Hindi
Ghanchakkar: A complete waste of talent
MUMBAI: One may steal a theme from a foreign film but when one fails to give the film even a sensible, logical title, you know you are party to a lost cause. To copy a foreign film, understanding it is mandatory. Ghanchakkar is inspired from a 2007 Hollywood film titled The Lookout, which was about a bank robbery and a character with anterograde amnesia, which means short-term memory loss. But the film‘s Hindi title suggests a comedy and means an idiot/stupid person. The last film based on memory loss was the Aamir Khan blockbuster Ghajini but that is where the comparison ends.
Ghanchakkar is a ‘twist in the tale‘ story which, at best, can be a limited-duration TV episode. However, the maker stretches it to almost 138 minutes. According to the original film, not only does the protagonist keep losing his memory, he also keeps getting these bouts of anger whichGhanchakkar follows religiously.
Emraan Hashmi is a safebreaker on a sabbatical. He thinks he has made enough to take life easy and enjoy with his wife, Vidya Balan, who plays a Punjabi character for some unexplained reason. That is when an unidentified voice on the phone invites Hashmi to a huge bank heist; the bank, it seems, has a vault which only Hashmi can break open. The sum is expected to be huge, about Rs 35 crore and Hashmi‘s share would be Rs 10 crore.
Balan subscribes to Vogue and such fashion magazines but gives her wardrobe her own version of fashion, usually loud and garish outfits being her thing. Her attempts at Punjabi slang or sounding like a loud Punjaban are as real as her dressing sense. Hashmi on his part has only one dream, to own the biggest television set available in the market. For the sake of this TV set, he agrees to meet the voice on the telephone. The rendezvous is set for 12.30 at night at Andheri station.
The voice on the phone turns out to be Rajesh Sharma aka Pandit and a gun-toting Namit Das. They try to look mean and threatening but manage to look like two comics out of a C-grade farce. For Hashmi to be threatened by Das, half his size, and fat Sharma, does not convince the viewer and this is only the forewarning of what is to follow. The bank is robbed as easily as a deserted house with the three wearing masks of Dharmendra, Amitabh Bachchan and Utpal Dutt; the only scare to the robbers coming from a beat cop coming into bank at 2 am to take a leak. That is an idea; bank loos can double as Sulabh Sauchalayas during off hours and continue to make money!
The bank is robbed, the three part ways with Hashmi given the responsibility to keep the money for three months till the heat settles after which they can take their own share. Three months are over and Sharma and Das demand their share. But Hashmi has had an accident in this duration and now suffers from anteograde amnesia due to which he has selective memory losses. He can‘t remember who these two are or which money they are referring to. The two kidnap Balan giving Hashmi a week to recollect where the money is hidden. Later they shift into Hashmi‘s house to finish that mandatory seven-day period. These seven days seem never-ending; they are supposed to be funny but are torturous for the viewer.
The hero also follows the anterograde amnesia to the T as now his memory loss is becoming severe and he now suspects everybody including Balan and vents his anger on people around him. That is when an angel drops in from the blue, literally. He is the real villain who drops in without a warning and ends the painful saga by killing his two stooges, Sharma and Das, as well as Balan and Hashmi and finally his own self.
With a cast of four out of which two are poorly etched, to carry through 138 minutes of pathetically scripted and directed fare, Ghanchakkar fails on all counts. Music is of the chalu kind. Dialogue is in poor taste.
Ghanchakkar is boring and doomed to failure.
Hindi
Remembering Gyan Sahay, the lens behind film, television and advertising
From a puppet rabbit selling poppadums to Hindi cinema, he framed it all.
MUMBAI: There are careers, and then there are canvases. Gyan Sahay, the veteran cinematographer, director, and producer who passed away on 10 March 2026 in Mumbai, had one of the latter. Over several decades in the Indian film and television industry, he turned lenses, lights, and the occasional puppet rabbit into something approaching art.
A graduate of the Film and Television Institute of India (FTII) in Pune, Sahay built his reputation as a director of photography across a career that stretched from the early 1970s all the way to the digital age. He was the kind of craftsman who understood that a well-composed shot is not merely a technical achievement but a quiet act of storytelling.
For most Indians of a certain age, however, Sahay will forever be the man behind the rabbit. His direction of the iconic long-running television commercial for Lijjat Papad, featuring its now-legendary puppet bunny, gave the country one of its most cheerfully persistent advertising images. It was the sort of work that sneaks into the national subconscious and takes up permanent residence.
His big-screen credits as cinematographer include Anokhi Pehchan (1972), Pagli (1974), Pas de Deux (1981), and Hum Farishte Nahin (1988). In 1999, he stepped behind a different kind of camera altogether, making his directorial debut with Sar Ankhon Par, a drama that featured Vikas Bhalla and Shruti Ulfat, with a cameo by Shah Rukh Khan for good measure.
On television, Sahay was particularly prized for his command of multi-camera production setups, a skill that made him a go-to technician for large-scale shows and reality programmes. In an industry that has never been especially patient with complexity, he was the calm hand on the rig.
In later life, Sahay turned teacher. He participated regularly in masterclasses and Digi-Talks, often hosted by organisations such as Bharatiya Chitra Sadhna, sharing hard-won wisdom on cinematography, the comedy of timing in a shot, and the sweeping changes brought by the shift from celluloid to digital. He was also said to have been involved in a project concerning a biographical film on Infosys co-founder N.R. Narayana Murthy.
Tributes from the film industry poured in following the news of his passing, with colleagues remembering him as a senior cameraman who served as a rare bridge between two entirely different eras of Indian cinema. That is, perhaps, the finest thing one can say of any craftsman: he kept up, and he brought others along with him.
