Tiger Shroff wears the exact same sleeveless compression vest in at least four distinct time zones, which is a small thing to fixate on during a multi-million-dollar action picture, but it bugged me. Bollywood movies have always relied on a certain level of geographical blur, yet seeing the same piece of moisture-wicking black spandex dragged across deserts, snowy peaks, and subterranean bunkers starts to feel less like a wardrobe choice and more like a laundry emergency on set. Director Ali Abbas Zafar wants everything to look expensive, which usually translates to an amber-tinted lens filter and pyrotechnics that cost more than a small municipal budget, but the screen constantly feels slightly crowded with smoke machines. There is an unmistakable weightlessness to the digital compositing here that recalls the unfortunate green-screen fatigue of Sooryavanshi, robbing the physical spaces of any dirt or friction. The screenplay lurches from one military installation to another without ever establishing a geographical anchor, treating countries like airport terminals where characters briefly pause to punch a mercenary or deliver a patriotic quip.

Akshay Kumar has played this exact weary soldier with a heart of gold and a quip on his lips in roughly forty other pictures, and if I'm honest, he is starting to look like he would rather be napping in his trailer. He hits his marks, executes the roundhouse kicks with the mechanical precision of a seasoned pro, and delivers dialogue about protecting the motherland with the bored cadence of a man reading a grocery list. Tiger Shroff bounces off him like an over-caffeinated golden retriever, executing backflips off moving vehicles because standing still on camera apparently violates his contract. Their dynamic is supposed to evoke classic buddy-cop friction, but it plays out more like an exhausted uncle tolerating his nephew's parkour phase at a family wedding. Prithviraj Sukumaran, buried under villain prosthetics that make him look faintly like a disgruntled medieval warlord who wandered onto a modern tarmac, spends his screen time growling about the failure of global governments while stroking various high-tech gadgets.

The women in the cast, including Manushi Chhillar and Alaya F, are mostly stationed in dimly lit control rooms where they tap frantically at glowing keyboards and announce that satellite feeds are down. Sonakshi Sinha pops up in an extended cameo as an intelligence officer, wearing trench coats that billow dramatically whenever a helicopter lands nearby, though her scenes exist solely to reset the plot when the boys run out of things to blow up. The editing treats these performers with casual indifference, occasionally cutting away from reaction shots a beat too late so that you can see the actors blinking and waiting for the pyrotechnics director to yell cut. Cinematographer Bosco-Caesar choreographs the dance numbers with their usual kinetic flair, but the action sequences are edited with such aggressive, seizure-inducing rapidity that you frequently cannot tell which man in tactical gear is currently getting thrown through a drywall panel.

Music by Vishal Mishra tries desperately to inject some romance and swagger into the proceedings, yet the background score relies on an electric guitar riff that loops so frequently it starts to feel like an auditory water torture device. Hindi cinema has produced some genuinely iconic action anthems over the decades, but this soundtrack sounds assembled by an algorithm designed to maximize gym-playlist streams rather than complement the narrative. The thematic core of the film attempts to grapple with rogue artificial intelligence and the ethics of unmanned drone warfare, which feels wildly ambitious for a project whose primary narrative engine involves two men arguing over who gets to rescue the scientist with the glowing thumb drive. We get endless monologues about how machines can never replace human sacrifice, delivered while our heroes casually decimate entire platoons of faceless guards who probably have families waiting for them back in the fictional desert republic.

There is a bloated mid-section involving a hijacked cargo plane where the laws of physics are casually tossed out the cargo hold, along with any lingering tension the plot might have managed to build. Hindi films often struggle to maintain momentum once the heroes and villains finally lock eyes, preferring to pause the momentum for a twenty-minute exposition dump about childhood trauma and bureaucratic betrayal. The villain's master plan involves stealing a cloaking device that renders military hardware invisible, a MacGuffin so thoroughly recycled from 90s action cinema that it practically creaks when it moves across the frame. When the final showdown arrives in an abandoned industrial facility full of hanging chains and conveniently placed fuel barrels, you can practically set your watch by the predictable trajectory of the punches. It is loud, it is aggressively uninterested in nuance, and it will likely play on a loop during Sunday afternoon broadcasts for the next decade.