Amitabh Bachchan wears a bright yellow shirt in the opening reel of Bbuddha Hoga Tera Baap that hurts the back of the eyes under digital projection, and I honestly don't know who cleared the costume test on that one. It is a loud, unapologetic piece of work directed by Puri Jagannadh, who brings his hyper-kinetic Telugu grammar into the middle of Mumbai without smoothing off the rough edges or apologizing for the noise. Bollywood movies usually try to sand down regional quirks when they cross state lines, but this picture leans hard into the punchy, cartoonish rhythm of South Indian commercial actioners like Pokiri, trading gritty realism for high-contrast colors and swagger that feels entirely unbothered by contemporary taste. The screenplay moves in sudden lurches rather than smooth narrative arcs, establishing a premise about an aging hitman who returns to town with old scores to settle, only to spend half his runtime flirting with Hema Malini and casually dismantling syndicates.

Bachchan plays Vijoo with a level of physical commitment that makes you forget his age for minutes at a time, sliding across car hoods and tossing one-liners with the exact same cadence he used four decades ago. He is having fun, which is more than can be said for half the ensemble standing around waiting for their cue to look intimidated. Hema Malini brings a wonderful, dry exasperation to her scenes with him, playing the one woman in the universe who isn't impressed by his leather jacket or his motorcycle. The supporting cast features three different young actresses—Minissha Lamba, Sonal Chauhan, and Neha Sharma—whose primary function in the narrative seems to be looking startled while standing in brightly lit living rooms, though Sonu Sood manages to carve out a distinct presence as a corrupt cop with a tailored suit and a permanent sneer.

Puri’s direction relies heavily on slow-motion walk-ups and sudden whip-pans that make every conversation feel like an impending brawl, whether the characters are discussing real estate or murder. The camera rarely stays still, constantly orbiting the actors or craning down from the ceiling to emphasize their isolation within these oversized, sterile apartment sets. Vishal-Shekhar's soundtrack hits you over the head with aggressive brass tracks and thumping bass that threaten to rattle the speakers right out of the multiplex wall, though one particular trumpet motif repeats itself so often during chase sequences that it starts to feel like a minor auditory assault.

Prakash Raj plays the primary antagonist with his usual practiced menace, though his Hindi dubbing here is slightly out of sync in two crucial confrontation scenes, a small mechanical slip that pulls you right out of the tension. Hindi films have a long history of treating villains as mere punching bags for the leading man, and Raj accepts this limitation cheerfully, chewing scenery with wide-eyed disbelief every time Bachchan's character refuses to stay dead. The themes of the movie are aggressively simple, centering on generational disrespect and the idea that sixty-year-old men can still wear sunglasses indoors if they punch hard enough, leaving no room for nuance or emotional ambiguity.

There is a sequence midway through where Vijoo beats up twelve henchmen inside a cramped auto-repair shop while classical music plays on a transistor radio, and it stands out as the single best-staged action beat in the entire production. The lighting goes from flat daylight to deep neon blues and reds without any logical justification, matching the internal logic of a comic book rather than a Mumbai crime drama. Critics tend to dismiss these outings as lazy star vehicles, but there is a distinct craftsmanship in how efficiently the narrative cuts from one fight to the next without pausing for exposition.

Bachchan delivers his dialogue with a casual, almost insulting dismissiveness toward his opponents, tossing out the titular insult whenever someone questions his relevance in a modern syndicate. The supporting players like Mahie Gill and Makrand Deshpande drift in and out of the plot for single scenes, adding flavor and texture to a world that would otherwise feel too glossy to inhabit. It is an uneven, noisy, occasionally exhausting piece of entertainment that refuses to take its own premise seriously for even a single frame.

The editing cuts away from dramatic reaction shots a fraction of a second too early, robbing the dramatic beats of their intended weight, which happens often enough to become a distinct stylistic annoyance. Yet the picture maintains a strange momentum that keeps you watching past the logical exit point, propelled almost entirely by the sheer inertia of its star's remaining charisma and the director's refusal to slow down for breath. When the credits finally drop over a montage of outtakes, you realize you haven't watched a coherent story about aging or revenge so much as a two-hour excuse for Amitabh Bachchan to remind everyone in the room who used to own the industry.