Sumeet Vyas looks genuinely exhausted in the opening ten minutes of High Jack, a fatigue that has very little to do with whatever character arc he is supposed to be dragging across the tarmac and everything to do with the sheer logistical weight of carrying a stoner comedy that forgot to pack any actual smoke. It is a strange kind of movie, if I am honest, operating on a frequency that feels less like a finished draft and more like an extended table read where the catering truck never showed up and everyone is just trying to get through the afternoon so they can go home. Mantra Mugdh and Sonnalli Seygall orbit him with varying degrees of professional obligation, occasionally catching a decent punchline before the scene simply evaporates around them without so much as a fade-out to signal mercy. You can almost feel the air conditioning humming in the background of the sound design, rattling the plastic props and keeping the actors awake through takes that stretch just a fraction too long past the director's cut.

Akarsh Khurana tries to wrangle this airborne nonsense into something resembling a narrative, though his direction mostly consists of putting actors in a confined space and hoping the lighting changes will do the heavy lifting. The screenplay lurches forward in fits and starts, abandoning subplots with the casual indifference of someone clearing browser tabs before lunch, which makes the whole enterprise feel profoundly disconnected from itself. Hindi films usually love a chaotic ensemble dynamic where everybody gets a moment to shine against the backdrop of a frantic situation, yet here the actors are frequently stranded in wide shots that do nothing to disguise the fact that the set was built on a very tight budget in a suburban warehouse. Characters walk into rooms for no discernible reason, deliver exposition that sounds like it was translated twice through a discount app, and then wander off to make room for another poorly lit conversation about corporate betrayal or personal redemption.

Sumeet Vyas brings a weary, rumpled charm to the proceedings, doing his absolute level best to anchor a movie that is constantly slipping out from under him like a cheap rug on a waxed floor. He has a way of sighing through his nose before delivering a line that almost makes you forget how thin the script is stretched across these ninety-odd minutes, though even his considerable comedic timing starts to fray around the edges when the plot demands he take charge of a hostage situation involving mediocre narcotics and even more mediocre villains. Sonnalli Seygall works hard to inject some kinetic energy into her scenes, flashing designer sunglasses and striking poses that suggest a completely different movie happening just off-camera, while Mantra Mugdh leans into a jittery, wide-eyed shtick that wears out its welcome long before the second reel has limped to a messy halt.

There is a recurring audio cue, some aggressively upbeat synth bass that kicks in every single time a character tries to look sneaky, and it repeats with such numbing frequency that I began to wonder if the sound mixer had simply fallen asleep on the export button. It is a small thing, sure, but it grates on the nerves until every silent beat in the cabin feels like an interrogation.

Visually, the film resembles a straight-to-video thriller from the late nineties that somehow wandered onto a modern streaming platform by mistake, draped in cold blues and sickly greens that make everyone look like they have spent three days in a damp basement eating stale crackers. The soundtrack bounces erratically between forgettable indie-pop tracks and instrumental stingers that announce gags well before the actors can reach the punchline, completely draining the comedy of any surprise it might have salvaged from the wreckage of the editing bay. Bollywood movies have certainly managed far worse over the decades, yet there is something uniquely deflating about a comedy that refuses to commit either to the anarchic stupidity of its premise or the grounded realism of its human stakes, choosing instead to hover in an awkward middle ground where nobody is having any fun at all.

Watching the passengers bicker over bags of contraband feels rather like sitting through the second half of Go Goa Gone, minus the zombies and the budget and the actual directorial vision that made that earlier experiment pop off the screen with genuine vitality. The thematic ambitions of the script gesture vaguely toward societal critique, poking fun at corporate greed and the desperate hustles of modern urban youth, but these ideas are tossed around like crumpled napkins and forgotten the second a physical gag needs to be fumbled through. It is not that the film lacks a heart; it simply feels as though the heart was left behind in the writers' room during a particularly aggressive budget cut.

By the time the closing credits finally stumble onto the monitor, you are left with the distinct impression that everyone involved was just relieved to wrap the final schedule and collect their paychecks without any major injuries on set. Hindi movies have a long and storied tradition of high-concept stoner farces that manage to find genuine heart amidst the smoke and absurdity, yet this particular flight path never quite gains enough altitude to clear the tarmac. The actors try their best with material that continuously works against their instincts, the camera setup remains stubbornly uninspired from start to finish, and the whole experience gently dissolves from memory the moment you close the browser tab, leaving not even a mild headache behind to prove you were ever there.