 2 stands out as the lone film rooted in civilisational consciousness.

Story & Premise

The film opens in contemporary Tamil Nadu, where a familiar but rarely discussed reality confronts the audience – ancestral Hindu land abruptly falling under Waqf claims, leaving rightful heirs dispossessed and helpless. Against this backdrop, two young women from abroad arrive in the village, hoping to renovate a dilapidated temple. One of the women becomes possessed, serving as the narrative bridge between the present and the 14th century. With this, the film establishes a link between Draupathi 1 and Draupathi 2.

What unfolds is the tale of Veera Simha Kadava Raya (also played by Richard Rishi), a warrior who protected his land, people, and temples during the turbulent period when southern India was not insulated from Islamic invasions, contrary to popular belief.

History Without Apology

One of Draupathi 2’s greatest strengths is its refusal to sanitize history.

Tamil cinema has produced historical fiction before, but it has largely shied away from depicting the brutalities of Islamic invasions, especially in the south. Mohan G breaks that silence.

Yes, we may have heard of Malik Kafur’s invasions, the brutalities, the looting of temples, the massacre of 12,000 Vaishnavites in Srirangam and so on… but that is just a portion of what happened in Tamil Nadu. What happened after is long forgotten.

Mohan G has woven history of the Madurai Sultanate & the Delhi Sultanate and into his story to achieve the impact he sought out to bring in the film.

The film places Vallala Maharaja (Vallalar III) at the centre of resistance, a ruler of the Hoysala dynasty remembered not only in chronicles but also in living Hindu geography, such as the gopuram he commissioned at the Arunachaleswarar Temple in Tiruvannamalai.

Women, Faith, And Nation

What marks the film out within Mohan G’s own filmography is the way it handles women and the idea of feminism. His films have always carved space for women as moral centres, but here the bar is raised: there is a scorching moment where a woman asks how she can worry only about her husband’s safety when so many women are facing Islamist violence.

Whether it is a mother enduring painful labour to ensure her child is born at the right moment, destined for valour, or a woman willing to give up her own life for honour and the nation, the film places women at the moral centre of history.

The film’s value system is explicit: the nation comes first, then personal comfort, and women are no less compared to men in defending dharma. The confrontation where Kadavarayan offers his life to Vallala Maharaja and is backed, unflinchingly, by his pregnant wife Draupathi, delivers genuine goosebumps; it becomes a statement on shared sacrifice, and Vallala’s subsequent reflection on women’s power deepens that emotional hit rather than feeling like token rhetoric. The interaction between Draupathi and Vallala Maharaja is simply one of the film’s most powerful emotional high points especially when he says, “Not only must the courage of men be praised, but also the sacrifice of women like you.”

In Karnan, the Kaatupechis exalted to the status of gods are victims of injustice. In Draupathi 2, it draws upon the memory of women who laid down their lives resisting invaders, later venerated as village goddesses and protectors of their people. In doing so, it pushes back against the Dravidianist ecosystem’s attempt to pit local folk Hindu deities against so-called “Brahminical” Hindu gods. The film presents this as a living tradition of remembrance and resilience.

Sequences That Stood Out 

While the entire film was good, there were some scenes that stood out.

In a scene from the initial parts of the film, one character mocks another for still doing his “kula thozhil”, the other retorts, “It is my ancestral occupation, how can I let go of it?” – this seemed like a dig on the ruling DMK government’s stand against the Vishwakarma Scheme of PM Modi.

The sequence in which Vallala’s forces encircle the invaders’ territory (Battle of Kannanur) and choke them without overt violence is conceptually strong, and his eventual capture and execution are staged to feel brutal without resorting to indulgent gore, keeping the focus on humiliation and betrayal instead of splatter.

The film features use of guerrilla style tactics to attack the enemy, they are ingenious.

Some hidden nuances like when Vallala Maharaja says “Vandheri Sultan” – it refers to the foreign invader, the use of Vandheri is important here as the Dravidianists often use this as a slur against Brahmins.

The appearance of the Ramnami tribe in the trailer initially leaves the viewer curious about how they fit into the story. The film answers that question with a powerful sequence that weaves in their deep devotion to Lord Rama. The Ramnamis are shown worshipping a khandith—a beheaded idol of Lord Rama—not as a symbol of defeat, but of faith that refuses to die. With the help of Kadavarayan, they perform Pran Prathishta once again, restoring the deity and the sanctity of worship. Mohan G seems to have been touched by their faith that he found a way to include them in the film. This stands in stark contrast to how Dravidianist filmmakers often deploy imagery like the beheaded Buddha—stripped of context and frozen in victimhood—to suggest an alleged ‘Brahminical’ onslaught.

The film clearly shows how Hindus were treated – be it the use of the word ‘kaffir’, the emphasis on worshipping one God, and how Islamic invaders were interested in wealth and viewed Hindus as ‘stone worshippers’.

Dialogues like “This is Annamalaiyar’s land”, “There is only one clan, but not just one God” – These are important highlights of the film that emphasise the Hindu identity and a direct dig at monotheistic cultures and the Dravidianist ecosystem.

While they do not show the torture of the Prince Virupaksha, he is visibly broken and yet he does not agree to the Islamist’s order of converting to save his life – that was good but could have been powerful.

Overall, the Hindu symbolism is present, unapologetically.

Performances, Music, & Action

The film rests on Richard Rishi and Rakshana Indhudhar who plays Draupathi, and both rise to the challenge, fiercely. In fact, Rakshana embodies Draupathi in her scenes. Both share almost equal screen time and emotional load; they carry the conviction that the screenplay needs.

Natty, as an ageing Vallala Maharaja, brings gravitas without theatrics.

Action sequences were par excellence – very well choreographed and were not even a bit sloppy.

Ghibran’s music is a triumph, it is fantabulous. From war themes to devotional blends that fuse Middle Eastern motifs with Rama bhakti, the score elevates the film consistently. The new singer singing Emkoney is a pleasant surprise, it is seamless and soulful. Background score is outstanding and shows why people hated Chaava but will love Draupathi 2’s score – the music elevates the film, the story, and the characters. Kadavarayan’s entry scene is especially whistle-worthy music.

Ghibran’s use of the violin is praiseworthy, it just amplifies the scenes notches higher. The after-seige celebration song is predominantly the flute, amazing use of instruments. Tarasuki featuring Ulugh Khan is peppy and foot-tapping.

Not Without Flaws

The film is not without shortcomings. The English subtitles are poorly translated. There is a notable use of AI in the film while narrating sequences but given the budget, it is understandable.

There are noticeable continuity lapses in a few scenes.

The second half lags a bit, with antagonist Damghani portrayed more as a womaniser than the brutal tyrant that he really was – a few more brutality scenes would have done great justice.

The film’s emphasis on religious conversion is alright, but it becomes the central theme – the brutalities should have been shown a bit more, atleast what we saw in Chaava, show it without showing it.

The rivalry between Tughlaq and Damghani is introduced but not sufficiently explored, leaving noticeable loose ends.

Ulugh Khan’s (Tughlaq) item song also felt out of place with him dancing to choreographed steps.

Yet these flaws do not dilute the film’s intent or impact.

A Counter To Dravidianist Filmmakers

Draupathi 2 stands apart from the strain of contemporary Tamil cinema dominated by filmmakers like Pa Ranjith, whose work often function less as cinema and more as ideological pamphlets. Where his films flatten history into grievance narratives and reduce Hindu civilisation to a villainous abstraction focusing on manufactured “Brahminical” evil, Mohan G does the opposite, he restores complexity, agency, and memory. Instead of manufacturing outrage through selective victimhood and modern political templates imposed on the past, Draupathi 2 insists on historical continuity, civilisational context, and lived faith.

In Thangalaan, Pa Ranjith focused on how Brahmincal forces suppressed Buddhism in India, and specifically how a king beheads a Buddha statue after being urged by a Brahmin priest – Ranjith, who showed such manufactured “atrocities” against Buddhism turned a blind eye to the desecrations and brutalities of the Islamic invaders towards Hindus. A Mari Selvaraj or a Pa Ranjith would never dare touch a topic such as the one in Draupathi2.

Draupathi 2 – Tamil Cinema’s Kantara Moment

“Draupathi 2” is, in many ways, the Tamil land’s answer to what “Kantara” did for coastal Karnataka. Where “Kantara” fused daiva tradition, land, and lineage into a cinematic ritual, “Draupathi 2” binds temple, territory, and ancestry into a fierce act of remembrance. Draupathi 2 argues, clearly and unapologetically, that today’s Hindus exist because of the sacrifices of forgotten ancestors; faith endured because ordinary people chose suffering over surrender, just as in Kantara the deity’s pact with the people is renewed through blood, devotion, and memory.

This is not just a film about the past, but a reclamation of erased histories that makes the viewer consciously grateful for what we are today: Hindus in a free country, still able to stand before the same deities in the same temples, in the same forms our ancestors once worshipped, much like Kantara’s villagers guarding their sacred grove and daiva from encroachment. Mohan G does not claim invention, he claims remembrance. He stages forgotten kings, buried murtis, and silenced resistances the way Rishab Shetty staged daiva kola: as living, throbbing memory that refuses to be domesticated into footnotes.

For that alone, “Draupathi 2” deserves to be watched, argued over, and passed down, preferably in theatres, and with families who will talk about it on the way back, the way Kantara became a conversation in homes about land, gods, and gratitude. This is cinema as memory. And memory, as the film reminds us, is resistance and in its own Tamil idiom, no less potent than Kantara’s.

Hydra is a political writer.

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The post Draupathi 2 Review: Mohan G Delivers Tamil Cinema’s Kantara Moment With A Bold Historical Film That Pushes Back Against Dravidianist Tropes appeared first on The Commune.

Dravidianist filmmaker Sudha Kongara’s bloated, agenda-soaked period drama promptly crashes like a big piece of donkey’s dump—splattering everywhere with the stench of failure that no one can ignore.

Let’s be honest—Parasakthi was never meant to be a film. It was engineered propaganda, assembled with all the subtlety of a party pamphlet.

From day one, the film was engineered as naked pro-DMK propaganda: timed for Pongal 2026 (conveniently ahead of assembly polls), produced by Dawn Pictures (tied to DMK ecosystem) and distributed by Red Giant Movies which is run by DMK scion Udhayanidhi Stalin’s son Inban Udhayanidhi.

And the subject? A carefully curated, sanctified retelling of the 1965 anti-Hindi agitations, scrubbed clean of complexity and rewritten as pure Dravidianist propaganda film which ends up showing Congress in bad light instead of BJP.

Though the film is based on “real-life events”, the fictional part is as cliche and boring it can get.

Sivakarthikeyan plays Chezhiyan “Che” (a blatant, heavy-handed homage to Che Guevara, because why not slap revolutionary iconography on a Tamil protagonist for extra virtue points?). He starts as an ordinary, peaceful guy (railway loco pilot or similar, minding his own business, even learning Hindi).

His younger brother Chinnadurai (Atharvaa, homage to Annadurai – because nothing says “subtle” like naming characters after political legends) is the fiery rebel diving headfirst into protests and social causes. Sivakarthikeyan initially dislikes the activism, wants no part of it. Enter the ruthless antagonist Thirunaadan (Ravi Mohan), a Delhi-sent intelligence officer/police brute who unleashes hell, leading to the brother’s tragic death in the agitation.

Cue the predictable transformation: the reluctant brother avenges the loss, stands up for the cause, becomes the hero of the movement, and delivers the triumphant message. It’s the classic reluctant-hero arc: peaceful man → family tragedy → righteous awakening → revenge/protest climax. We’ve seen this template in a dozen films – brother dies fighting injustice, sibling takes up the mantle, fights the system. Add the period setting, anti-imposition theme, forced romance (with Sreeleela as the token love interest/newsreader), and endless monologues, and you’ve got a paint-by-numbers propaganda piece masquerading as historical drama. No fresh twists, no depth – just recycled clichés dressed in 1960s costumes.

The love track is forced and cringy, zero chemistry, dragging like a bad college romance in a protest film. Period visuals look okay initially, but then it’s just repetitive slow scenes, lecture-heavy dialogues, and no grip.

Post-interval, the film is on a complete freefall. The plot stretches like stale chewing gum, and every supposed “emotional beat” is telegraphed from miles away. Atharvaa’s death? So predictable even a child could call it ten minutes earlier. The protest sequences are hollow – just loud speeches, raised fists, and thunderous background score trying desperately to manufacture emotion where none exists.

The only saving grace for the film is the acting of Sivakarthikeyan and Ravi Mohan.

If you are an agmark Oopi craving to simp for anti-Hindi rhetoric, save your money and listen to old Karunanidhi speeches on YouTube. At least that won’t cost you a ticket.

Sudha Kongara uses the same playbook as her earlier works: twist facts for ideological convenience, preach endlessly, and hope the message overrides the mess.

The film whitewashes the role of EV Ramasamy Naicker (hailed as ‘Periyar’ by his followers) who opposed the 1965 anti-Hindi agitations and insulted the protesting students as “hooligans”. Congress figures are converted into cartoon villains, while DMK icons are framed as flawless saviors.

This is Sudha Kongara’s trademark fraud. She has done it before. In Soorarai Pottru, she airbrushed Captain Gopinath’s Brahmin roots and magically reinvented him as a EVR-admiring crusader, who fights a north-Indian airline owner and the government system controlled by the powers at be in Delhi. Her separatist streak is visible in Parasakthi too, as Sudha Kongara plays to the DMK’s gallery of projecting ‘Tamil Nadu Vs Delhi’ politics.

This isn’t cinema—it’s regurgitated Dravidianist vomit prioritizing politics over originality or entertainment.

Theatres are already reporting empty screens, dull shows, and dead silence where applause was expected. Social media is flooded with viewers trashing the film, mocking its boredom, and openly abusing it – and frankly, it has earned every bit of that backlash.

While Telugu and Kannada industries are producing films like Kantara, Pushpa, and RRR—stories that travel globally on the strength of content – Dravidianwood remains stuck in in a cesspool crying Hindi imposition, oppression, suppression, depression.

Avoid this unoriginal flop. Sudha Kongara’s career low—lazy, clichéd, agenda-driver, cynical, preachy, boring mess.

The film’s hook line is “Thee Paravattum”.

But it is only Dravidianist stench that is spreading through this “P** padon”.

Vallavaraayan is a political writer. 

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The post Parasakthi Disaster: Sudha Kongara’s Anti-Hindi, Pro-DMK Propaganda Film Is Just Regurgitated Dravidianist Vomit That Is Rightfully Getting Trashed By Audience appeared first on The Commune.

Sriram Raghavan’s Ikkis is the kind of self-righteous pacifist nonsense that treats a brutal war of aggression as a mutual tragedy, viewing Indian heroism and Pakistani invasion through the exact same misty-eyed lens of “shared humanity.”

This isn’t a tribute to Param Vir Chakra winner Second Lieutenant Arun Khetarpal; it’s a preachy anti-war lecture that equates the sacrifices of our soldiers with the “regrets” of the enemy who started the fight.

In 2026, with audiences demanding pride over pseudo-peace, this outdated drivel deserves to flop – and early signs show it’s heading that way. The film, based on Khetarpal’s extraordinary valor in the 1971 Battle of Basantar where he destroyed multiple Pakistani tanks at age 21, had all the makings of an inspiring biopic.

Instead, Raghavan turns into a boring virtue-signaling lecture on war’s futility, shuttling between battlefield flashes and a 2001 frame where Arun’s father (Dharmendra) visits Pakistan and bonds with the “noble” retired Brigadier (Jaideep Ahlawat) who killed his son.

Tea is shared, grief is mutual, families are flashed back to – we’re meant to see both sides as equally burdened by “the horror of war.”

Pakistani troops get prideful speeches about their battalion’s legacy, just like our Poona Horse. No distinction between defender and aggressor; just endless “war is hell for everyone.”

The film Ikkis feels like Aman Ki Asha on steroids, pushing a brand of manufactured “bhaichara” that borders on self-parody.

In one scene, Dharmendra visits his ancestral home in Pakistan and remarks that his family lived there before Partition, only for the current owner to say “it’s still yours, take it!”

Another exchange goes like this,

Brigadier M. L. Khetarpal (Dharmendra)

– Uss Din Woh Peeche Kyun Nahi Hataa? (Why didn’t he go back that day?)

Brigadier Khwaja Mohammed Naseer (Jaideep Ahlawat)

– Woh Dhushman Ko Haranaa Chahtha Tha Sir (He wanted to defeat the enemy sir!)

Brigadier M. L. Khetarpal – Kaun Dhushman? (Enemy who?)

This is not merely insensitive storytelling; it amounts to rubbing salt into the wounds of those who laid down their lives defending the nation.

This false equivalence is insulting. While Arun (a sincere but underwhelming Agastya Nanda) gets some tank sequences, the heroism feels rushed to make room for cross-border empathy.

Aman Ki Asha apologists praise it as “humane” and “anti-rhetorical patriotism,” but that’s code for avoiding righteous anger against a nation that invaded us.

Even the film knows it went too far – that viral mid-credits disclaimer frantically clarifies the “humane” brigadier is an “exception” and Pakistan remains untrustworthy. If you need a nationalist disclaimer to patch your “balanced” narrative, why make it this soft in the first place? It is possible that the makers saw the response to Aditya Dhar’s Dhurandhar and added the disclaimer.

Performances save it from total disaster: Dharmendra brings quiet gravitas in his final role, Jaideep Ahlawat is layered as the conflicted Pakistani, and Agastya shows promise despite lacking intensity.

Raghavan’s craft is okay but his pacifist treatment kills the film.

No surprise that the usual suspects in the leftist echo chamber are swooning over this pacifist tripe. Livemint’s review gushes about it being a “war film on a peace mission,” applauding Raghavan’s “passionate case for pacifism” and his refusal to stir any anti-Pakistan sentiment, even positioning it against Dhurandhar as a supposed moral counterpoint. The Wire hails it as a brave swim “against the tide of jingoistic war films,” getting misty-eyed over its studied restraint. The Quint celebrates it as a salute to “bravehearts on both sides,” relieved that the film avoids “stereotyped Pakistani villains.” If these outlets are celebrating the film, that in itself tells you exactly what kind of politics the film is pandering to—and why large sections of the audience are walking away.

Ikkis Vs Dhurandhar: Pacifism Flops While Unapologetic Patriotism Rules The Box Office

Two war-themed films from the same production house (Maddock/Jio), yet worlds apart – and the awakened Indian audience has spoken loudly. The declining footfalls to this film indicate that Indian audiences are rejecting Pakistan apologia and instead favour bold cinema that speaks plainly and without hesitation.

Aditya Dhar’s Dhurandhar (2025) is a ferocious spy thriller that shows Pakistan how it deserves to be shown: as an uncouth, kafir-hating, jihadi exporting terror hub.

No hand-wringing, no “shared trauma” – just raw justice against the rogue state sponsoring threats like 26/11.

Ranveer Singh’s infiltrator tears through Karachi’s underbelly, highlighting ISI-crime-terror nexuses without apology. It’s chest-thumping, visceral, and unapologetically India-first – the kind of film post-Uri and post-Pulwama audiences crave. Result? A monstrous ₹1200+ crore worldwide, the highest-grossing Indian film of 2025, still pulling double-digits in its fifth week (₹11+ crore on Day 30 alone).

Contrast with Ikkis: Same Indo-Pak conflict backdrop, but Raghavan’s pacifist lens equates both sides, humanizing the enemy excessively. Audiences rejected it – decent ₹7 crore Day 1 start, but sharp drops and limited growth amid Dhurandhar’s dominance. Srirama! Wrong timing da!

This proves Indian viewers have evolved. We’ve ditched outdated “balance” for truth and pride. Dhurandhar thrives reflecting reality – Pakistan as aggressor and terror exporter. Ikkis’s equivocation feels tone-deaf, like pre-2019 Bollywood pleading peace with the unrepentant.Upcoming 2026 slate (Border 2, etc.) will follow Dhurandhar’s template: Honor heroes without equating them to the enemy. The verdict is clear – pacifist BS flops. Jai Hind!

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The post Ikkis Is Nothing But ‘Aman Ki Asha’ On Steroids, A Pacifist BS That Sees India And Pakistan Through The Same Lens And Deserves To Be Trashed appeared first on The Commune.

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.