Salaar: Prashanth Neel is his own worst enemy; not even Prabhas could explain the plot of this film

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It’s the sort of unpleasant, alienating storytelling style that Neel has been perfecting over a decade. But a curious thing happens at the end of act one, when the protagonist Deva (Prabhas) finally explodes after what feels like an eternity. The movie had been building up to this moment, inelegantly teasing the devastation that Deva is capable of without ever allowing him to unleash it. It’s the cinematic equivalent of edging. But when the film’s first action sequence kicks into gear — quite literally, believe it or not — the effect is… almost calming. Because of the overwhelming nature of Neel’s plotting, the sight of decapitated limbs, crushed bodies, and Prabhas’ muscles glistening in golden-hour sunlight can be positively operatic.

Every filmmaking rule that Neel had previously shown such flagrant disregard for is forgotten when Salaar trades exposition for explosions. The shots aren’t as frenetic, the immediate objectives are clear, the geography of the landscape is easy to comprehend. Most thrillingly, however, nobody speaks unless it is absolutely necessary. And what we’re left with is action of the most primal nature. Neel turns to the basics — cinematography, sound, performance — to convey everything that he needs to. The second in this trio of set-piece is even more expressionistic, with a horde of women in crimson sarees stomping their feet and literally underscoring the carnage on screen with a song. It’s an undeniably memorable image, even if it bears more than a passing resemblance to The Handmaid’s Tale, both visually and thematically.

Aesthetics aside, however, two of Salaar’s three action set-pieces involve the hero — he is called Deva, after all — defending a woman’s honour. The third involves zombies. Nobody said anything about zombies. For a movie that had condensed what felt like the entirety of the Mahabharata into a 15-minute exposition dump to suddenly turn into an apocalyptic thriller featuring an army of the undead can certainly be confusing. But let’s be honest. You’re in no position to complain about unprompted supernatural twists — Deva also turns blue at the end, by the way — at this point.

It’s not that there’s anything inherently wrong with individual aspects of mainstream South Indian cinema. Who cares if bodies float in slow-motion when they’re punched and every new character is introduced with applause breaks in mind. Who cares if the drama is designed not around characters but around concepts such as ‘elevation scenes’ and ‘BGM’. Despite its flaws in logic, SS Rajamouli’s RRR featured some slick thrills. And as terrible as Leo was, you’re not going to forget ‘Thalapathy’ Vijay’s euphoric title card any time soon, even if you forget the basics of the plot. But in Salaar, Neel somehow also finds a way to dilute Prabhas’ ‘entry scene’ by injecting it with his own hyper sensibilities.

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Even Thelma Schoonmaker, the legendary editor who could turn a bureaucrat’s farewell speech into a monologue worthy of Winston Churchill, would concede defeat after one glance at Salaar. And that’s because she probably understands the difference between the complex and the complicated. Ironically, the greatest metaphor for Neel’s self-defeating tendencies can be seen in the earliest frames of Salaar, when a 10-year-old Deva defends his childhood friend Varadha against a mean wrestler by coming up with a plan that involves electrocuting himself. He gets the job done, but nearly kills himself for no apparent reason.

Post Credits Scene is a column in which we dissect new releases every week, with particular focus on context, craft, and characters. Because there’s always something to fixate about once the dust has settled.