There seems to be a quiet shift in how we see our heroes and heroines today. The unkempt hero, the almost unadorned heroine — these are no longer departures, but trends that define the present cinematic landscape. In many ways, it feels like a movement toward stripping away polish, allowing characters to exist with a certain rawness.
And yet, I found myself thinking of another time. The era of the 1970s, where actors like Dev Anand carried a distinct, clean-shaven charm, or Raj Kapoor, who in several films embodied a carefully composed presence. With the arrival of Eastmancolor, visual perfection — clean looks, stylised presentation, and visible makeup — became part of the cinematic language.
Somewhere between then and now, something has shifted. The idea of beauty has loosened its edges. And it is within this evolving space that Saiyaara seems to position itself.
As someone who still holds on to a more conservative lens, even while slowly leaning toward modern sensibilities, I found myself in a space of quiet discomfort at times. The inclusion of intimate, more revealing moments felt less like narrative necessity and more like an expectation of contemporary storytelling. Perhaps this is where personal boundaries meet changing artistic choices.
The male lead carries a rough, almost tapori-like presence, yet is styled in an understated way that reflects a music-band, slightly bohemian world. There is an intentional looseness to his character — a mix of rebellion and detachment. The suggestion of casual relationships, more implied than shown, adds to this sense of fluid morality that defines his space.
The heroine’s arc, however, moves into more fragile territory. Her experience of first love, its failure, and the psychological weight that follows, feels familiar — almost too familiar. There is a lingering echo of a long-standing cinematic expectation: that a woman’s emotional and moral journey is closely tied to notions of purity and loss.
And here, the film does not quite challenge that idea. Instead, it seems to reinforce it. What could have been an opportunity to present a more layered, self-defined female character gently folds back into a narrative we have seen before. The modern setting, the relaxed boundaries, the visual realism — all of it suggests change. But beneath it, the emotional framework remains rooted in older expectations.
The film further leans into familiar territory with the addition of a grand-scale ailment arc, heightening emotional stakes in a way that feels recognisable within mainstream storytelling. Alongside this, the reappearance of a past, morally ambiguous lover — hinting at transgressive possibilities — adds another layer of tension. Within the context of Indian viewership, these elements together build toward a space of full melodrama.
And yet, for all its emotional intensity, the ending feels somewhat uncertain — almost superficial in its resolution. The weight of what precedes it does not entirely settle. It leaves behind not a lingering depth, but a sense of something that could have been explored with greater honesty and restraint.
The music, interestingly, sits somewhere in between. The songs written by the heroine carry an emotional sincerity and, at moments, an unmistakable umph factor. They serve the narrative well and anchor her inner world. Yet, beyond that, the overall soundscape does not quite rise to something exceptional. It supports, but rarely elevates.
And still, somewhere within this, I found an unexpected point of connection.
There was a time when I experienced my own kind of emotional unraveling — not from love, but from a grand, almost overwhelming fear that I had lost my ability to write. Losing a small collection of my poems felt like losing something essential within me. For a while, I believed that my passion for writing had ended.
In that space of sorrow, I wrote again — not from certainty, but from loss itself. Looking back, I realise I could have chosen to rejoice in what remained, in what I still understood.
So when the heroine tears her pages, I understood that moment. I have done it too. Not from heartbreak in love, but from a quiet despair of losing oneself.
And yet, this is where my journey parts ways with hers. I have not known romantic love in that way. My world of affection has been different, rooted in the simple, enduring bonds I share with my nieces and nephews. I cannot fully claim her sorrow — but I can recognise the act of breaking, and the slow return that follows.
I liked the roles done by the parents and they felt more modern and evolved. Of course they had very little screen space but within that space the actors in support roles were great. Their acting was better than the main leads. But, then, the leads need theatre experience or exposure to understand the scope of the visual media like cinema.
There were moments when I had trouble holding onto my interest in the scenes since it jarred with my sensitivity
You do not always need another person — a lover, or a guiding presence — to bring you back to yourself. Sometimes, what restores you is already within you, waiting quietly, even when you believe it is lost.
And perhaps that is where Saiyaara, for all its modern surface and emotional intensity, feels incomplete to me. Because while it captures the fall, it leans too heavily on another to define the rise.
Assisted by ChatGPT
Itinerant Storyteller 