Kesari Chapter 2 Review: Akshay Kumar roars, Madhavan scores in this flawed but fiery courtroom showdown

Gulf News

18-04-2025

There's a long-standing belief that Bollywood often gets its portrayal of South Indians wrong — and Kesari: Chapter 2, Akshay Kumar's borderline-jingoistic courtroom drama, does little to change that. But honestly, that's the least of my concerns. This overcooked courtroom procedural introduces its hero with a jingle blaring lyrics like 'lion roar' — subtlety clearly left the chat (and the courtroom) — setting the tone for the Bollywood bombast that follows.
Akshay Kumar, long seen as the flag bearer of saffron-tinted cinema pushing a hyper-patriotic agenda, continues to march forward in iron boots — loud, forceful, and unapologetically on-brand.
He plays Malayali lawyer Sankaran Nair, who dares to take on the British Crown and General Reginald Dyer, the man responsible for the 1919 Jallianwala Bagh massacre in Amritsar. Nair accuses Dyer of genocide, and the film chronicles his courtroom theatrics and legal crusade with more flair than nuance.
South Indian actor R. Madhavan, who plays Kumar's adversary in the courtroom, feels far more convincing in his role than Akshay Kumar. Note to directors: smearing vibudhi on the forehead, making him a Kathakali dancer, and tossing in a poorly-accented one-liner in Malayalam toward the end does not equate to authentic representation. Instead, it comes off as painfully performative and on-the-nose.
At times, it feels like the filmmakers are dabbling in cultural appropriation rather than celebrating a culture. Perhaps Akshay Kumar is seen as the more bankable star — but nearly every scene reminds you this film would've worked far better if their roles had been reversed.
Former friends turned estranged peers face off in court — but let's not forget why they're sparring in the first place. The film opens with the Jallianwala Bagh massacre, where General Dyer orders the brutal killing of unarmed Indians in Punjab. He believes he's done the world a favour by flushing out what he sees as suppressors.
Initially, Sankaran Nair is portrayed as an anglicised lawyer, seemingly out of touch with the plight of his people — hand-in-glove with the British Viceroy's Commission, accepting a knighthood with pride while thousands of his countrymen are slaughtered. But the infamous 'Dogs and Indians not allowed' sign outside an elite club gives him pause. Apparently, nothing riles up a colonial loyalist quite like being denied club entry — and just like that, we have a rebel with a cause. Pushing him onto his righteous path is the young, doe-eyed, and inexperienced lawyer Diljeet Gill, played with earnestness by Ananya Panday. Just as Sankaran Nair prepares to leave Punjab, she reminds him that she fought against her own family to pursue law. He firmly counters that fighting for education and equal rights at home isn't quite the same as challenging the British Crown in court. In the courtroom, he says, there is no right or wrong — only winners and losers. That credo is repeated so often, it makes you wonder whether we, the audience, are the real losers for putting our money on this film. It's not a badly made film — just a loud one, about as subtle as the judge's gavel that keeps pounding away.
The film finally finds a pulse when R. Madhavan — a colonial loyalist thirsting for British validation — is yanked out of his whisky-soaked sabbatical and plonked into court to take on Sankaran Nair. These scenes actually crackle with tension. Even when he's made to hum the same mournful tune the Titanic guests sang — a not-so-subtle dig that his old friend is about to go down like that epic ship — Madhavan delivers it with straight-faced gravitas. It's the kind of scene that should sink, but he keeps it afloat with sheer presence.
One of my biggest pet peeves? The British trying to speak Hindi. It almost always feels painfully fake and put-on. Barring a few rare exceptions — like Rang De Basanti, where Alice Patten's presence was actually digestible — it just comes off as caricaturish. It's not about racism; it's about believability.
Seasoned British actor Simon Paisley Day tries his best to channel the sadistic, racist General Dyer, but it all ends up feeling cartoonish and over-the-top. His performance lacks menace and instead borders on panto villain territory — complete with sneers and snarls that feel better suited for a stage parody than a historical courtroom drama.
While the opening scenes depicting the massacre are beautifully staged, there's something unsettling about how stylised it all feels. The brutal reality of unarmed protestors being gunned down, and women leaping into wells to escape a trigger-happy British officer, is glossed over by the film's almost lyrical visual treatment.
Here's my issue: when real-life tragedy and bloody carnage are shot like a perfume ad — with slow-motion, pristine frames, and stylised chaos — it becomes difficult for viewers to actually feel the pain. The horror feels cosmetic, almost sanitised. And that's a disservice to the gravity of what really happened.
The ever-dependable Akshay Kumar, one of Bollywood's most bankable stars, surprisingly struggles in the emotionally charged moments but comes alive when he's called on to scream, roar, and flex his hyper-macho persona. He seems most at home when he's being potty-mouthed, yelling at the British to get out of his country. The film ends on the predictable but pointed note that India is still waiting for a simple apology — 'sorry.' While it's a powerful message, and yes, we do feel the weight of that historical injustice, we're somehow left emotionally unmoved.
And then there's that one scene that truly triggered me — Akshay, dejected after a courtroom loss, turns to his wife (played by Regina Cassandra) and declares defeatedly , 'Let's go home,' in awkwardly accented Malayalam. It was meant to be tender. It landed like a thud.
The writing is also painfully on the nose — every emotion, every takeaway, is spelled out for the audience as if we can't be trusted to feel it ourselves. Scenes feel engineered for effect rather than earned. Take, for instance, the young boy who witnesses the Jallianwala Bagh massacre, only to be later found with his wrists slit. It's powerful imagery, yes, but stripped of emotional buildup or nuance, it lands hollow. The intent is clear, but the context — the soul — is somehow missing.
While both Madhavan and Akshay Kumar did manage to convince me — even stir anger over the criminal and brutal injustices committed by our colonisers — I couldn't bring myself to feel anything for the principal players. Their performances had moments, but the emotional core felt undercooked. In the end, it was a wasted opportunity to tell a story that deserved more depth and authenticity.