Rangabali

The Joke That Ate Itself

I’ve seen this movie before. Not Rangabali specifically—though I’ve now seen that too—but the kind of film that thinks it’s smarter than it is. The kind that opens with a wink, promises a good time, and then trips over its own shoelaces halfway through.

It’s the rom-com equivalent of a stand-up comedian who bombs the second act because they mistook energy for substance. And yet, for all its flaws, Rangabali is weirdly fascinating in the way a car crash is fascinating: you can’t look away, even as you wince.

The film’s first half is a sugar rush. Naga Shaurya plays Shaurya—yes, the character shares his name, because why not lean into the narcissism?—a small-town guy with a big mouth and a bigger ego. He’s the kind of protagonist Telugu cinema loves: loud, proud, and utterly convinced of his own charm.

The early scenes in Rajavaram, his fictional hometown, are a whirlwind of slapstick and wordplay, with Shaurya’s antics playing like a live-action Looney Tunes short. There’s a bit where he tries to impress a girl by pretending to be a doctor, only to get caught in a web of increasingly absurd lies. It’s dumb.

It’s funny. It’s the kind of thing that makes you laugh despite yourself.

And then there’s Satya, the comedian who steals every scene he’s in. If Rangabali works at all, it’s because of him. He’s the film’s secret weapon, the one element that feels like it belongs in a better movie.

His timing is impeccable, his physical comedy effortless. In one scene, he plays a hapless sidekick trying to help Shaurya woo Yukti Thareja’s Sahaja, a medical student with the patience of a saint and the deadpan delivery of someone who’s seen this act before. Satya’s reactions—exaggerated eye rolls, dramatic sighs, the way he physically shrinks when Shaurya’s schemes backfire—are the film’s MVP.

Without him, Rangabali would collapse into a pile of clichés before the intermission.

But here’s the thing about clichés: they’re only fun until you realize you’ve heard them before. And Rangabali’s second half is nothing if not familiar. The plot, such as it is, revolves around Shaurya’s attempt to rename a community center in his hometown after the mythical Rangabali, a local legend that may or may not be real.

(The film never bothers to clarify, because why would it?) The conflict is paper-thin, the stakes nonexistent, and the emotional beats so forced they feel like they were written by committee. There’s a flashback—because of course there is—that tries to give Shaurya some depth, but it lands with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. By the time the film reaches its climax, you’re left wondering how something that started so promising could end up so dull.