That helicopter shot of Goa looks like it was graded by someone who just discovered the contrast slider and didn’t know how to turn it off, which is kind of the baseline aesthetic we are dealing with here anyway. Tiger Shroff runs across screen for the hundredth time and if I am honest I lost count of the slow-motion knee slides before the title card even dropped, though the audience behind me was losing their minds at every single impact. It’s a loud, bruising machine of a picture that takes the bare bones of a Telugu hit and inflates them until the seams split open with synthetic testosterone and hair gel.

Director Ahmed Khan treats narrative momentum like a suggestion rather than a requirement, cutting from an emotional confrontation straight into a fifteen-minute foot chase that exists solely to show off Tiger’s gymnastic abilities. The screenplay by Abbas Hierkar and Niraj Kumar Mishra feels like it was written on napkins during a layover, stringing together kidnapping tropes and army flashbacks with zero regard for geography or basic human logic. Characters appear and disappear from scenes without narrative justification, most notably a room full of heavily armed mercenaries who seem to wander off for tea breaks whenever the plot demands a quiet conversation between the leads. You can feel the gears grinding in every single scene transition, making the two-plus-hour runtime feel significantly longer than an afternoon at the DMV.

Tiger Shroff plays Ranveer Singh, an army captain whose granite-jawed stoicism leaves very little room for actual acting, but he compensates by throwing himself off scaffolding and through plate-glass windows with genuine physical commitment. He lacks the effortless charm that made Salman Khan work in similar vigilante roles back in the day, but there is an undeniable sincerity to his wooden delivery when he yells about patriotism and lost love. Disha Patani is given the impossible task of looking distressed in soft-focus close-ups while occasionally remembering to smile for flashback sequences, though she spends most of her screen time functioning as a human plot device who needs rescuing. The chemistry between them evaporates the second dialogue enters the frame, leaving behind only the awkward stiffness of two models who were told to pretend they share a deeply tragic history.

Randeep Hooda steals whatever frames he’s allowed to inhabit by playing an eccentric, dope-smoking intelligence officer named Loha Singh who wears sunglasses indoors and talks in bizarre riddles. It’s a completely unhinged performance that belongs in a totally different, much better movie, yet his erratic energy provides the only genuine surprise in a narrative that telegraphs every single twist twenty minutes in advance. The supporting cast is filled out by actors shouting their lines at the top of their lungs to compete with the aggressively over-mixed sound design, where every punch sounds like a thunderclap inside an empty metal drum. There is a specific supporting heavy with a clearly dubbed voice who sounds like he recorded his lines in a bathroom stall on a cheap iPhone, and every time he opens his mouth the illusion of a high-budget action thriller completely collapses.

Santhana Krishnan Ravichandran’s cinematography relies heavily on dizzying crane movements and lens flares that obscure the actual choreography, making it frustratingly difficult to track who is hitting whom during the chaotic combat sequences. The fight choreography by Larnell Stovall and Kecha Khamphakdee borrows heavily from modern Hollywood template films like John Wick, trading traditional hand-to-hand rhythm for messy, frantic close-quarters brutality that relies on hundreds of quick cuts to hide the impact. As for the soundtrack, the mandatory remix of the classic Mundiyan To Bach Ke runs on a loop in the background of almost every single social gathering scene, and hearing it four separate times within ninety minutes creates a very specific kind of psychological exhaustion. Hindi movies have long relied on familiar pop culture touchstones to anchor their audience, but recycling old tracks without offering any new sonic context just feels lazy.

The thematic underpinnings lean hard into aggressive nationalism and vigilante justice, suggesting that corrupt police forces and broken judicial systems can only be fixed by a lone man with an assault rifle and a personal grudge. This kind of reactionary politics has been a staple of commercial Hindi films for decades, but here it feels particularly hollow because the movie doesn't even seem interested in its own moral arguments once the next explosion is ready to be detonated. The narrative treats the Kashmir conflict and domestic drug cartels as mere aesthetic backdrops for shirtless brawls, reducing complex geopolitical tensions to a series of convenient excuses for Tiger to tear his shirt off.

By the time the third act descends into a literal war zone inside a disused factory, the sheer volume of CGI blood and slow-motion bullet trajectories has numbed you to any sense of danger or stakes. It’s a relentlessly exhausting exercise in modern spectacle that mistakes endless kinetic motion for actual drama, leaving you stranded in a desert of noise long before the credits finally offer some much-needed silence.