With Pushpa: The Rule, Sukumar crafts a sequel that’s as audacious as its protagonist, brimming with wild energy and unforgettable visuals. Yet, beneath the swagger and spectacle lies a film grappling with uneven writing and an ending that falters

Pushpa 2: The Rule(3 / 5)

Why do we like Pushparaj?

He doesn’t care to look conventionally attractive. His shoulders are lop-sided, his hair unkempt, his speech brimming with contempt. His work? Smuggling red sanders. His retribution? A fierce defiance of systematic oppression, making him a figure of political utility. And his manner of retribution? Ruthless. As he says, he kills “without mercy.” In this sequel, Pushpa seems almost possessed, his machete slicing through limbs as though they were branches from a tree.

Yet, beneath the raw, violent exterior, Pushpa 2: The Rule reminds us of the man’s humanity. In Shreya Ghoshal’s ‘Sooseki’, Srivalli speaks tenderly of Pushpa’s kindness, likening him to a child—gentle and loyal to those he loves. And we see this tenderness too. These glimpses into his heart add layers to his character, but what makes Pushparaj so magnetic isn’t just his complexity—it’s his authenticity. Pushpa has no patience for pretense, diplomacy, or double-speak. He is, in every sense, the man everyone wishes they could consistently be.

Director: Sukumar

Cast: Allu Arjun, Rashmika Mandanna, Fahadh Faasil

Sukumar tests this authenticity in a deliciously tense premise: Will Pushpa apologise? In this no-win scenario, apologising might seem like the only reasonable course of action, but it would also shatter everything Pushpa stands for. Sukumar revels in the moment, building suspense with every beat (he does this with the Chief Minister meeting portion too). Fahadh Faasil’s Shekhawat opens the sequence with a cheeky callback: “Party undhi Pushpa,” likening his wait for an apology to pining for a girl’s response decades ago. Sukumar takes his time, heightening the tension until the sequence crescendos into a striking moment of introspection. Pushpa, staring into a mirror, asks himself the hardest question: Has power and wealth transformed him into those he once despised?

Such moments of self-reflection are rare in mass cinema, yet Sukumar weaves them effortlessly into a narrative brimming with energy and spectacle. This is a film that pulses with thought, even as it revels in wild action and audacious visuals.

Take Srivalli, for instance. While she felt underdeveloped in the first film, here she benefits from sharper writing—at least initially. Sukumar flips traditional gender dynamics, giving her agency in scenes where she pretty much drags Pushpa into the bedroom (“peelings”) or where he caresses her feet before brushing his beard in his signature gesture—with her foot. Allu Arjun later takes this subversion further, transforming into a goddess of vengeance, swinging his pallu with fury as he crushes his enemies. There’s something immensely powerful about a star embracing such sequences, challenging traditional notions of masculinity in action cinema.

Yet, despite all this unforgettable subversive energy, the film bizarrely, meekly conforms to dated portrayal of women—in a way that Pushparaj himself would be really disappointed with. Srivalli’s initial spark quickly fades, as she gets reduced to an eager cheerleader (that monologue is nevertheless a great moment for Rashmika Mandanna). The camera’s eager gaze sexualises her at every opportunity, relishing every opportunity to show us skin. Women in star-vehicles often get slotted into three roles: of victim, sex goddess, or dutiful supporter. In lesser cinema, you’d understand that they probably didn’t know any better. But here, in this film bursting with sharp, deep ideas, it’s disappointing. While on the topic of feeling let down, I didn’t quite understand the utility of the whole Japan sequence in the beginning. I think the film deserved a far superior end (not so much the destination as the road it takes to get there). I also struggled to understand the sudden infusions of strangely melodramatic music that seems to, again, belong in lesser quality cinema. Also, perhaps the Shekhawat-Pushpa duels feel a bit too one-sided in the latter’s favour.

But. Pushpa 2: The Rule offers plenty to savour. Allu Arjun once again inhabits Pushpa with astonishing ease, turning even audacious moments—like transforming into a goddess—into iconic sequences. Sukumar conjures unforgettable visuals: a helicopter carrying a sofa, a shot pulling back from policemen to Pushpa’s gang hauling sacks of cash, or Pushpa lifting the pallu of his saree mid-fight. The film shows such taste in reimagining elements from the first instalment, like ‘Thaggedhe le’ and Pushpa’s beard-stroking gesture.

The dialogues remain razor-sharp, with lines like, “What’s more nightmarish than the truth?” or Shekhawat’s chilling realisation: “You can kill people without killing them.” Sukumar’s taste for music and staging is, as always, such a pleasure. Songs echo through the narrative even before they officially arrive, as in Shekhawat’s murmurs of “Pushpa Pushpa.” The Gango Renuka Thalli fight sequence carries a rhythmic intensity that almost feels like music. There’s even a hymn-like feeling about Pushpa and gang throwing a challenge to Shekhawat around interval point. It’s entirely understandable that Shekhawat hums this tune for a long time after.

Even if its flaws are evident, the film’s energy rarely sags. Sure, the ending feels off, especially given that much of the film leans more into political intrigue and grand scale than into Pushpa’s familial relationships. Even so, it’s an achievement that the Pushpa universe remains compelling after more than six hours across two films. The Pushpa we see now is a far cry from the Pushpa we were introduced to. He now has power, wealth, and love—and so much to lose. Can he remain authentic, or will the world bend him?

As the franchise moves forward, here’s hoping the women are afforded the same depth as Pushpa himself. Why confine them to one-dimensional roles in a world otherwise so full of thought and sensitivity? After all, as Pushpa himself says, “Pedhdhaga alochinchaali”—think big.

Game Changer begins with the promise of thematic depth and an evolved Shankar protagonist, but a lack of emotional resonance and uneven execution means that this is a missed opportunity

Fear movie review(2.5 / 5)

Perhaps it’s the repetition of certain ideas, or perhaps it’s the undeniable power of Shankar’s hit cinema, but it’s impossible not to think of his earlier works—his heyday, shall we dare call it—while watching Game Changer. A road grinding to a halt due to governmental apathy reminds you of Mudhalvan. A government authority dismantling corruption? That’s from the same film. There’s even a self-aware reference to Kadhalan as Ram Charan’s shoes perform a little jig during a song. A love-meter reminds you of Anniyan. When the hero lands out of a helicopter, it’s impossible not to think of Sivaji, especially with Jayaram’s character doing the signature tap on the villain’s shaved head.

Director: Shankar

Cast: Ram Charan, SJ Suryah, Kiara Advani

My favourite portion of the film is towards the end of the first half when SJ Suryah’s Bobbili Mopidevi, a minister and heir apparent, finds himself unable to establish authority over Ram Charan’s collector. Mopidevi storms into the collector’s office, as many ministers have done in the past in our films—but here, he fails to intimidate. Ram, in rebellion, isn’t Duraisingam though. He doesn’t threaten violence; he simply, politely recites the letter of the law, explaining why the minister needs to wait until evening. It’s such a relief from the usual loud, chest-thumping hero-villain confrontations. It’s a hoot to see a corrupt politician struggle to deal with an educated man with good intentions.

My favourite portion of the film is towards the end of the first half when SJ Suryah’s Bobbili Mopidevi, a minister and heir apparent, finds himself unable to establish authority over Ram Charan’s collector. Mopidevi storms into the collector’s office, as many ministers have done in the past in our films—but here, he fails to intimidate. Ram, in rebellion, isn’t Duraisingam though. He doesn’t threaten violence; he simply, politely recites the letter of the law, explaining why the minister needs to wait until evening. It’s such a relief from the usual loud, chest-thumping hero-villain confrontations. It’s a hoot to see a corrupt politician struggle to deal with an educated man with good intentions.

Shankar’s films are fantasies—almost like they cater to the child within us craving simple, permanent solutions to complex issues. Will a Pugazhendhi ever take to the streets to fight bad men? Will an old freedom fighter ever instill fear about bribery? Will an NRI relinquish wealth to battle the powerful? These are wish-fulfillment exercises you immerse in before stepping back into the unsolvable complexities of the real world. With Game Changer, however, the solutions feel less outlandish. Perhaps Karthik Subbaraj’s involvement in the story plays a part. This isn’t a Chief Minister performing mimicry, while calling government servants. Ram is simply an unusually angry man who channels his frustration through education and a government post. His battles are won not just with brute force (sure, that helps), but with his understanding of government systems. His punchlines aren’t quips but proclamations of authority—like when he points out that a politician’s relevance ends with their tenure, while an educated administrator’s role endures

Even when SJ Suryah’s Mopidevi might act in Shankar villain ways—assassination attempts, bomb threats, destruction of government property…—Ram isn’t responding with the same methods. He’s winning the individual battles and the overall war largely through interpretations of the rulebook, through protecting the sanctity of the system, including the elections. The film aims to show that an overhaul of the system may not be needed if effective enforcement of it can be accomplished. It must have been a real challenge to mount such a story as a big-budget massy entertainer, with a stickler-for-rules protagonist in the centre.

Yet, while Game Changer succeeds in parts, it struggles to maintain cohesion. Big-budget films, especially of late, seem content to hurtle from moment to moment, sacrificing emotional resonance. The opening stretch—a Chief Minister on the brink of death, a collapsing flyover, Ram escaping a train to board a helicopter, and a song—epitomises this issue. The ideas are there, but the emotions don’t land. Indian works because the flashback works. We are invested in the old man’s plight as he desperately seeks help for his injured daughter. Here too, there’s a flashback, but this time, there is simply no resonance.

The romantic subplot with Kiara Advani’s Deepika feels cursory. There’s a hint of humour when she advises Ram to pursue IAS over IPS, joking that the latter might lead to ‘encounters.’ I even liked that Ram’s IPS training justifies his fighting methods, and yet, the relationship with Deepika ends up feeling more as a setup for extravagant love songs than a meaningful arc. A bigger problem is the mother sentiment, too, falling flat, particularly with an ending that feels just bizarre, despite Ram Charan’s earnest performance.

The biggest issue, of course, is the Shankar flashback not working. Even here, the idea—to show the well-intentioned origins of a political outfit derailed by ambition and corruption—is clear, but the execution feels dated. The death of a key character, for instance, lacks the weight of comparable moments in films like Vada Chennai. There, a restaurant murder scene captures the urgency and darkness of betrayal; here, the violence feels staged, failing to convey the characters’ turmoil, failing to create tension and emotion.

If I sound rather disappointed, it’s because halfway through the film, I found myself hopeful about its potential, about how it rises in energy and rhythm as it goes along. But as the story progresses, it settles for predictable resolutions and doesn’t stretch its boundaries. Philosophically too, the film feels conflicted. The flashback emphasises that ends don’t justify means—a bribe from an industrialist or a murder cannot be excused with the justification that the party can perform acts of good. Yet, Ram’s actions (a lie about his mother’s mental state, egging people to receive increased bribes for their votes…), as the film goes on, seem to contradict this, as he encourages deception when it suits his goals. And for that reason, something feels rather off too about the self-serving destinations his roads lead to. Has politics corrupted him too? That would definitely be in keeping with a Karthik Subbaraj padam, but here, we aren’t quite clear.

Its comedy, for instance, is drawn from a man who walks sideways—which makes sense in a world where nobody chooses straight paths, it seems. Its weaponisation of JCBs is an extension of Ram’s desire to find solutions from within the system. That’s why another great moment of the film for me is at the halfway mark when an injured, relentlessly fighting, badly bruised and confused Ram is protected by the very policeman who got him into trouble. Here, you see the real power of authority. Here, you also see the heroism of this badly bruised protagonist, even when so confused and unsure of himself, as he is dragged towards his destiny. It’s the kind of heroism you don’t once see in all those repetitive shots of Ram uttering a punch dialogue and walking away in slow-motion from the scene of his victory. It’s starting to feel like a familiar lesson, but one that continues to be ignored. But yes, this is a film which tries to be at least thematically consistent.

Story:

Nanaji (Balakrishna) is hired to protect a young girl from a wealthy family in Madanapalle Hill Station.

(3 / 5)

Meanwhile, Sitaram (Balakrishna) and his wife (Pragya Jaiswal) work as irrigation engineers in the Madhya Pradesh-Rajasthan region. The region is dominated by the powerful Thakur family, who also run a marble mining business. When the villagers face severe water scarcity, the noble Sitaram transforms into the fierce Maharaaj to stand up for them.

The rest of the story unfolds as an intense clash between Sitaram and the Thakur family.

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