Thar movie review: Anil Kapoor and the atmospherics make it work

Language: Hindi  There’s a scene in Thar when Surekha Singh, played by Anil Kapoor, is heading out of home for an investigation. Surekha is a police inspector in a seemingly peaceful border town. “Don’t try to be a supercop… Come back alive, okay?” his wife Pranati (Nivedita Bhattacharya) says. “I’ve been hearing this for 25 years now. ‘Come back alive. Come back alive.’ It’s probably this effort to come back alive that has kept me from getting a promotion so far,” Surekha shoots back. “A promotion that gets you dead is of no use,” she replies.   This conversation sums up Surekha’s uneventful existence so far. The sort that could describe vast swathes of humankind – skating along, somewhat dissatisfied but not enough to lift himself out of his inertia to take risks, staying safe, and as a consequence, staying alive. Pranati is the yin to his yang, satisfied with simply surviving and with the minor rewards, such as the respect and fear of the community, that her husband’s unremarkable career brings. The couple and their son reside in Munabao in Rajasthan just a stone’s throw from Pakistan. [caption id=“attachment_10620291” align=“alignnone” width=“640”] Anil Kapoor in a still from Thar | Image from Netflix[/caption] Nothing much happens in Munabao until a good-looking stranger (Harshvarrdhan Kapoor) enters the picture in 1985. This enigmatic outsider’s arrival coincides with a couple of heinous crimes that may or may not be connected, which obviously makes him a person of interest for the local police. His air of mystery, his reticence and the monetary gains he offers make him a person of interest for the local population. Thar is about the secrets and horrors that lie beneath a surface of apparent small-town monotony – criminal networks that thrive because law enforcement does not bother to dig deep unless compelled to do so in response to overtly disruptive activities, the terrible crimes that seemingly ordinary folk are capable of, sexual permissiveness that rages below the façade of ghoongats, social institutions and conservatism, and women in despair. Above all else, it is about the price that vengeance extracts from all parties involved.     Director Raj Singh Chaudhary employs the stark beauty of his locations and Shreya Dev Dube’s watchful camerawork along with the evocative music by Shashwat Sachdev (who is credited for the spirited title song) and Ajay Jayanthi to build an atmosphere of intrigue across the burning sands of the Thar. That giant beast lying motionless in the sun, an image that runs as a continuous thread throughout the narrative, appears a bit too arranged and too studied an effort to symbolise the decaying, unobtrusively rotting society of Munabao. Abundant compensation comes, however, in the form of the rest of Thar’s brooding, picturesque visual landscape.   [caption id=“attachment_10622841” align=“alignnone” width=“640”] Harshvarrdhan Kapoor in Thar | Image by Netflix[/caption] Kapoor Senior’s quiet charisma anchors the narrative and the awareness looming over it of the volcanic unrest simmering below the appearance of inactivity in Munabao.

In this and most other respects, Thar is not a conventional Hindi film. What makes it even more uncommon is the repeated reference to casteism, coming as it does from an industry that has, for a couple of decades now, largely pretended that the caste system does not exist.  

It is also unusual to see a Hindi film in which Pakistan, cross-border activity and even crime are crucial elements yet are not used to shout slogans about the “dushman desh” or to demonise that “dushman”. Thar is about the enemy within and without. And although it is not stated in black and white, considering the geographical location, there is much to be read into the film’s stated position about the all-consuming nature of revenge and the price it extracts from those who seek it. Thar is clearly an ode to the spaghetti Western genre. To leave us in no doubt about this, a tribute to Sholay is thrown into a conversation.   The director, Chaudhary, had earlier made 2021’s _Shaadisthan_ , which, to quote my review, was “a cringe-worthy thesis on feminism”. Thar is so vastly mature in comparison that it is hard to come to terms with the fact that the same individual helmed it. Chaudhary has written the screenplay (additional screenplay by Yogesh Dabuwalla and Anthony Catino) while the dialogues are by Anurag Kashyap. Women are nowhere near the forefront of Thar, but they are not marginal either, and they are certainly far removed from the caricature that the leading lady of Shaadisthan was. With so much holding it together, Thar is nevertheless let down by its failure to lend substance and, hence, relatability, to the perpetrator of the crimes Surekha has to solve. In a bid to keep the suspense going, the writing team reveals so little about this person so late that it is impossible to feel invested in their motivations and pain. As the plot moves forward, this limitation holds Thar back from fully living up to its potential and gripping atmospherics.   Despite being the producer along with Harshvarrdhan, Kapoor Senior does not monopolise the screen, which is commendable. The younger Kapoor, his son, has a naturally sweet personality but is not challenged to do anything beyond deadpan his way through the film and look likeable. Of the supporting actors, Satish Kaushik is endearing as Surekha’s physically unfit, lower-caste colleague, and Mukti Mohan makes an impression in a small role as a feisty wife. The cast has many impressive talents but none quite as arresting as Anil Kapoor whose innate appeal seems to increase with each passing year. As the weatherbeaten officer who is far smarter than his rank would suggest, he keeps Thar going even when its writing enters shallow waters.   Anil Kapoor is reason enough to watch this well-mounted thriller. Rating: 2.75 (out of 5 stars)  Thar is streaming on Netflix

Anna M.M. Vetticad is an award-winning journalist and author of The Adventures of an Intrepid Film Critic. She specialises in the intersection of cinema with feminist and other socio-political concerns. Twitter: @annavetticad, Instagram: @annammvetticad, Facebook: AnnaMMVetticadOfficial