Member Reviews

The White Lotus Season 3 returns after two years with a new group of guests that converge at a luxury resort for a getaway. Of course, their stay is eventful as the looming murder of one of the group is hinted at from the start. Mike White’s Emmy Award-winning series moves to Asia for the latest installment as Thailand is the setting for this story. Even though White’s narrative moves along glacially, there is enough to keep viewers intrigued. This year’s guests include a trio of best friends, played by Leslie Bibb, Carrie Coon, and Michelle Monaghan; a rich white family led by actors Jason Isaacs and Parker Posey; and a mismatched couple, both in age and temperament, played by Walter Goggins and Aimee Lou Wood. The only familiar face for viewers is spa worker Belinda (Natasha Rothwell), who was present in the first season. With each day, White shows another facet of their complicated relationships with one another as well as their hopes for the future. But which one of these guests is the fallen victim? Mike White is once again the creative force behind this season, which focuses more on individual characters than on an overall arc. The Western guests’ storylines have more prominence this time. However, the narratives for the Thai staff, security guard Gaitok (Tayme Thapthimthong) and hotel worker Mook (Blackpink’s Lisa), are promising. Lek Patravadi also stands out as resort owner Sritala. However, so far, without giving away too many spoilers, most of the characters are circling around one another, hiding away true motives. It’s the same story structure as previous seasons, like some of the guests being resistant to wellness programs, just in a new aesthetic setting.

I’m running out of polite ways to say that most Bollywood launch vehicles are vanity vans parading as commercial movies. I’m running out of impolite ways to say that most Hindi rom-coms feature nepotism hires and Gen Z characters who speak like outdated youngsters at a debutante ball imagined by out-of-touch boomers. I’m also running out of ways to say that I’m running out of ways. Kunal Kohli’s Bobby Aur Rishi Ki Love Story looks like it was written in 1995, shot in 2005, scored in 2015, edited in 1985, colour corrected in 1975 and released in 2025. Remember the annoying animated couple from Kohli’s hit, Hum Tum (2005)? Those two were still more realistic and less cringey than the live-action couple in this film, who do the walking-and-talking-in-Europe (or post-Brexit Britain) jig as if Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge and Before Sunrise were in-flight tourist videos rather than classic landscape changers. They start as enemies, become frenemies and turn into screechy soulmates — all with the artistic spirit of a paid vacation and the emotional awareness of an oblivious meme.

To make a modern rom-com remains the bane of Bollywood: Loveyapa proves all over again just how difficult it is to create a cracking love story which truly captures the essence of today’s swipe-right-and-left generation. The real film kicks in well into the second half, much after the listless toing-and-froing of the pre-interval portion between the two leads who cutely call each other Baani Boo, and Baboo. Ooo. You think you love each other? Ok, exchange your phones for a day, and see where you go with it, declares Baani’s stern shuddh-Hindi spouting daddyji (Ashustosh Rana). Consternation on faces, and dread in hearts, Baani Sharma and Gaurav ‘Gucci’ Sachdeva hand over their phones to each other, and thus begins loveyapa, love plus ‘siyapa’, that untranslatable Punjabi word whose closest meaning is trouble.

Smartphone is the new villain in love stories. Screenwriters looking for new obstacles for love birds have discovered social evils on the web. After Muddassar Aziz used phone swapping to generate humour in Khel Khel Main, director Advait Chandan recycles the Tamil hit Love Today to create a romantic comedy about the ill effects of social media and artificial intelligence on relationships in Loveyapa. Baani (Khushi Kapoor) and Gaurav (Junaid Khan) feel their romance is transparent till Baani’s father Atul (Ashutosh Rana) asks them to swap their phones before they exchange vows. As the phones get unlocked, it opens Pandora’s chat box with the video libraries and vaults of phones revealing secrets that both are not ready to overlook. Written by Sneha Desai, the film makes interesting observations on how the young generation is losing touch with reality and how there is a distinct difference in their online and offline character. In this game of choices, there is no gender divide. It also touches upon the issues of online fat shaming and the emerging scourge of deepfakes.

“Going home again" is a cinema trope that continues to string hearts despite being around for a while. It never becomes dated as everyone–even the ones staying in their hometown–longs to go back since home is never a place. It is a collection of memories of a place and time with people that’s lost. Narayaneente Moonnaanmakkal (Narayani’s Three Sons) explores the popular adage: “You can never go home again." It isn’t there anymore because even the one, who is missing it, is not the same individual who once lived there. Sethu (Joju George), the middle son of Narayani, learns it the hard way when he tries to bring back his estranged brothers to their hometown, when their mother is on her deathbed, counting her days. The family reunion brings to the fore the old scars, nostalgic memories, and new problems, making up for an immense experience of laughter, tears, and profound thoughts.

For those not in favour of remakes — I am one of them, considering most turn out to be a lazy copy-paste job — the decision to let go of Mrs because the memories of watching The Great Indian Kitchen are too sacrosanct, will not be unfounded. But Mrs is not just any other remake. It is a thriving, breathing, nuanced film in its own right. It is the kind of film that takes the best out of its source material and enhances it, setting itself in a socio-cultural context that is relevant and relatable. Mrs hits hard — just as hard as The Great Indian Kitchen did when it released at the tail-end of the first wave of the pandemic. The Malayalam film with a seemingly simple story of a newly-married woman struggling to fit into a conservative and patriarchal household, ignited conversations around gender roles, casual sexism, toxic relationships, male entitlement and a woman’s role in a world she is constantly stereotyped in. It became a mirror of the suffering that most Indian women, at some time or maybe all of the time, have been subjected to. In that film, what remained subtle and innocuous at first finally boiled over into rage that resulted in a moment of gut-wrenching catharsis. Like the woman at the centre of it, we felt elated, but we also cried.