Dr. Aman Bhonsle

Dark, unnerving, and utterly claustrophobic, Heretic is a masterclass in psychological tension, revealing a Hugh Grant unlike anything we’ve seen before. Gone is the affable and bumbling romantic lead—who once said “Whoopsie Daisy”! Grant as Mr. Reed delivers a performance so controlled, so quietly menacing, that it redefines his range entirely. Set within the suffocating confines of an eerie, isolated home, Heretic is a film that thrives on atmosphere. The house itself feels alive, its walls heavy with unspoken secrets, its very foundation steeped in something unsettling & sinister. Then, a knock. Two bright eyed young female missionaries step inside, unaware that they have crossed a threshold from which there is no return. What follows is not mere horror, but revelation—slow, deliberate, and inexorable. Truths emerge, whispered at first, then thundering, shaking the very foundations of what we believe. And as the final echoes fade, one question lingers, chilling in its simplicity: What else have we been told that was never true? Heretic doesn’t just aim to shock; it forces the audience into deep, unsettling introspection, questioning long-held beliefs and the comforting fictions we were raised to accept. You will never see the game of Monopoly the same way again. Anchored by a career-defining performance from Grant, razor-sharp writing, and a masterfully controlled pace, Heretic is the kind of film that echoes, unsettling and inescapable.

Time Cut is, well, cut from the same cloth as Scream, Friday the 13th, I Know What You Did Last Summer, and Halloween. It wears its influences like a badge of honor, unapologetically leaning into the well-trodden tropes of the teen slasher genre. And yet, against all odds, I found myself having an inordinate amount of fun with it. Does it reinvent the wheel? Absolutely not. In fact, it doesn’t even try. Instead, it revels in the familiar—a collage of recognizable horror beats that feel less like cheap imitation and more like a deliberate, affectionate remix. The film also calls to mind Freaky, another genre-blender that understood the power of self-awareness. What you get here is something basic, predictable even, but therein lies its charm. You know where it’s going before it gets there, and yet, that predictability becomes part of the ride. It’s a film that knows exactly what it is and makes no pretense otherwise. And if you surrender to that, you just might enjoy yourself—against your better judgment.

Now this is a cat-and-mouse thriller with teeth—a devilishly taut game of pursuit and deception, featuring Josh Hartnett in fine, twitchy form. Grinning when he can, fretting when he must—our hapless deer in the headlights, a man of particular interest to the Philly cops. And oh, what delicious chaos ensues. Picture this: a music concert, grand and operatic, but beneath the surface, a carefully woven snare for a fabled serial killer. No roads out. No easy escapes. Just wits, wild coincidences, and spontaneous alliances. The clock ticks, ticks, ticks—all in the frayed service of one urgent mission: flush the brutal predator out, out, out. It’s a perfect snare, a devilishly clever conceit. The film makes audacious choices—some that stretch belief, sure—but who cares when the tension crackles this electric? The will-they-won’t-they pull of it all is intoxicating, reminiscent of vintage M. Night Shyamalan, back when he spun suspense into pure gold. This is the kind of film that doesn’t just grip you—it hypnotizes you. It’s precise. Unforgiving. A symphony of dread conducted with an expert’s hand. And once again, the devil’s in the details.

This movie isn’t just bad—it’s a masterclass in cinematic malpractice. A Frankenstein’s monster of action clichés, stitched together by someone with all the storytelling finesse of a drunk trying to parallel park. Every character feels like a cheap knockoff of a better one from a superior film, except here, they’re played with the enthusiasm of actors who realize—far too late—they’ve made a terrible mistake. Let’s start with Varun Dhawan. Jesus Christ. Varun Dhawan spends the entire runtime caught between two modes: bumbling fool and gym-bro-turned-bloodthirsty-avenger, neither of which he pulls off convincingly. One moment, he’s getting tossed around like a rag doll, the next, he’s suddenly an unstoppable legend—but only after the music swells dramatically enough to remind us that, yes, this is his “big moment.” The problem? There’s no build-up, no real transformation—just a character shifting personalities depending on what set piece he’s standing in. And that flashback? My god. An overlong, self-important detour that adds nothing except the realization that you’ve seen this story done better a hundred times before. And don’t even get me started on Jackie Shroff. This guy is supposed to be the villain, but let me tell you—there’s nothing villainous about a washed-up old man sitting around in a white dhoti, puffing on a chillum, and mumbling nonsense, all while looking like an aging yoga instructor who just woke up from a three-day bender. This is not a film. This is a chore. A shriveled, soulless husk of an action movie that is in no way thrilling. It is not bold. It is, in fact, nothing at all. A vacant, formless exercise in cinematic wastefulness, content to exist without ambition or purpose. And truly, what could be more pathetic than that?

Ah, Twisters. A movie—technically. The wind blows, the storms swirl, and people run dramatically toward (or away from) bad decisions. There’s love, there’s corporate greed, there’s an almost admirable passion for hurricanes. Almost. And yet, for all its noise, it never really hits. It wants to be thrilling, but it’s more like a light breeze than a full-blown storm. You’ll watch it, you’ll register its existence, and then you’ll move on with your life, utterly unchanged. You’d say “meh.” I’d say “meh.” And we’d both be right.

It would be simplistic and populist to call this movie unwatchable. For all its shallowness, glossy sheen, and unrealistically curated depiction of youth, it is yet another iteration of the classic Dharma template—where young love is draped in the finest clothes, the most sculpted bodies, and the most picturesque locations. However, much of it appears to have been shot on a set, giving it a polished, almost music video or television commercial-like feel. Khushi Kapoor struggles with her diction but puts in an effort during emotional scenes, while Ibrahim Khan, in his attempt to channel jock vibes, relies more on flexing his nose and jaw than delivering sincerity in the film’s heavier emotional moments. The senior, more well-known actors bring a sense of nostalgia and weight to the film, but they aren’t given much to work with, making their appearances feel more decorative than meaningful. If you’re not too demanding, this could be an easy watch. But if you’re looking for something world-class and authentic, rather than this sanitized and overly polished portrayal of youth and college life, it’s best to give it a pass.

A stark, unflinching reflection on the brutal duality of fate—one moment soaring to the heights of pop culture immortality, the next waking up in a body that no longer obeys. Christopher Reeve. The name once synonymous with invincibility, with effortless strength, draped in a red cape, larger than life. And then, in an instant, the fall. Not just from the saddle of a horse, but from everything he had known—into the quiet, relentless war of survival. This is not just his story. It’s the story of the bruises no one sees, the battles fought in silence, the weight his family carried in the spaces between hope and despair. It is about what happens when the cameras stop rolling, when the lights fade, and the real fight begins—not against villains, but against time, pain, and the limits of the human body. And yet, it is not just a tragedy. Because in the wreckage of certainty, in the cruel twist of fate, there is something else—a raw, unwavering resilience. A testament to what it means to be human. Not superhuman. Just human. A documentary like this isn’t about whether you’re a fan of Superman. It isn’t about capes or comic books. It’s about fragility, strength, and the quiet courage it takes to keep moving forward when the world you knew is gone. Watch it. Because at some point, we all fall. The question is—what happens after?

“Adolescence” is a haunting, riveting slow-burn descent into the quiet horrors of growing up in the digital age—a world where connection is an illusion and every interaction carries the weight of scrutiny, desire, and danger. It doesn’t just tell a story; it lingers, prowls, and watches, much like the world it depicts. Beneath its deceptively simple narrative lies something far more insidious: a piercing dissection of the male gaze, suppressed rage, and the ruthless disposability of human connection in the digital era. Here, intimacy is an illusion, a fleeting transaction measured in likes and emojis—impersonal, interchangeable, and utterly devoid of permanence. It is a world where people are not cherished but cycled through, where attention is currency and invisibility is a death sentence. The film does not merely observe this reality; it luxuriates in its unease, pulling back the curtain on a generation numbed by immediacy and access—conditioned to discard before they can feel. Social media has perhaps bred a generation that is anything but social—kids who either hunt or are hunted, circling each other like vultures over the carcass of visibility. The limited series’ brilliance lies in its restraint. Long, lingering shots refuse to blink, forcing the audience to sit in the quiet discomfort of moments that feel too real, too close—absorbing every glance, every hesitation, every unspoken word. The pacing is hypnotic—both feverish and glacial, a contradiction that shouldn’t work but does. The storytelling is relentless in its patience. The performances are not performances at all, but confessions—raw, vulnerable, masterful, and utterly absorbing. If you’re a parent, this series is a nightmare. If you’re a teenager, it’s a mirror. And if you’re anyone else, it’s a reminder: the road to adulthood isn’t just difficult—it’s a battleground.

Jason Bateman. A cold-blooded terrorist. Unexpected? Sure. But that’s what makes it work. You’d expect Dennis Hopper (if he were still with us), Kiefer Sutherland, or Bruce Willis (before retirement) to step into a role like this. Maybe a slicker villain—Tom Hiddleston, Christoph Waltz (before he became a caricature), or even Leo DiCaprio if he could tear himself away from the festival circuit. Jamie Foxx? Absolutely. But Bateman? He slips into it effortlessly. Owns it. Makes it his. And the writing—it’s sharp. Every line, every exchange, crackles with intent. So much so that you start thinking—who else could have done this justice? Jeremy Irons, maybe. David Harbour. Even Brad Pitt, if he felt like surprising us. But here’s the thing—he didn’t need to. Because Bateman got there first. And he made damn sure no one else would be remembered for it. Then there’s Taron Egerton, running, panting, proving he’s still got the action hero chops in a post-Kingsman world. The film itself is a greatest-hits playlist of Phone Booth, The Guilty, and every other we-have-limited-time-before-things-go-boom thriller. The tension is high, the stakes are real, and it’s all very gripping—until you notice Dean Norris being utterly wasted in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it role that does nothing for his Breaking Bad legacy. A crime worse than anything happening on screen. But let’s be real: This movie does exactly what it sets out to do. It’s fast, fun, and completely engrossing. So stop reading this review and go watch it. Or don’t. But then you’d just be depriving yourself of a good time, and that’s on you.

Anora" is a fine enough film, but let’s not kid ourselves—it’s no revolution in cinema. And yet, somehow, it waltzed away with Oscars for Best Picture, Best Director, Best Actress, Best Original Screenplay, and Best Editing. A dark comedy with a few dramatic gut punches and moments played straight, it’s competent, sure. But to call it a milestone? That’s not just success—that’s hysteria. Yes, it’s a dark comedy with dramatic beats, but let’s be real: this isn’t some seismic shift in filmmaking. It’s the story of a stripper who marries a rich Russian heir, gets caught in a whirlwind of excess, and stumbles through the fallout. It feels like a mashup of every “accidental queen” narrative Hollywood has churned out for decades. Sure, it’s chaotic, stylish, and entertaining in bursts, but let’s not mistake indulgence for depth. The film straddles the line between critique and glorification, winking at its audience while throwing stacks of cash in the air. Still trying to wrap my head around how Mikey Madison snagged her first Oscar for what amounts to high-decibel shrieking, staring into the void like a lost woodland creature, and shouting "motherfucker" constantly. Strange. Very strange. So yes, Anora is alright, but an Oscar juggernaut? A cinematic milestone? Yeah... nope.