A Cage of Cracks: Reviewing Anurag Kashyap's 'Bandar'

By a Film Critic

Plot

If you’re expecting a straightforward legal drama where good justice triumphs over evil malice, think again. Bandar is not a comforting narrative arc; it is a visceral descent into the murky, suffocating depths of institutional failure and societal prejudice. The film hooks you immediately by establishing Samar Mehra, played with masterful intensity by Bobby Deol—a deeply flawed man who has peaked years ago. We meet Samar in his mid-50s: once a celebrated TV star, now listing through dwindling dreams on the digital graveyard that is the dating app. His life moves at a pace of professional inertia, marked by the creeping realization that fame, like medical insurance and cash reserves, eventually expires. He’s constantly adrift in a vacuous everyday existence, trying desperately to glue himself back into a semblance of a 'normal' life through casual encounters.

The story kicks off with him finding connection in Khushi (Saba Azad) and attempting to rebuild his fragile emotional scaffolding. However, the genre quickly pivots from light romantic comedy to something brutal and genuinely unsettling. The moment Samar’s last casual date, Gayatri (Sapna Pabbi), reappears, leveling accusations of sexual assault, the controlled narrative detonates into chaos. Before any semblance of clarity or due process can establish itself, he is charged under Section 376 and violently swept away to the pre-trial purgatory: the undertrial jail. This arrest isn't just a plot point; it’s an instantaneous social and professional execution.

The core narrative brilliance of Bandar lies in its refusal to provide easy answers. It doesn't settle for the simplistic 'guilty versus innocent' dichotomy that blockbuster cinema often demands. Instead, it becomes a profound excavation of systemic injustice. The plot quickly moves past the procedural "who did it" and zeroes in on the terrifying infrastructure—the media circus, the social spotlight, and the judicial machine itself—that conspire to brand him deviant before any real trial has even begun. We learn that modern justice is often a public relations battle, where reputation can destroy a man faster than actual evidence.

Samar’s initial attempts at securing exoneration are thwarted by an entire ecosystem designed for suspicion. His sister, Suhani (Sanya Malhotra), the valiant legal aid, and his lawyer friend guide him through these desperate maneuvers, but the system is too massive to be defeated by sheer willpower or parental love. The film brilliantly showcases that the fight isn't against a single villain; it’s against an amorphous beast of bureaucratic indifference and collective suspicion. We are watching a portrait of marginalized legal process, where mere accusation carries enough weight to strip away dignity and freedom.

Within the confines of the derelict prison cell—the ultimate metaphor for societal exclusion—Samar confronts a volatile mix of personalities: the commanding, stoic Lijo (Indrajith Sukumaran), the unpredictable Aslam (Ankush Gedam), and even his own reflection housed in other inmates who are waiting their turn. These interactions aren't just filler; they act as psycho-social tests for Samar, forcing him to find footing outside his self-imposed bubble of celebrity entitlement. The narrative is thus constructed as a relentless gauntlet: from the initial trauma of accusation to the gnawing reality of basic survival within squalor, culminating in a journey that attempts—and sometimes fails—to redefine what it means to be truly viewed as human.

Acting

The powerhouse performance at the heart of Bandar is unequivocally Bobby Deol’s. For years, Deol was often pigeonholed into a specific type of masculine role—the action hero, the flamboyant figure. Here, in Bandar, he performs an incredible cinematic exorcism of that persona. This is not just acting; it’s a physical and emotional reinvention. He sheds the polished armor of celebrity to reveal a man who is fundamentally undone by circumstance. His character's spiral into emotional incoherence—the desperate plea for freedom from his sister, the moments of delusional reflection in the bars—are delivered with devastating sincerity.

What makes Deol’s portrayal so successful is its relentless vulnerability. He manages to maintain a residual sense of self-importance, even when completely stripped bare by poverty and incarceration; yet, at key junctures, he collapses entirely. When he utters those lines about becoming "monkeys in our own circus," it's not just witty dialogue—it’s the sound of a man realizing his deeply flawed humanity, mixed with the humiliation of being exposed for all to see. This performance anchors the entire film, giving emotional weight to abstract concepts like 'systemic injustice.'

Crucial to the film's success is the supporting cast, particularly the women who orbit Samar’s collapse. Saba Azad as Khushi presents a different kind of modern complexity—she is spirited but also representative of the fleeting, casually transactional nature of contemporary relationships formed on dating apps. Sanya Malhotra, playing Suhani, gives us the embodiment of determined sisterly love, anchoring the plot with genuine, desperate moral conviction amidst the filth. Her belief in Samar serves as both shield and illusion.

Beyond this core trio, the supporting cast elevates the grime. Characters like Lijo (Indrajith Sukumaran) are stellar examples of controlled force—men who command respect not through muscle alone, but through a quiet authority born out of navigating dangerous, unspoken rules. The secondary police officers and the other undertrials also do the heavy lifting in painting a complex canvas of degraded humanity. There's no single 'villain' face; every character—from the smarmy cop to the inmate who passes judgment with indifferent eyes—is richly drawn, forcing the audience to constantly reassess where their moral lines fall.

If the film’s structure occasionally seems like it requires multiple characters to weigh in on Samar's fate, the acting ensures that every viewpoint feels weighty and necessary. Even the quieter moments of philosophical debate among legal professionals are charged with genuine tension. The talent isn't just in hamming up dramatic outbursts; it's in the nuanced portrayals of men who are fundamentally exhausted—financially, psychologically, and spiritually—by their predicament. This layered ensemble performance is what gives Bandar its enduring grit and resonance.

Cinematography

The visual architecture of Bandar, largely defined by Shaaz Rizvi’s cinematography, is arguably one of the film's most outstanding contributions. The camera work doesn't merely observe the story; it participates in the psychological distress of our protagonist. It treats space itself as an antagonist, creating a constant sense of claustrophobia that mirrors Samar Mehra’s deteriorating mental state and his legal predicament. When he is outside—flashing in flashy clothes or on these initial dates—the visuals are often too bright, too polished, even bordering on aggressively artificial, making him look disconnected from the grime awaiting him.

In stark contrast, the interior spaces of the prison are rendered with an astonishing mastery of desolation. The cinematography utilizes muted, sickly tones: grays, browns, and institutional greens that leach all joy and vitality out of the frame. Everything is sticky, damp, or dilapidated. Rizvi's choice to frequently capture the men—including Deol in his most vulnerable moments—in tight shots or confined corridors restricts the viewer’s breathing space just as Samar himself struggles for it. This immediate visual oppression communicates the profound sense of being trapped.

The camera is an expert at using composition to visualize power dynamics. When a character holds physical or social power (like the cops or the men who have mastered the prison ecosystem), they are often framed by imposing structures—the high walls, the iron bars, and looming architecture. Conversely, when Samar is at his most emotionally raw or weakest point, he gets filmed in wide shots that emphasize his isolation within a crowded space. The overwhelming nature of the surroundings constantly dwarfs him, visually reinforcing his perceived helplessness.

The contrast between the 'before' and 'after' visuals is striking. His early days are punctuated by overly saturated lights—the harsh glare of private functions or the sickly glow of a smartphone screen while doomscrolling. Then, once incarcerated, the cinematography strips away all that excessive glamour. The beauty in Bandar is found not in grand landscapes or sweeping cinematic moments, but in the details: the way light falls through a grimy windowpane onto peeling paint; the texture of rusted metal bars against Deol’s tired face; or the fleeting moments of sunlight penetrating a heavily layered smog. These granular visual elements elevate mere location shooting into potent cinematic metaphor.

This controlled visual palette makes the occasional flashes of life—like the titular "monkey business" that keeps the narrative moving, such as the language jokes or the old-school music cues—even more jarringly alive. The cinematography manages to maintain a palpable sense of realism, giving the audience a gritty documentary feel even when the elements veer into character drama and philosophical debate. It is visual filmmaking that feels heavy, dense, and urgently important, making every shot feel like it carries the weight of legal consequence.

Direction

Anurag Kashyap's fingerprints are all over Bandar, giving the film its signature blend of rawness, unflinching moral ambiguity, and unpredictable intensity. His directing style here feels markedly more grounded than some of his previous, more abstract efforts—it’s jazzier yet deeply rooted in human misery. The ability to maintain a tone that is simultaneously bleakly cynical about institutions while allowing brief moments of genuine, almost playful humanity is the directorial tightrope walk Kashyap executes masterfully.

From a purely structural perspective, the direction excels at pacing. It resists settling into a single rhythm. Following Samar from his mundane dating app existence to the sudden trauma of arrest, and then deep inside the controlled chaos of the prison cell, showcases an expert handling of dramatic tempo shifts. Kashyap knows precisely when to let the tension build slowly—through lingering shots of neglect and decay in the jail—and when to unleash a jarring burst of uncomfortable reality. He ensures that the pace feels always slightly off-kilter, mimicking the way actual injustice often unfolds: swiftly, confusingly, and without warning.

Thematically, Kashyap directs the film as an interrogation—not just of Samar's guilt, but of our own complicity in the system. His visual language frequently forces the viewer into uncomfortable positions, demanding that we question our assumptions about truth, evidence, and the veneer of civilization. He doesn’t tell the audience how to feel; he simply presents a disorienting picture and pushes you to piece together your own moral framework from the fragments.

The co-direction with Sakshi Mehta Lau is subtle but effective, providing an additional perspective that keeps the narrative gaze multifaceted. While Samar's self-perception remains fixed on his gendered entitlement (a point of critique Kashyap directs us toward), the surrounding characters and themes—especially the women’s roles—are kept visible even if they aren't given equal dramatic weight to the systemic breakdown. This ensures that the film doesn't simply feel like a narrowly masculine picaresque journey.

The brilliance of Kashyap’s directorial touches also lie in his ability to mix high-stakes drama with darkly comic elements, preventing the movie from becoming monotonous misery porn. The jokes about language divides (Jitendra Joshi’s role, for instance) and the casual nods to pop culture inject crucial buoyancy into a setting defined by decay. These moments of levity function as necessary pressure valves, reminding us that even within absolute despair, human creativity—and sometimes foolishness—can find a way to survive.

Critically, Kashyap's direction always feels authoritative and uncompromising. He refuses the easy catharsis. While we root for Samar’s eventual psychological survival, he doesn't get an unearned acquittal or a sweeping resolution of justice. Instead, the film suggests that while change is possible (the hopeful ending), the systemic failure remains monumentally large—a testament to Kashyap’s enduring commitment to cinematic realism over convenient escapism.

Conclusion

Bandar is ambitious, often confounding, and absolutely unrelenting in its critical scope. It operates successfully on multiple levels: a deeply personal character study of a man spiraling through mid-life crisis; a tense dive into the specific horrors of India’s pre-trial prison system; and, most powerfully, a sprawling critique of modern justice itself. The film is not for those who want cinematic comfort or neat resolutions. It requires an audience willing to grapple with moral ambiguity, accepting that sometimes the truth is messy, compromised, and almost impossible to define.

While some critics might argue that the narrative sacrifices depth in its handling of the #MeToo discourse by painting accusations too broadly rather than exploring complex nuances—a valid critique—this lack of deep feminist reflection does not diminish the film’s immense power. Instead, it keeps the focus firmly on the systemic rot: the fact that *any* accusation, regardless of truth or motive, possesses enough sheer weight to destroy a livelihood and a life.

The true takeaway from Bandar is this uncomfortable realization: our legal system, society's narrative, and the media’s spotlight operate as an interlocking trio of judgment. They are quick, powerful, and brutally efficient at labeling people unworthy—of bail, worthy, or even simply deserving conversation. The prison setting becomes a microcosm where privilege evaporates, forcing every single character to confront basic survival instincts.

The film doesn't offer the satisfying catharsis found in traditional courtroom dramas; its conclusion is quietly devastating and profoundly suggestive. It suggests that justice isn't a grand pronouncement from a judge, but a fragile, ongoing communal effort—a deliberate refusal to participate in the cycle of "monkey see, monkey do." That sliver of hopeful light at the end is earned through sheer dramatic weight, making it feel like a significant achievement.

Overall, Bandar excels due to its confluence of visceral acting (the magnificent Deol), powerful visual grammar (Rizvi's claustrophobia), and Kashyap’s assuredly unblinking directorial gaze. It is a film that doesn't whisper its themes; it screams them across the dusty, unforgiving cells of an undertrial jail. I recommend Bandar not just as a watch, but as an experience—a genuinely jarring cinematic conversation about what fragile things we value most when every single pillar of our supposed civilization begins to shake apart.