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:
