The sound design during the London street foot chase is genuinely annoying, specifically how the crunch of gravel under boots sounds like a Foley artist went heavy on dry cornflakes.

Anirudh Iyer directs with a kind of restless panic that usually signals a first-time filmmaker who watched too many Guy Ritchie pictures before the coffee kicked in, yet somehow he manages to pin down something genuinely frantic about modern celebrity paranoia. If I'm honest, the script by Neeraj Yadav operates less like a structured narrative and more like a series of escalating panic attacks stitched together with Instagram reels and breaking news chyrons. Ayushmann Khurrana plays Maqbool Sethu, a superstar who accidentally kills a local politician's brother during an out-of-station shoot and has to flee to the UK while his career implodes in real time on every cable news channel in the subcontinent. The premise requires a suspension of disbelief so wide you could drive an ambulance through it, but the film doesn't care about plausibility because it wants to stay hopped up on its own speed, darting from film sets to safe houses to greasy spoons without ever letting the audience catch a proper breath. It reminds me a bit of Anurag Kashyap's Ugly in the way institutions and ordinary bystanders alike circle a desperate man like vultures smelling fresh blood, though without the crushing social misery that made that earlier picture so exhausting to sit through on a rainy Tuesday afternoon.

Khurrana has always been good at playing guys who are slightly more ordinary than they want you to think, but here he drops the relatable charm almost immediately to play a man whose vanity is his only remaining survival instinct. He handles the shift from pampered idol to hunted animal with sharp, jerky movements, refusing to give us the catharsis of a redemption arc. When he stares into a bathroom mirror and realizes his face is no longer his own property but a public utility owned by Twitter mobs and morning anchors, the terror on his face looks entirely earned. Opposite him, Rachit Jadoun brings a terrifying, blank-eyed menace to the role of the vengeful brother who treats tracking a Bollywood star like a fun corporate merger he has to close before dinner. It's a performance that completely avoids the traditional moustache-twirling villainy we usually get in these types of hindi movies, opting instead for a cold, transactional cruelty that feels entirely native to an age of algorithmic attention economies.

The cinematography by Himman Dhamija relies heavily on toxic neon yellows and sickly greens that make London look less like a postcard and more like a damp basement where bad decisions go to fester, even if the handheld camera occasionally wobbles so violently during dialogue scenes that you feel like you are watching a thriller from inside a tumble dryer. Sunny and Pawandeep's music cue of the vintage track "Jehda Nasha" pops up not twice, but four distinct times during the first hour alone, and by the third iteration, it stops feeling like a clever meta-commentary on the inescapable nature of commercial pop and starts feeling like an editorial shortcut designed to pad out transitions between locations. The editing by Pratik Shah works best when it is abruptly cutting away from action beats to dead air, lingering on a stray look of confusion from a British extra who has no idea what is happening behind the police tape, grounding the cartoonish absurdity of the plot in a weirdly mundane texture of everyday bureaucracy and visa paperwork.

What keeps the picture from collapsing under its own weight is its genuine anger toward the machinery of public adoration, treating fans and tabloid hosts not as innocent dupes but as active participants in a blood sport where the celebrity is just the piñata everyone gets to hit for three hours. We watch as ordinary people forget their own political grievances the second a famous face appears on their phone screen, turning a murder investigation into a selfie opportunity that lasts roughly as long as it takes the battery to die. It is a cynical worldview that runs right through the history of commercial hindi films, trading the traditional melodrama of family honor for a much colder transaction between the screen and the lonely consumer sitting in the dark with a bucket of overpriced popcorn.

There is no grand moral waiting at the exit, no neat little speech about the price of fame or the emptiness of success, and the film just kinda stops moving forward when it runs out of countries to flee to and hashtags to mock. The final tracking shot stays fixed on a blank marquee in a suburban cinema, reminding us that another face will take the spot by Friday morning anyway.