Thar, on Netflix, Runs and Soars Over its Barren Landscape

An air of mystery looms heavily over the opening shot of Thar. It looms heavily not just because the air in the frame seems warm and still, but also because this sense of atmospheric intrigue serves as an effective medium of transport for the audience, immediately immersing us in the film's world. Set in Munabao, a village in Rajasthan near the India-Pakistan border, the film is a densely packed and largely thrilling reinvention of the Western noir.

It's almost as if heat radiates off the screen. The heat here is both literal and figurative. Writer-Director Raj Singh Chaudhary and DoP Shreya Dev Dube use Munabao's landscape to create a slow-burning and palpable sense of tension. The tension is physical, emotional, psychological, and sexual. It's an extremely clever creative decision because the region doesn't just help in setting the film but also foreshadows what is to follow. A slowly decaying water-buffalo is symbolic of the underlying rot within the characters, an element we too are exposed to gradually.

The film is set in 1985, which allows the writing to be replete with Sholay references. In one scene, a character's looks are directly compared to those of Dharmendra. In another, Surekha (played by an excellent Anil Kapoor) wonders if this story belongs to Gabbar, or perhaps to some other character in the film; namely Thakur, Jai, Veeru, or Basanti. However, much like the film it frequently references, Thar is much more than a standard dacoit drama. In fact, the dacoits in the narrative only account for a small portion of the screenplay. Like many American Westerns, here also the primary drama kicks off with the arrival of a stranger. A man whose name we're later told is Sidharth, arrives in search of employees he says he requires for his antiques-related business. He doesn't speak much but despite his enigmatic — almost inert — presence, there's a sense of foreboding every time he appears on-screen.

However, despite the exquisite world-building and consistently rising tension, the film's unrelenting gore threatens to dismantle the narrative, at least momentarily. Ears are slit, fingers are chopped, and toes are nailed, but the graphic bloodshed doesn't always add substantially enough to the drama. The film has a curious relationship with its violence, which behaves almost as a separate entity, somewhat disconnected from the main plot. The same violence though also acts as a narrative glue, holding the story together even when the writing sags temporarily. It's amusing and difficult to watch in equal measure.

The acting is uniformly excellent. Casting Anil Kapoor as an inspector struggling to come to terms with his aging body and mind is a masterstroke because the actor possesses the rare quality of agelessness that sharply juxtaposes with Surekha's internal conflict. He's grappling with the horrors of not having accomplished enough and wasting his potential, and Kapoor masterfully conveys the fragile excitement Surekha feels when there's finally an element of thrill in his soon-ending career. Kapoor doesn't convey Surekha's conflict directly. His exhaustion is conveyed by an almost inconspicuous gasp for air as he runs through the terrain in search of someone; his vulnerability by a tear that nearly escapes his eye after asking his wife if he could've done more with his life.

Harshvardhan Kapoor is equally brilliant. As a character, Sidharth is unreactive to the point of nearly being inaccessible. However, the actor makes it work. Even though the film doesn't reveal his motive until the very end, I never doubted his actions or the conviction with which he did them. Fatima Sana Sheikh plays Chetna, a woman stuck in the dry desert of desperation and longing. Her name is almost never used in the film, and it took me a Google search to recollect what her character was called. This near-namelessness works as both an attempt to universalize the character as well as to portray the patriarchal injustice she's gone through. She's a woman and on top of that, she's said to be infertile, which means she's marginalized two times over. With a handful of scenes, Fatima conveys Chetna's anguish and desire to be loved with empathy and understanding. Satish Kaushik too delivers a nicely realized performance as Surekha's assistant Bhurelal, a man most comfortable in his uniform because it's the only way he can camouflage his caste.

Thar doesn't dig deep enough into the themes of caste and class but does a good job of implying that one man's sense of freedom is another man's limitation. While Bhurelal finds his sense of purpose and liberty in his uniform, Surekha is shackled by it. Where one man's dreams end, another man's dreams begin.

MAJOR SPOILERS AHEAD In a film so stimulating and startlingly original, it's a shame that the motive for murder happens to be its weakest link. Even though the film's sudden shift into a rape-revenge-drama-of-sorts provides it with a much-needed emotional core, the backstory comes off as familiar and trite. The execution isn't any fresher either, and it's a cop-out because it contrasts so sharply with the other portions of the film. What does work is the conclusion. Even though he has been wronged, Sidharth's actions are never justified or glorified. It's a fine line to tread but director Raj Singh Chaudhary handles it with care and precision. What stayed with me was an overhead shot of numerous dead bodies littered around, decorating the landscape like specks of dust in an unending desert. It's a frame that conveys both the magnanimity of death as well as the fickleness of life. The ending is subversive and quietly feminist in its treatment. Munabao is no man's land quite literally. Despite being dominated by men, it's the women who eventually survive.