Bunty Aur Babli turns 20: Abhishek Bachchan, Rani Mukerji’s crime caper is a sharp, spirited portrait of middle-class ambition in post-liberalisation India

Bunty (Abhishek Bachchan) comes from Fursatganj. Babli (Rani Mukerji) runs away from Pankinagar. Towns like these don’t figure in the imagination of India A. They are not destinations, just glimpses from a moving train, places you pass through on your way elsewhere. The kind of small towns, which Gulzar described as “chhote chhote shehron se”,  towns that appear as two-minute railway halts, or as dhaba stops on long, anonymous highways. It’s no accident, then, that the film is filled with trains and roads. They’re more than just setting, they’re the spirit. Movement becomes metaphor. The story sways towards the form of a road movie, but what it really tracks is the velocity of desire, the shape of a search. Bunty and Babli’s journey begins with the pulse of “Dhadak Dhadak”, introduced separately (notice Babli, dancing in an akhada, subverting every expectation of the YRF heroine). By the interval, they’re together, dancing to “Nach Baliye”, on a set that feels like Broadway filtered through Mumbai, brought alive by Sharmishta Roy. It’s more than a spectacle, it’s a declaration. They’ve arrived. Not by permission, but by defiance. Because for towns like Fursatganj and Pankinagar, the law does not build ladders. It builds maps that forget them. 

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At the interval point, another shift takes place, not just in the story, but in the film’s very form. This is when Amitabh Bachchan enters as Commissioner Dashrath Singh, tasked with hunting down Bunty and Babli. And with his arrival, something changes. Until now, the film had moved along the undercurrent of contrast, between different Indias, between aspiration and limitation, but that tension remained largely subtextual. With Bachchan’s entry, the polarity becomes tonal. The first half of Bunty aur Babli is grounded. It belongs to the soil. Its language, texture, and rhythm echo the realism of Amol Palekar or Basu Chatterjee movies. But post-interval, the film shapeshifts. It leaps into the zone of a Manmohan Desai caper: louder, faster, glossier. The satire gets broader, the stakes more stylized. What was once rooted starts to float. The chase becomes theatrical, the con jobs more elaborate, the narrative more self-aware. And by the end, the homages are unmistakable. This is Catch Me If You Can, filtered through a Bollywood lens, stitched with spectacle and swagger.

The film wears its love for the ’70s on its sleeve. Look closely, and a Haath Ki Safai poster slips into the mise-en-scène like a memory.  Listen carefully, and you’ll hear “Dil Cheez Kya Hai” floating in the background, as Bachchan’s voice reflects on lost love. Ranjeet plays Ranjeet. Prem Chopra appears, but not as himself. And Sholay? It haunts the form. Bunty and Babli don the jackets of Jai and Veeru, not as parody but as inheritance. And in the end, there’s a moving train, a face-off between an honest cop (read: Thakur) and two outlaws. But the most pointed homage is the casting of Bachchan himself. Once the face of rebellion, the original angry young man, he now stands on the other side. No longer the drifter, no longer the spark, he is the law, the system, the state. He chases what he once embodied. The film, without ever raising its voice, offers a mirror. A deconstruction. Bachchan as Dashrath Singh isn’t just a cop chasing thieves, he’s really time chasing itself. He’s a myth returning to watch its own unravelling.

Amitabh Bachchan, who was once known as the Angry Young Man, here plays a character that is exactly the deconstruction of that myth.

You can almost sense that director Shaad Ali is working from a place of deep fascination. His enthusiasm doesn’t just sit on the surface, it feels visceral, alive in every frame. But at no point does this passion overwhelm the story. Instead, it powers it from within. His gaze is packed with ideas, and what’s remarkable is how effortlessly he brings each one to life. There’s also a clear and genuine love for the song-and-dance tradition of Bombay cinema. Ali doesn’t treat music as decoration, he uses it to its fullest potential. Each song becomes a narrative moment, revealing themes, emotions, even entire storylines.  But the real giant here — the cultural juggernaut, is Kajra Re. It’s the song that defined a decade. Ali never directed a bigger musical moment. Alisha Chinai never sang a more iconic hit. Shankar-Ehsaan-Loy never produced a more crowd-moving track. And Aishwarya Rai never danced with such massy charm and controlled fire. Even Gulzar, always philosophical, hit a rare balance here between the everyday and the eternal.

Just look at the lines: “Surmein se likhe tere waade, aankhon ki zubaani aate hain”: a love promise written not in ink but in gaze. Or “Aankhein bhi kamaal karti hain, personal se sawaal karti hain”: as if eyes alone could interrogate intimacy. These are the kinds of lines you might find scribbled on the back of a truck, but in Gulzar’s hands, they take on something almost existential. Speaking of memorable lines, you simply can’t talk about Bunty Aur Babli without bringing up Jaideep Sahni’s writing. As always, he returns to the themes he knows best: middle-class morality, amidst the changing fabric of post-liberalised India. And yet, even within this familiar terrain, he manages to craft a story that feels both fresh and utterly relatable. You could easily go on at length about Sahni’s sharp writing. But often, just one scene, or even a single moment, a single line, is enough to reveal the depth of his craft. Take the wildly audacious moment when Bunty and Babli con a foreigner by “selling” the Taj Mahal. Just moments earlier, a corrupt minister is confronted by a furious crowd chanting, “Tanashahi nahi chalegi!” She snaps back, “Arey kiski?” And the crowd replies — “Kisi ki bhi.” That’s it. That’s Sahni for you. His writing doesn’t shout, it slices. With one line, he can expose an entire system. With one exchange, he can turn satire into truth.