I have a feeling I’m going to end up repeating a lot of what I said about the first Dhurandhar film. So, let me get it out of the way and summarise quickly: terrific use of music, dynamic action choreography whose repeated gore blunts its own effect, propaganda that’s more in-your-face this time… and a bit more emotional writing.

What instantly pulled me into Dhurandhar: The Revenge is its cool use of music. Aditya Dhar seems to take genuine pleasure in curating tracks, ensuring that there’s life coursing through the film even and especially when nothing particularly extraordinary seems to be happening. That’s why you see the music taking charge particularly during the transition moments. You can tell he doesn’t want you to drift away even for a moment, and this impressive quality is why these films don’t feel as long as they actually are.

Take, for instance, Jaskirat (Ranveer Singh) on a train, as he is on his way to unleashing brutal violence. The music already begins to throb in anticipation before anything actually happens. And when it does, Punjabi vocals, electric guitars, and bursts of rap elevate the violence into something… fun. Perhaps more fun than it ought to be? I’m not sure. I say this because in these moments, Jaskirat is a man in profound pain (both internal and external), and yet, the film seems detached and happy in its pursuit of style. In fact, rather strangely, I got the feeling that the writing doesn’t quite stand for Jaskirat in the way that he stands for his country.

The real value the Dhurandhar films offer for me emerges in the emotional oases scattered between stretches of well-crafted but nevertheless, numbing violence. Just after Jaskirat annihilates those who wronged his family, there’s a striking, quiet moment in court. As Jaskirat’s crimes are being recounted, he turns to look at his family, almost to gauge their response. There’s a quiet understanding between all of them. A bit later, the film also hits an unexpected, but understandable quality of his: cynicism toward the country, toward a system that failed him and his family. But then, it’s fleeting. One speech later, he’s reset, cured. I thought of Krishna and Arjuna, and perhaps if that was an inspiration for this moment. Ajay (Madhavan) does pull strings from afar, while Jaskirat is the weapon. It seems to make sense, even if Jaskirat’s doubts disappear too fast, too unconvincingly.

There are other pockets of emotion too in this sprawling, near four-hour film. Even within a familiar trope in spy cinema: one spy sacrificing himself for another, the emotional dynamics really land. First between Jaskirat and his old friend, and later, between him and a new friend. I processed the tragedy of his life: not just that he loses people, but that he is causing these losses as well. Perhaps this is why we see him burn photographs in two big moments: first of his old family, and then of his new family. But Dhurandhar’s objectives mean that it hardly has time for his interiority, save for such imagery. Even across two films spanning nearly seven-and-a-half hours, the writing seems invested in mainly exploiting Jaskirat as a weapon. The dynamics got me thinking of the Marvel’s Winter Soldier, who is exploited only to kill and serve. The difference though is crucial: while the Marvel films attempt to reclaim his humanity, the Dhurandhar films seem to celebrate the weaponisation.

That’s because the film has larger objectives beyond its storytelling. That’s why the many inserts of PM footage addressing the nation. That’s why all the engineering to suggest that any and all dissent in the country only ever stems from allegiance to, or collusion with, Pakistan. On paper, this feels silly, almost absurd. You’d expect such a simplistic brief to result in a far sillier film (especially when one of the stated terrorist goals is to circumcise all of us). But to Aditya’s credit, it doesn’t. And that’s both impressive… and unsettling.

Just like the first film, this one uses chapter divisions to manage its length. But even then, several stretches feel laboured and repetitive: Hamza’s rise in Pakistan, marked by multiple coronation-like beats; the prolonged assassination sequences; or the Iqbal (Arjun Rampal) subplot where his father seems to go on and on. BUT. The end sequence is so cleverly designed, with a series of narratively satisfying, totally playful payoffs… This means that the film is able to regain some of its lost momentum.

Look, Aditya Dhar has the tools. He stages violence memorably (like that montage of fire-attacks); he composes striking imagery (milk flowing alongside blood, a haunting mirror shot of Hamza and Yalina as they confront their ‘false’ marriage); he gets music, emotion, payoff, all of it. On paper, it feels like he has everything, even the breathless grammar for the reels generation.

And yet, the Dhurandhar films lack something fundamental: a certain humanity. Hence Hamza’s relish as he declares his intent to invade homes and murder people. Hence, all those mechanical kills, all the repetitive gore, all the binary worldview. Hence, the sweeping generalisations. Hence, the film’s inability( or refusal) to recognise shades: the good within the ‘bad’, the flaws within the ‘good’. This means that despite all the dynamism and craft, beneath all the excellence, it’s hard to shake off the feeling something far more sinister is at play.