

It is a mighty cast, featuring heavyweights like Neeraj Kabi and Radhika Apte. When he breaks out of a box using the metal kada around his wrist like a crowbar, it is a moment to celebrate but not a moment of glory. We don’t know what makes Sartaj Singh tick, and what his deep-rooted daddy issues are, but Khan makes us want to find out.
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It is a complex, tightly wound character and Khan-wearing persecution and righteousness in his eyes-creates a leading man free of charisma, yet compelling enough to root for. In the other corner, Khan is super as an unlikely maverick, a man of honour who is both unassuming and determined. Trod upon and traumatized, his Gaitonde is a cipher. This is familiar territory for Siddiqui, who has traversed the rags-to-bloody-power journey for Kashyap in movies like Gangs Of Wasseypur and Raman Raghav 2.0, but the actor continues to hold our interest, seething with quieter, more lethal menace as he gets to play a better-rounded character. In India, the man wearing white is the made man. As a scene shows, the man in charge is too powerful to shred his own dirty paperwork. Like Henry Hill, he is a young man obsessed with power, which lets him rise from toddy manufacturer to neighbourhood gangster till he realizes true wealth-and true power over other men-lies only in politics. Writers Varun Grover, Vasant Nath and Smita Singh keep most scenes short, the narrative stocked with cliffhangers, and take deft incursions into politics and religion: for instance, a horrific fable of two demons (narrated by the great Pankaj Tripathi) acts as a brutal metaphor for faith as a weapon. The show is thus a cat and mouse game, executed not merely with precision but with a cool head. He is part megalomaniac villain and part Forrest Gump, an unsolicited narrator who talks slowly and self-indulgently about things we may not have asked to know, but which, perhaps because of Siddiqui’s magnetism, always appear vital.Įverything will explode in 25 days, he says.
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Unimportant, that is, till he gets a phone call from a man who has the name of a god-and just about as many delusions.Ĭuriously, the directors shot the series in unison as opposed to episode by episode, with Motwane taking Singh’s track and Kashyap focusing on Gaitonde, narratives overlapping as Singh investigates a doomsday scenario, while the backstory-revealed in Gaitonde’s voice-gets us up to speed. We meet Sartaj Singh (a taciturn and stocky Saif Ali Khan), an unimportant policeman with his anxiety medication close at hand.
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I have only read the first five pages of Chandra’s novel-the ones available online for free before one is compelled to buy the book-and the Sacred Games series starts, like the book, with a grotesque splat as a white Pomeranian plunges to its messy death from a Mumbai high-rise. I have watched the first four episodes of eight, for review (the series will release on Netflix worldwide on 6 July), and, I am relieved to report, it looks solid.


It comes at a time when there isn’t a single Indian fiction series that can be heralded, which is why storytellers around the country are rooting for it to succeed. Based on the voluminous novel by acclaimed writer Vikram Chandra and helmed by celebrated directors Anurag Kashyap and Vikramaditya Motwane, it is Netflix’s first Indian original series.
