The Sky Is Pink feels less like a biopic of a dead teenager and more like an unabashed tribute to the two fighters who volunteered to a losing battle for over two decades. It’s predictable and familiar yet affecting and tender, especially as an examination of unconditional caregiving.

Years later, Munnabhai MBBS and most recently, Gully Boy, did what Vaastav set the trend for two decades ago – give Bollywood dialogues a coloquial veneer. Phrases like “pachaas tola” and words like “ghoda” remain a snapshot of what Mumbai is really like beyond the Queen’s Necklace and plush skyscrapers.

When boys come of age, they enjoy the freedom that permits them to make mistakes. But patriarchy doesn’t afford the same luxury to young girls. Rima Das’s Bulbul Can Sing argues that when girls come of age there is some trauma attached to it.

Siddharth Anand’s War, starring Hrithik Roshan and Tiger Shroff, is at once pulpy, stylish, racy, and surprisingly intelligent. It’s been a while since a Bollywood film has made action look this inviting.

Five years ago, when Haider released in theatres, the ruling government was still in its early days and the mood of the nation was nowhere close to what it is today. It is practically impossible to see the film make it past the censors in the current political climate.

In many ways, Dream Girl feels like an antidote to the brashness of Kabir Singh. It is a film that confronts the vexations of modern-day masculinity. It briefly imagines men who listen, who empathise with vulnerability, and who must learn to relate to each other in ways that have long been socially assigned to women.

Here’s the thing about Yash Chopra – despite the cliché that he is associated with, he never could be pinned down to a stereotype. Even as he defined the romantic canon, he went about redefining it with each film. Chopra was to India what Mills & Boon was for the rest of the world.

Aradhana might seem like yet another run-of-the-mill film about a self-sacrificing woman, but it’s much more than that. It’s a movie that brought taboo subjects such as pre-maritial sex, adoption, and single motherhood to the mainstream.

You can be divided on whether Gully Boy is the finest film of the year, but it goes without saying that it is the best choice for the Oscars. An Oscar entry for Best International Feature Film doesn’t have to be an accurate representation of Indian cinema, it just has to have the financial might to sustain an Oscar campaign.

The Lunchbox is a film that thrives on the various little ways we forge connections in Mumbai, a city that works overtime to alienate us. How we envelop care in the confines of a dabba, our longing within the folds of a letter, and our concern through recipes yelled out from windows.

The Zoya Factor is equally let down by the terrible casting of Sonam Kapoor, whose portrayal of the “klutzy heroine” is now bordering on the offensive and its director Abhishek Sharma's insistence on taking refuge in crowd-pleasing spoofy filmmaking.

Chandni is the quintessential male fantasy in motion; except with Yash Chopra behind the camera, that fantasy translates as adoration and appreciation, instead of overt sexualisation. Every shot feels like a gentle caress, like the gaze of an admirer or a devotee.

Dream Girl suffers from a visible Vicky Donor hangover and says nothing new in its greed to say a little bit of everything. But perhaps the biggest downside of Dream Girl is that it looks like the first sign of Ayushmann Khurrana being held prisoner by his own reputation.

Section 375 is a sneaky, smug, and ignorant proclamation of "Not All Men" that comes at the expense of the Me Too movement. It doesn't just argue that the system is corrupted to a point where justice is a foregone conclusion. But that women seek revenge by filing false rape charges and the system enables them.

In 2019, twisting your homies’ nipples in public is a flagbearer of inappropriate behaviour. But in the hallways of my school back in 2001, a time when we boys lacked foresight and sensitivity, “pungis” were all about brotherhood.

In a post-Section 377 world, Bollywood has evidently taken major leaps. I was recently brought in as a consultant for a film script when the production team felt that the straight men writing a story about queer lives lacked insight.

Nitesh Tiwari's Chhichhore is a pleasant entertainer elevated by the strength of its supporting cast. It's also an unabashed acknowledgement of male failure. If Dangal eulogised individual glory, Chhichhore contradicts it, attempting to universalise an oft-neglected fact: Even losing is a sport.

Saaho is essentially Race 3 with a Harvard education and a family inheritance. It resembles an unholy trifecta of a haphazard screenplay that parodies itself, a confused storyline that springs up new threads without resolving the previous ones, and atrocious acting.

You rarely enjoy an Abbas-Mustan film for reasons that are not embarrassing. There’s no better evidence of that than Baadshah, a comic-action thriller that boasts of mistaken identities, magnetic shoes, and a private detective who is petrified of dogs.

I met Khayyam saab almost a decade ago for just a couple of hours. Yet, like most of his fans, I feel I have known him all my life. Khayyam saab, with his gentleness, reminded me of times when a lot of artists came together for a film and were happy to collaborate for the common cause – and that cause was music.

As I mourned the passing of Vidya Sinha last Thursday, I couldn’t help but realise that Sinha was an Everyman’s heroine. As Deepa and Prabha in Rajnigandha and Choti Si Baat, two of Basu Chatterjee's classic outings, she oozed femininity that was distinctly Indian while embodying a sort of reckless abandon that was almost postmodern in its emancipation.

Batla House, the John Abraham-starring film, will no doubt open to praise and paisa, unfettered by the fact that, 11 years later, the actual encounter that saw two alleged terrorists and police officer MC Sharma killed, is still one of the murkiest cases in the annals of Delhi Police’s speckled history.

Akshay Kumar's Mission Mangal joins the ranks of Bollywood space films that have no idea how to be one. The mission’s female scientists contribute nothing save for pressing a few buttons or looking worried, and if the film is to be believed, space travel is as easy as catching a Pokemon.

Is it possible to make an unbiased film about a real-life event? Nikhil Advani's Batla House suggests that the answer might be a no. But what the film lacks in objectivity, it makes up by being surprisingly compelling. For once, John Abraham wields his stoic demeanour to complement the mayhem unfolding on the screen, instead of distracting from it.

On the surface, Kaminey might seem like rehashing a story endlessly told and retold. But what sets it apart is Vishal Bhardwaj’s eagerness to explore deep into the psyche of his villains. Even 10 years later, Kaminey feels like Bhardwaj’s love letter to Bollywood.

To try and find an original song in Bollywood in 2019 is as fruitless as searching for survival tips in PM Modi’s episode of Man vs Wild. But as any ‘90s kid could tell you, there was a time when music made the movies worth watching. The soundtrack of Taal elevated the film into an unforgettable experience.

In 2019, there is no reason that an unfunny, sexist film like Jabariya Jodi should get backed by a mainstream production house. The Parineeti Chopra and Sidharth Malhotra-starrer is replete with crass gags on sex, women, and condoms. And at the centre of it, is a headache-inducing romance between two people who love beating up other people.

The biggest plot twist in Hum Aapke Hain Koun..! is the death of the adorable, ever-smiling Pooja bhabhi. Twenty-five years on, this endlessly rewatchable sequence is a cultural phenomenon – it’s now a meme. In the age that we live in, this is the ultimate form of flattery.

Fifty-nine years on, the women of Mughal-E-Azam need to be celebrated. Anarkali is the soul of the film, but even Bahar, a jealous lady-in-waiting, is graceful in her pursuits. Jodha Bai is an unconventional mother figure, not a standard 17th century queen who only exists to produce heirs.

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