No one in Telugu cinema loves playing the saviour as much as Nandamuri Balakrishna. The more grave the injustice, the more weapons he can wield, the more henchmen he can kill, and the more noise his dialogues can make. Probably why he feels most at home in a Boyapati Srinu film which allows him to be all this and much more. In Bobby Kolli’s latest, Daaku Maharaaj, Balakrishna is a do-gooder with a strong emotional core. He is a doting guardian of a young girl who seems to effortlessly put a smile on his face. And yes, he is also a saviour who saves an entire district from brutal oppression, wields fascinating weapons, kills hundreds of henchmen in innovatively gory ways, and says lines like, “If you shout, it is barking… if I shout…” and Thaman inserts a lion’s roar in the background score. Daaku Maharaaj is the quintessential Balakrishna film, but it is burdened by the hangover of a number of films including Rajinikanth’s Jailer, Kamal Haasan’s Vikram, and the ‘God of Masses’ own filmography.

When one looks at films that are over a decade old, it is but natural to see if it has aged well. Are the dialogues still relevant? Is the narrative still fresh? Have the actors and filmmaker evolved? In fact, many a time, it takes us back to the time we first saw it, and our response to it today is a reflection of our own evolution. But what if it is a movie that you never saw, and you are watching it for the first time a decade after it was made. What if it is a movie that no one saw because it didn’t release when it had to, and is finally hitting the screens 12 years later? Do you see it as a 2013 film? Do you see it as a 2025 film? That is the conundrum one finds themselves in while watching Sundar C’s long-delayed Madha Gaja Raja, which was supposed to hit screens for Pongal 2013, but a time traveler moved a chair somewhere in the past, and it saw the light of day for Pongal 2025.

When one looks at Shankar’s filmography, it is interesting how his mind doesn’t gravitate towards the easiest way to elevate the hero. Almost all of his leading men could have been typical straightforward police officers who take on the system. But instead, he makes them a small-time entrepreneur moonlighting as a Robin Hood, a young lover fighting for his love, an old revolutionary who wants to eradicate corruption, a journalist who becomes the chief minister, an NRI who returns to his homeland to weed out societal ills, and even a robot. But never a cop.

A woman decides to make fun of a man. Honestly, it is all in good faith. However, the man isn’t quite happy about being the butt of collective humour. Honestly, it is okay for the man to get riled up. Now, he decides to beat the woman. And it is not just a push or a shove, but an active beating that leaves her clothes in tatters, lips bleeding, and marks of the assault very visible on her face. Now, the hero sees her in this condition. Plus, she is the heroine of the film. What should the hero do? What can he do when he is the man who beat her up. And we are asked to laugh at the predicament because she is used to being ‘playfully’ beaten up like this, and when asked for an apology, all he can manage is a fart? These are the protagonists of Bala’s Vanangaan, but there’s no need for judging them for this, simply because in the worlds the filmmaker has been creating for 25 years now, this is par for the course. But then, we can’t really move past this either, because Vanangaan tackles the theme of sexual violence against women, and this dichotomy is rather jarring.

From the times of black-and-white, we have often seen a wife act coyly around her husband when sharing the news of their impending pregnancy. There is the bashful eyes, shy demeanour, and lines like the veiled “Now, I have to eat for two people” or the direct “There is a new entrant coming to the family” before breaking into a smile and a hug. In Aashiq Abu’s insanely entertaining Rifle Club, the sassy Sicily tells her husband Avaran, “Bring me the liver of the wild boar you are going to hunt. I heard it is good for pregnant women.” These are the kind of characters that inhabit the world created by Syam Pushkaran, Dileesh Karunakaran and Suhas. Characters who might seem like a weapon-wielding Addams Family to the rest of the world, but within their self-sufficient existence, this is the normal.

There are two important meet-cutes in director N Rajasekhar’s third film, Miss You. One is when aspiring filmmaker Vasu (an effective Siddharth) looks at Subbulakshmi (a terrific Ashika Ranganath) during a protest for the right to wear a hijab. One is when aspiring filmmaker Vasu looks at Subbulakshmi acting all cutesy during a wedding event of a common friend. Both are template scenes that we have gotten used to seeing in innumerable Tamil films. It is a commentary on how our heroes fall in love with heroines only if they are either bold and confident or bubbly and cute. What about the women who are neither bold nor confident, neither bubbly nor cute? That’s exactly what Miss You wanted to talk about, but it has one big problem. Contrary to the film’s protagonist who wanted to tell a love story from the perspective of a woman, Miss You is firmly from the POV of the man.

There can be no debate that the black dhoti and black shirt-wearing Shivarajkumar sitting on a wooden chair placed on an arid land is one of the more iconic images of recent Kannada cinema. It exuded silent power, and as always, the superstar knew that the greatest of style statements lies in its simplicity. The character of Bhairathi Ranagal from Mufti has since attained cult status for showcasing Shivarajkumar in a grounded yet gory avatar that beautifully balanced his stature, stardom, and age. So, when director Narthan, who made Mufti, decided to film a prequel to show the origin of Bhairathi Ranagal in the film titled Bhairathi Ranagal, one couldn’t help but be intrigued.

Five villages — each having its own behaviour, its own problems, professions, and pursuits. It might sound like Black Panther, but we’ll get there later. There is a foreign invasion that threatens to disturb the status quo of the system. There is a hero who wants to do good by his land and his people, and there are external forces that won’t let him do this simple thing that heroes have been doing from time immemorial. There is a Game of Thrones-esque setting, in not just for claiming the top spot, but also in the overall look and feel. There is a timeline jump of almost 1000 years, and the way these two timelines come together is straight out of the SS Rajamouli playbook. Amidst all these familiar tropes lies Siva’s Kanguva that revels in its familiarity, impresses in its visuals, but leaves a lot to be desired in the execution of it all.

A young boy comes to a new city. The city is unkind to him and his mother. He makes a promise that the city will know of his name… soon. A few years later, he goes on to make such a big name that Prime Minister Indira Gandhi is forced to intervene. Then, the antagonists and the system decide to take on the one man who wanted to rule it all. This is the story of KGF. Incidentally, this is also the story of Varun Tej’s latest film, Matka.

It isn’t easy being a film star in India. There is no sense of privacy for a public figure — Everything is criticised, scrutinised, commented upon, and dissected. In a world where your every move has to be carefully calculated, can you actually find a moment of honesty? Can you actually find your own cosy corner that allows you to be what you really want to be? After watching the 80-odd minutes of Netflix’s Nayanthara – Beyond the Fairytale, it is clear that the ‘Lady Superstar’ found her cosy corner at the centre of her world in Vignesh Shivan, and everything in this documentary leads to that moment… That moment where Nayanthara can look into the camera and say, “I feel like I don’t need anything else anymore.”