FILM REVIEW: Bhagwat Chapter One - Raakshas [ZEE 5 GLOBAL]

One-liner:

A gripping crime drama where Arshad Warsi’s fury meets Jitendra Kumar’s deceit in a land haunted by its own monsters.

Introduction

In an era saturated with crime thrillers set in India’s hinterlands, Bhagwat Chapter One: Raakshas attempts to re-examine familiar terrains through a lens of moral disquiet and psychological tension. Directed by Akshay Shere and streaming on ZEE5, the film stars Arshad Warsi as Inspector Vishwas Bhagwat, a hot-headed yet conscientious cop investigating the disappearance of a young woman in Robertsganj, Uttar Pradesh. The investigation soon unravels a series of murders eerily inspired by the real-life crimes of “Cyanide Mohan,” a serial killer active in Karnataka during the mid-2000s.

At its surface, the premise appears conventional a troubled cop, a string of missing girls, and an ordinary man with extraordinary evil hiding beneath civility. Yet Shere’s direction and the writing by Bhavini Bheda and Sumit Saxena strive to craft something more layered. The film becomes less about catching a killer and more about confronting the “raakshas” (demon) within the societal rot, religious bigotry, and personal rage that blur the line between justice and vengeance.

By juxtaposing a procedural narrative with a haunting love story, Bhagwat finds a unique voice in the crowded landscape of Indian crime dramas. It’s a film that doesn’t scream for attention but lingers quietly, unsettlingly, long after it ends.

Screenplay & Script Sense

The screenplay oscillates between two distinct yet converging worlds: the police investigation led by Vishwas Bhagwat and the romantic track between Sameer (Jitendra Kumar) and Meera (Ayesha Kaduskar). At first glance, this dual narrative may seem formulaic, echoing patterns seen in Dahaad or Raat Akeli Hai, but the contrast between tenderness and terror gives the story its emotional core.

Bhavini Bheda and Sumit Saxena’s writing demonstrates a keen understanding of narrative rhythm. The first act sets up the procedural premise without unnecessary exposition. A missing girl, Poonam Mishra, triggers an investigation that gradually exposes systemic decay — police apathy, political interference, and the prejudices that define small-town India.

The second act intercuts the investigation with the love story between Sameer and Meera, filmed in a softer palette that deliberately deceives the audience. The dialogues between the two are written with sincerity their exchanges about freedom, religion, and love feel organic rather than expository. It’s only later that we realise those very lines, seemingly filled with idealism, were spoken by a predator wearing a mask of gentleness.

The third act unfolds with slow-burning dread. As Bhagwat discovers connections between missing women, the script smartly avoids sensationalism. There’s little reliance on jump scares or contrived twists. Instead, the suspense grows through silence and moral unease. However, the film’s climax, though thematically satisfying, feels underwhelming in cinematic energy. After an intricate buildup, one expects a confrontation of greater dramatic force. Instead, the film ends with an understated moral conclusion powerful in thought, but slightly restrained in execution.

The screenplay’s greatest strength lies in how it humanises evil. Sameer is not a caricatured villain; he’s disturbingly ordinary. Likewise, Bhagwat is no righteous saviour his temper, guilt, and trauma make him as much a prisoner of his own mind as the criminal he hunts.

Still, there are occasional lapses. The political subtext particularly the commentary on communal propaganda and moral policing remains half-spoken. One wishes the film had delved deeper into these themes rather than merely hinting at them. Yet, even in restraint, the writing exhibits maturity, choosing suggestion over sermonising.

Direction

Akshay Shere directs Bhagwat Chapter One: Raakshas with a calm confidence. His approach is unhurried and observational. He resists the temptation to stylise violence or dramatise heroism. Instead, he builds the film on an atmosphere of anxiety and silence.

Shere’s control over tone is commendable. He allows his characters to exist in grey zones, rarely offering the comfort of moral clarity. Vishwas Bhagwat is angry, impulsive, and flawed yet deeply human. His moments of rage are countered by quiet guilt. Similarly, Shere portrays Sameer not through gruesome actions but through small behavioural details a lingering smile, a subtle hesitation, a disarming politeness. This minimalism makes the horror far more believable.

The director’s world-building of Robertsganj feels authentic without resorting to stereotypes. The ghats, alleys, and ageing police stations form an unspoken character decaying, morally exhausted, yet brimming with unsolved stories. The restraint in depicting violence works to the film’s favour; the menace comes not from bloodshed but from the banality of evil.

However, Shere occasionally struggles with pacing. Certain segments especially in the middle act feel elongated, where the tension dissipates into repetition. The film could have benefited from tighter transitions between the love story and the investigation. Nevertheless, the director’s refusal to compromise on mood or realism keeps the narrative grounded.

In an age where thrillers often shout their intensity, Shere’s Bhagwat whispers and that’s precisely what makes it unsettling.

Acting

Arshad Warsi, as Inspector Vishwas Bhagwat, delivers one of the most controlled performances of his career. Shedding the comic exuberance he’s often associated with, Warsi internalises the role’s psychological weight. His portrayal of anger isn’t theatrical; it’s weary, almost self-destructive. There’s a remarkable moment where Bhagwat confronts his superior, trying to mask vulnerability under authority Warsi plays it not with loud dialogue, but with tired eyes and clenched stillness.

He also captures the contradictions of a man bound by duty but haunted by conscience. In his silences, we sense the cost of empathy. This is Arshad Warsi at his most mature stripped of gimmicks, rich in nuance.

Jitendra Kumar is the film’s revelation. Known for his affable charm in Panchayat and Kota Factory, Kumar uses that very warmth to craft a chilling portrayal of duplicity. His Sameer is not a conventional psychopath; he’s disturbingly relatable. The transformation from lover to predator is gradual and believable a terrifying reminder of how evil often hides in ordinariness.

Kumar modulates his voice and gaze with surgical precision. In the early scenes, his smile conveys innocence; by the end, the same smile becomes a mask of menace. This duality is what makes his performance haunting long after the film ends.

Ayesha Kaduskar as Meera is luminous. She brings vulnerability and conviction to a role that could easily have been sidelined. Her chemistry with Jitendra Kumar gives the film its emotional pulse. There’s a tenderness in her portrayal that makes the later revelation all the more heartbreaking.

Supporting performances from Rashmi Rajput, Sandeep Yadav, and Tara Alisha Berry are uniformly solid. Each actor fits organically into the world without overt dramatics. Together, the ensemble lends the film authenticity and depth.

Cinematography

Amogh Deshpande’s cinematography plays a crucial role in shaping the film’s mood. The camera work alternates between two visual languages a pastel-toned palette for the romantic sequences and a grittier, contrast-heavy aesthetic for the investigative parts. This visual dichotomy mirrors the film’s thematic tension between illusion and reality.

The use of light is particularly noteworthy. Scenes in the police station are bathed in muted yellows, creating a claustrophobic atmosphere of moral decay. The ghats of Varanasi and the narrow lanes of Robertsganj are captured with realism rather than touristy flair. Even the romantic sequences are tinged with melancholy, as if the lens itself suspects deceit.

Deshpande avoids handheld chaos or flashy camera movements. The frames are composed with restraint, allowing the audience to observe rather than react. This choice reinforces the film’s contemplative tone. The result is a visually consistent thriller that doesn’t rely on shock value but on immersive texture.

Music & Background Score

The film’s music and background score, composed by Aman Pant, Anurag Saikia, and Vikram Montrose, walks a fine line between subtlety and tension. The background score complements the film’s psychological undertones rather than overwhelming them.

Unlike many thrillers where sound design dictates pace, here the score breathes with the characters. In investigative sequences, low strings and percussive pulses build unease; in romantic moments, the melodies soften but never become sentimental. The restraint is deliberate the music doesn’t guide emotion; it enhances ambiguity.

That said, the film’s songs are its weakest link. The inserted tracks feel unnecessary, momentarily breaking the atmospheric intensity. A purely instrumental approach might have served the narrative better. Still, the overall sound design deserves credit for its precision and control.

Editing

The editing by Prateek Vats maintains the film’s meditative rhythm. At 127 minutes, Bhagwat neither overstays its welcome nor rushes its revelations. The parallel cutting between the investigation and love story is handled deftly, with transitions that echo thematic parallels rather than mere plot convenience.

However, the midsection could have been sharper. Certain subplots particularly involving local politicians and media sensationalism feel underdeveloped. Trimming those would have intensified focus on the psychological duel between Bhagwat and Sameer. The final act’s understated conclusion, while intellectually consistent, might leave viewers craving a more visceral payoff. Still, in retrospect, the quietness aligns with the film’s belief that truth often arrives without spectacle.

Final Verdict

Bhagwat Chapter One: Raakshas is not just another addition to India’s growing catalogue of crime thrillers. It’s an introspective drama that explores the human cost of violence not only the crimes committed but the silences that follow.

Akshay Shere crafts a film that is both procedural and poetic. It doesn’t scream for justice; it laments its absence. The performances of Arshad Warsi and Jitendra Kumar elevate the narrative from a simple manhunt to a study of moral corrosion. The writing is thoughtful, even when hesitant; the visuals haunting, even when familiar.

The film’s greatest triumph lies in its refusal to sensationalise. It trusts stillness over shock, performance over plot mechanics. In doing so, it earns a place among the more mature, contemplative thrillers of recent years imperfect, yes, but undeniably resonant.

On the Plus Side:

• Arshad Warsi’s layered, career-best performance

• Jitendra Kumar’s unsettling turn as the antagonist

• Strong atmospheric direction by Akshay Shere

• Authentic portrayal of small-town decay without clichés

• Thoughtful screenplay balancing love and horror

• Subtle yet effective cinematography

• Tight sound design and restrained background score

On the Minus Side:

• Predictable structural familiarity with Dahaad and similar thrillers

• A slightly underwhelming climax that lacks dramatic punch

• Midsection pacing issues and minor narrative detours

• Songs that dilute the film’s tension

• Political subtext hinted at but never fully explored

Bhagwat Chapter One: Raakshas is a slow burn one that rewards patience and reflection. It’s less about the killer’s crimes and more about the society that enables them. In a cinematic landscape obsessed with resolution, Akshay Shere’s film dares to remain unresolved a mirror held up to a world that keeps birthing new “raakshas,” both within and without.

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