Sarzameen Review: A Beautiful Frame Around an Empty Picture . Review by Gideon Jotham 

•  Language: Hindi

•  Director: Kayoze Irani

•  Producer: Karan Johar

•  Runtime: 137 mins

•  Genre: Patriotic Action-Drama

•  Cast: Prithviraj Sukumaran, Kajol, Ibrahim Ali Khan

Positives:

 

•  Acting

•  Kajol and Prithviraj

•  Cinematography.

•  Art Direction.

•  Sound Design (Diegetic)

•  Debut Performance: Ibrahim Ali Khan shows raw potential in confrontational.

•  Direction (Selected Scenes): Sensitive handling of intimate family moments.

Negatives

•  Screenplay: Underwritten characters; emotional shifts were unearned.

•  Editing: disgusting transitions.

•  Background Score (BGM): Loud, overpowers emotion forgets to enhance it.

•  Visual Effects (Green Screen, VFX): Noticeably artificial in action scenes and surveillance visuals.

•  Action Sequences: Poorly choreographed.

•  Music Placement: Ill-timed songs disrupt the emotional flow.

•  Direction (Overall Arc): Struggles to maintain narrative cohesion and tone consistency.

•  Ibrahim Ali Khan: While promising, his emotional range is inconsistent in introspective scenes.

SUMMARY

Sarzameen isn’t just about politics or patriotism. It’s about the kind of silence that grows inside a home when love is still present, but unreachable. It’s about a family that’s not torn apart by war, but by what they believe.

Colonel Vijay Menon has lived his whole life in uniform, standing for something greater than himself. He’s a tough, dignified man, unshakable dedicated to his nation. . Harman is not the same little boy he was. He’s bitter, agitated, and burdened by wounds deeper than the gaze can perceive, wounds defined in terms of questions of identity, belonging, and betrayal in a broken country.

And then there’s Revathi, his mother. Played with aching sincerity by Kajol, she’s the quiet thread holding everything together. Not through grand speeches, but through the way she looks at her son across the dinner table, or holds her breath during an argument. She’s stuck in the middle, between a husband bound by duty, and a son who feels like the country is no longer his. Her struggle isn’t loud. But it lingers in every frame she’s in.

What Sarzameen gets right is that it doesn’t offer easy answers. It sits with the discomfort, the pain, the misunderstandings that slowly build between people who love each other but don’t know how to say it anymore. It asks: What do you do when your child starts believing in something you spent your life fighting against? When serving your country starts to look like losing your family?

This is not a film that tries to impress with spectacle. It tries, sometimes successfully, sometimes not, to look at the cracks that form inside a home, and how ideology, silence, and pain can slowly widen those cracks until you’re no longer speaking the same language.

At its heart, Sarzameen is about the distance between people who once lived under the same roof. It’s about trying to bridge that distance before it becomes too wide. Before it becomes permanent.

Direction:

There’s no doubt that the director approached Sarzameen with sincerity and ambition. The film has all the ingredients of a powerful emotional drama, a fractured family, socio- political undertones, inner conflict, but somewhere along the way, the execution loses its grip. The director seems torn between crafting a slow burn character study and delivering a hard hitting political statement, but ends up doing neither.

Scenes that should linger emotionally are rushed, while others drag without adding narrative weight. It’s as if the film knows what it wants to say, but doesn’t quite figure out how to say it.

To the director’s credit, some quiet moments, like a silent dinner after an argument, or the way a mother folds her son’s clothes when he’s not looking, feel deeply real. But these are fleeting. There’s a disconnect between the film’s emotional core and the way it’s staged.

What should’ve been a layered and introspective story often feels like it’s racing to tick thematic boxes, rather than letting characters live through their journeys.

Screenplay:

The core idea behind Sarzameen is strong, a family pulled apart by ideology, love tangled in loyalty, but the screenplay doesn’t give this idea the emotional or structural foundation it deserves.

Though the first act promises, bringing the characters and their internal struggles to the forefront, the second act stumbles. Scenes limp along without point, significant emotional moments got glossed over, and shifts from past to present are jarring instead of revelatory. Events that need to pack a punch, such as the son’s change of heart or the desperation of the parents, are explained rather than experienced.

Dialogue is functional instead of organic. Characters declaim and expatriate instead of conversing. There are no silences that are wiser than words, no subtext.

The intention is present. You can sense that the authors wanted to delve deep into rich themes: nationalism, home, intergenerational trauma. But the writing doesn’t go that deep. It stays on the surface, afraid perhaps of the discomfort it needed to embrace.

In the end, the screenplay of Sarzameen is like a map sketched out with love, but with half the roads missing, and some leading nowhere.

Cinematography:

Shot by Vishal Sinha, the cinematography in Sarzameen is easily one of the film’s most striking features, a quiet powerhouse that speaks even when the characters cannot. Sinha brings a painter’s eye to the frame, and it shows. The opening shots alone, vast, haunting aerial views of the Himalayan landscape, pull you into a world that is at once majestic and burdened by history. There’s a stillness to those wide shots, as if the mountains have been watching generations of pain unfold, and are tired of bearing witness.

Inside the homes, the visual language shifts. The camera comes closer. The spaces feel tighter. There’s something tender about how the interiors are shot, the play of light on aging wooden walls, the softness of a shawl draped over a chair, the cold that seeps through every frame. It’s not just beautiful, it feels lived-in. And that’s not easy to capture.

Sinha also knows when to let go of control. In scenes of confrontation and tension, particularly those involving Harman and the local unrest, the camera becomes almost restless, handheld, shaky, close to the skin. It mirrors the anxiety of the moment without ever shouting about it. The dusk and dawn sequences are quietly spectacular too, often bathed in that fragile in-between light where the world seems unsure of itself, mirroring the emotional state of the characters.

But for all its technical precision and visual grace, something does get lost. There’s a kind of emotional distance that creeps in, particularly in the more intimate, heartbreak-heavy scenes. The images are composed like artwork, but sometimes they feel like they’re observing pain from across the room, rather than sitting in it. You see the tears, the trembling hands, the strained silences, but you don’t always feel them. It’s as if the lens, so focused on capturing beauty, forgets to bleed with the characters.

That said, the cinematography never falters in its commitment. It’s consistent, thoughtful, and often quietly breathtaking. It gives the film a visual backbone, one that carries much of the story’s weight when words run dry. If only it had dug a little deeper into the emotional marrow, Sarzameen might have left us not just visually moved, but emotionally undone.

Editing – A Film That Feels Heavy When It Should Breathe:

With a name like A. Sreekar Prasad attached, one expects a certain rhythm, a certain finesse, the kind of invisible hand that tightens a narrative without drawing attention to itself. But in Sarzameen, even the steady hand of a veteran editor can’t save the film from tripping over its own feet.

The first act is slow, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. For a film rooted in inner conflict, tension, and broken relationships, a measured beginning feels appropriate. We linger in silences. We sit with the discomfort of homecomings that don’t quite feel like home. It’s a slow burn, or at least, it tries to be.

But somewhere in the second act, the rhythm slips. The pace doesn’t slow down to deepen, it just… stalls. Scenes stretch longer than they need to, especially emotional confrontations that feel over-edited, as though the film is unsure of how long to hold, or what to cut away from. Meanwhile, flashbacks, instead of revealing emotional subtext or enriching the characters, interrupt the present-day flow without warning. The transitions are jarring, like flipping channels mid-conversation. You’re just starting to invest in a scene, and suddenly you’re thrown backwards without any emotional cushion to soften the landing.

What makes this more frustrating is that the most pivotal moments, especially the turning points in Harman’s descent into radical thinking, feel brushed past. We see the effect, but barely feel the journey. There’s a compression here that does a disservice to what could have been powerful, nuanced developments. The film spends too much time on scenes that say too little, and rushes through scenes that should have been given space to breathe and burn.

The most questionable editing decision, however, comes at a crucial high-tension moment, an action sequence that could have been the film’s emotional and narrative crescendo. But just when the momentum builds, we’re yanked into a musical flashback. The effect is disorienting. The tension collapses. The emotion fizzles. What should have been a gut- punch becomes a visual detour, and both the past and present suffer because of it.

Sarzameen doesn’t lack emotion, but its editing often makes you work too hard to feel it. There’s a stronger, leaner film hidden somewhere beneath all the clutter. One that trusted the audience to connect the dots, and knew when to hold back, and when to let go.

Acting: Performance Analysis:

Prithviraj Sukumaran (Col. Vijay Menon)

Prithviraj Sukumaran enters the shoes of Colonel Vijay Menon with an presence that neither needs words to be perceived. He carries the uniform as second skin , not only in demeanor, but in essence. As soon as he enters the frame, there is no confusion regarding the load this man bears , not only the weight of responsibility, but of unspoken scars. His stilledness speaks, and that takes great acting.

There is a gravity that Prithviraj lends to Menon , a man molded by war but undone by the silence at home.

There’s a certain gravity Prithviraj brings to Menon , a man shaped by the battlefield but undone by the silence of his own home. His scenes with fellow officers are quietly commanding; he doesn’t need to raise his voice to assert control. It’s all in the eyes, the way he stands, the clipped delivery of a line. You believe him , not just as a decorated colonel, but as a man who’s spent years compartmentalising pain in the name of service.

But as the father, the cracks begin to show , and here, the performance feels slightly held back. There are moments that cry out for emotional release, for raw vulnerability, but the performance stays too tightly coiled. Perhaps it’s a deliberate choice , a man too conditioned by discipline to let the floodgates open , but at times, it feels like we’re only seeing the outline of his grief, not the fullness of it. You wish for just one scene where he lets go, even a little, and allows us to feel the heartbreak beneath the armour.

Still, when it lands, it truly lands. One of the standout moments is his monologue to Ibrahim’s character , a quietly devastating exchange where he questions the very idea of patriotism, not as a slogan, but as a personal truth. There’s no yelling, no theatrical rage , just a man trying to hold onto what little clarity he has left. It’s in that moment that you realise the power of restraint , and how Prithviraj, even when underutilised, can strike deep with very little.

Sarzameen may not give him the full emotional arc he deserves, but Prithviraj gives the role depth, dignity, and a deeply human weariness. He plays a man torn between two wars , one on the frontline, the other at his dining table , and even in silence, he makes you listen.

Kajol (Revathi Menon)

Revathi is not written as a loud character. She doesn’t get sweeping monologues or grand breakdowns. But Kajol knows exactly how to fill the silence. There’s an old pain in her eyes , the kind that comes from years of holding a family together with nothing but patience, prayer, and the faint hope that love will be enough. And it’s that restraint, that stillness, that makes her performance so deeply affecting.

She moves through the house like a ghost of the woman she once was , setting the table, folding clothes, watching her husband and son drift further apart with every passing glance. There’s no melodrama here, just a woman swallowing grief in quiet doses, day after day.

And when conflict erupts , particularly during the film’s tense dinner table scenes , Kajol’s control over her craft is masterful. In one unforgettable moment, after a political argument between father and son leaves the room heavy with silence, she doesn’t speak. She doesn’t have to. Her stillness is the loudest thing in the frame. One stolen glance. One small pause while serving food. It’s absolutely devastating.

Even in scenes where the writing falters or leans into cliché, Kajol elevates the material. She brings a kind of emotional clarity that cuts through the noise , a full-bodied understanding of Revathi’s inner world. You believe her because she doesn’t perform the pain , she carries it, quietly, like a second skin.

In a film filled with ideological tension and emotional disconnection, Kajol is the bridge. She’s the soul. And even when the narrative stumbles, it’s her heartbreak that lingers long after the credits roll.

Ibrahim Ali Khan (Harman Menon)

Ibrahim Ali Khan as Harman Menon – A Promising Start in a Role That Deserved More Depth

In his debut role, Ibrahim Ali Khan steps into complex terrain , a young man torn between love, rage, and a deep, unsettling sense of disconnection. As Harman Menon, he plays a son returning home not just physically, but emotionally fractured, burdened by questions of identity, belonging, and betrayal. And for the most part, Ibrahim holds his ground.

There’s a rawness to his performance , a youthful volatility that feels believable. He brings convincing energy to Harman’s confrontational moments, especially scenes opposite Prithviraj’s stoic father figure. His body language sharpens in these interactions , shoulders tight, voice simmering just below a boil. You can sense the character’s desperation to be heard, to be understood, even as he pushes everyone away.

Harman’s transformation , from alienated son to someone teetering on the edge of radical ideology , feels rushed in parts, and Ibrahim does his best to fill in the emotional blanks. But the script doesn’t always support him. There are scenes that beg for gradual shifts, subtle changes in expression or energy, but the transitions come too quickly, leaving him to carry moments that haven’t been earned on the page.

Ibrahim Ali Khan may not have delivered a flawless debut , but he’s shown more than enough promise. He has the presence, the emotional instincts, and most importantly, a willingness to go to uncomfortable places. With stronger writing and time to mature into his own rhythm, he could evolve into a genuinely compelling actor.

Art Direction – Detail-Rich, But Not Always Believable:

Amrita Mahal Nakai’s production design in Sarzameen is a delicate balancing act , one that tries to capture two vastly different worlds within the same narrative: the rigid order of the military and the emotional chaos of a grieving home. For the most part, she succeeds with striking detail, though not every space rings as true as it should.

The army settings are crafted with an eye for authenticity. There’s no gloss here , just the quiet decay of places that have seen too much. Old files spill out of weathered cabinets, operational maps hang with curled edges, rusted lockers line walls with military precision. These aren’t sterile movie sets , they feel like spaces worn by time and protocol, spaces that have heard too many orders and kept too many secrets.

Then there’s the Menon household , a character in its own right. Every corner of the home tells a story, even the ones left unsaid. The peeling wall paint, the faded upholstery, the traditional Kashmiri embroidery on a curtain half-drawn , it’s all lived-in, almost aching

with memory. Family photographs, dusty medals, and the soft clutter of everyday life add layers to the characters without a single line of dialogue. You don’t just see their grief , you feel the weight of it, settled in the furniture, stuck in the air.

But not all spaces carry that emotional resonance. When the story shifts to the darker underworld of militant camps and radicalisation cells, the art direction slips into something that feels too constructed. The hideouts, while visually stark, are too tidy , too arranged. There’s a lack of grit, a cleanliness that strips these scenes of tension. They look like movie sets dressed for conflict rather than chaotic spaces born of desperation and danger. As a result, some of the emotional urgency in these sequences feels muted.

Still, there are moments that land with quiet devastation. One in particular stands out: the mother’s bedroom, where a cradle sits untouched in the corner. It’s not addressed, not explained , and it doesn’t need to be. It’s a visual punch to the gut. The unused cradle, surrounded by neatly folded clothes and framed family photos, becomes a symbol of everything lost and everything unspoken. It’s in that one room that Nakai’s art direction reaches its most powerful, haunting note.

In the end, Sarzameen’s production design tells as much of the story as the script , sometimes more. Even when it falters, it remains ambitious, layered, and emotionally sincere.

Sound Design & Music – Louder Isn’t Always Better:

It’s not that the film sounds bad , it’s that it tries too hard to make sure you feel something, and in the process, it forgets to trust the audience.

John Stewart Eduri’s background score is lush, sweeping, and undeniably well-produced , but it often lacks restraint. In moments that should breathe with silence, the score swells in, uninvited. Violins rise just as eyes well up, crescendos crash over monologues, and the music doesn’t support the emotion , it dictates it. It’s as if the film doesn’t believe the performances can carry the weight on their own, so it leans into the music to do the heavy lifting. The result? Scenes that could’ve been raw and quietly devastating come across as overly polished, even melodramatic.

That said, the diegetic sound work , the natural sounds within the world of the film , is thoughtfully done. The crunch of boots on gravel in army compounds, the muted tension in a family kitchen, the ambient buzz of Kashmiri markets , these elements ground the film in realism.

In the end, Sarzameen’s soundscape is technically refined but emotionally uneven. There are moments of brilliance , moments when silence says more than strings ever could, when the world feels real because we hear it breathing. But too often, the film reaches for emotional impact through volume, rather than vulnerability.

Verdict: A well-crafted sound design held back by a score that doesn’t know when to step back. Sometimes, the most powerful sound is the one that lets the story speak for itself.

VFX – A Weak Link:

The action sequences feel oddly weightless. Explosions flash across the screen without impact, more like animations layered in post than actual moments of danger. Fire doesn’t seem to burn , it floats. Debris flies and disappears before it hits the ground. And the worst part is, you notice all of it. At a time when your focus should be on the characters and the stakes, you’re pulled out by effects that feel too staged, too artificial.

The convoy scenes, in particular, suffer from some truly rough green screen work. The backgrounds look pasted on, the lighting doesn’t match the actors, and the depth feels completely off. It’s hard to stay emotionally invested when the scenery looks like it’s been added in a rush. You want to believe you’re in Kashmir, in the heart of this tension , but the visuals often remind you that you’re watching a film trying to pretend.

The real disappointment, though, is in the final shootout. What should’ve been a raw, emotionally charged climax ends up looking flat and videogame-like. Muzzle flashes that don’t quite sync, jerky character motion, and blurry digital overlays strip the sequence of any gravity

Verdict: The film reaches for realism in tone and texture, but its visual effects do the opposite , reminding us, far too often, that we’re watching a constructed reality, not living inside it.

Final Verdict:

Technically, the film also stumbles. Overbearing background music, inconsistent editing, and weak visual effects repeatedly pull you out of scenes that should’ve pulled you in. There’s sincerity here. There’s effort. But Sarzameen never quite becomes the film it wants to be. It gestures at complexity, but rarely dives deep enough to earn the impact.

Rating: 2.5 / 5

A film that means well, but feels like a first draft of something far more powerful.