There’s not any effort — not even a smidgen — to resurrect a superstar on the wane in Sikandar, sighs Sukanya Verma.
Salman Khan’s movies aren’t movies.
They’re red carpets laid out by formula-favouring filmmakers for ‘Bhai’ to strut around in slow motion and assert his stardom to indulgent fans again and again and again.
But surely, even the most accommodating Bhai bhakts have a breaking point, especially when the red carpet resembles a tattered rug trod on by a hubris high superstar wearing sunglasses so shiny he cannot read the writing on the wall:
STOP.
There’s not any effort — not even a smidgen — to resurrect a superstar on the wane in Sikandar by A R Murugadoss.
Instead, you get dialogues like ‘Insaaf nahi saaf karna hai.’
Four writer credits (Murugadoss, Rajat Aroraa, Hussain Dalal, Abbas Dalal) and this is what they came up with?
I could reproduce my reviews of all the Salman turkeys to come out in recent years and the same criticism would still hold true for this spectacularly dull drivel.
Same old bracelet, same old punch, same old punchline — the monotony’s impact is so debilitating neither Salman nor his collaborators show any enthusiasm to think out of the box.
Simply throwing in a hot topic or trending technology — Alpha Male and Artificial Intelligence — without context does not amount to moving with the times. It’s no more embarrassing than a Boomer speaking in Gen Alpha lingo to insist they’re cool.
Can’t expect better from a movie where Salman romances a heroine — born in the same year he was singing songs for Karisma Kapoor against the Swiss Alps (Jeet) and serenading Manisha Koirala in Goa (Khamoshi: The Musical).
Rashmika Mandanna’s character, acting like a energiser bunny in a crowd of sleepy zombies, flimsily attempts to underplay the age gap by explaining how he married her only to save her from humiliation — a backstory so done-to-death we don’t even need to be told what transpired.
Realising the impossibility of chemistry between the mismatched duo, Rashmika and his interaction is kept to a bare minimum, letting the focus be on her in parts not whole.
A leading lady’s fate anyway is clear when she hums, ‘Lag Ja Gale Ke Phir Yeh Haseen Raat Ho Na Ho‘.
Half of Sikandar plays out like a script that was written on a paper napkin by a bored wedding guest distracted by the clamorous crowd, the other half by someone who watched a public interest ad about organ donation on their WhatsApp messages.
The upshot is bizarre and boring.
As the proverbial messiah of the common man revolting against the cruel, Salman’s role may have zero range yet goes by several names.
He’s Sanjay because his dad was a fan of Nargis and Sunil Dutt while the grovelling ilk address him as Sikandar or Raja Sahab; there’s a story about that too, one that’s so drab that Rashmika spends most of the time texting his colleagues while pretending to pay attention. It’s basically your cue to survive Sikandar.
Here’s the deal: Salman and Rashmika are some sort of unfathomably rich royalty running a gold empire whilst residing in a palatial property of Rajkot, Gujarat, which screams rented out for shooting purposes.
For all its presumed grandeur, Sikandar has the production values of a tacky TV soap with VFX so shoddy, it makes Mehul Shah look like Michael Bay of Bollywood.
The only Gujarati thing about Sikandar is he lives in Rajkot and has direct access to its most powerful citizen to the extent he can directly call Parliament and take favours to shut up a pesky politician in Mumbai.
A rascal minister (hammy Sathyaraj) holds Sikandar responsible for his rotten son’s (hammy Prateik Babbar) death while our hero is about on an organ donor drive in Mumbai with his band of minions that includes a dreadfully jaded Sharman Joshi.
Between frames bursting with CGI generated crowds in support of Sikandar as he extends support towards the rehabilitation of slum kids and women empowerment in the same dated tone that’s so dear to the star of the Tiger franchise, Wanted and Bajrangi Bhaijaan — films he duly doffs his hat at — Sikandar turns its attention to occasionally flex its muscles like a wannabe Jawan.
Except neither the hammering background score by Santhosh Narayanan, which solely exists to drown out our yawns nor Salman’s showmanship where dance steps look like he’s wincing in knee pain can do much to rescue this sinking Sikandar.
Salman’s nonchalance used to be part of his too cool for school charm. But now it’s descended into irrelevance.
In one scene, the man almost takes off his jacket only to put it back on, as if to say — Why bother? It’s not worth it.
In another, he cries, ‘I’m done.’
Sikandar Review Rediff Rating:
