Good Bad Ugly Movie Review: A fever-dream of homages and hero worship

The Good

Adhik Ravichandran’s cinema is a genre unto itself—it’s not so much a film as a rave party. And like all parties, some are more intoxicated than others. It’s not a space for nuanced conversations or emotional coherence. At any given moment, someone’s dying in slow motion, as we laugh and cheer or both. A moment later, the protagonist (AK, played by—you know who) is making soft, sorrowful eyes, while his wife makes the strange transitions between gratitude and anger. This isn’t a flaw with the film; this is its mood. Loud music, neon lights, stylised violence, dancing, homages—everyone’s high on one thing: stardom. Specifically, Ajith Kumar’s. If you should not really be one with the crowd, well, GBU, maamey.

If you ever loved anything about Ajith, GBU has likely stored it for you. Vaali, Varalaaru, Mankatha, Billa, Dheena—even Vedalam. Take a shot every time something triggers your nostalgia; you'll be gone in sixty seconds (which is perhaps one of a few Hollywood films that Good Bad Ugly doesn't reference). Adhik knows this game—and he knows it really well: if not AK in slo-mo, then it’s Arjun Das entering the screen to ‘Otha Rooba Thaaren’, swaying around a cruise with bikini-clad women. The contrast between this urban visual and the rural hit song that plays to it... is cool. There’s no deeper reading here—just rhythm, contrast, chaos. In a scene, Arjun Das references Pammal K Sambandham. Perhaps he does so because it's a gentle reminder to us that indha padatha... anubavikkanum, aaraya koodaadhu.

Director: Adhik Ravichandran

Cast: Ajith Kumar, Arjun Das, Trisha

What makes this sensory storm even more interesting is that the film sometimes seems to parody its own brand of storytelling. Someone is waxing eloquent about AK’s greatness, comparing him to a lion on the prowl. AK listens and responds by rolling his eyes. A romantic duet (with an actress who appears in a cameo) is pitched to him by the director in a moment that breaks the fourth wall. AK once again dismisses it. At one point, a character solemnly declares, “AK is too loved to be allowed to leave,” and you realise that this isn't plot or storytelling. This is a commentary on the man, the myth, the demands. 

In a film like this, we so often neglect the flashes of craft. The casino set, with its riot of lights and thoughtful design, comes alive. And my favourite moment in the film—one of the smartest bits of staging—is when someone shares a photo of AK in a gangsters’ WhatsApp group, and people begin exiting with shocked emojis. It’s beautifully stupid and utterly enjoyable. In a film that leans so hard into nostalgia, it’s almost poetic that such a modern gag is its most memorable moment.

Even some choices surprised me. You’d expect a film like this to give Ajith a double role, but Adhik gives it instead to the villain. In any case, Ajith shows up in a buffet of looks—young and older, drawn and real—and you get why the star didn't need to play a double or a triple role here. Adhik has a fantastic eye for visuals and detail too: from ear-ringed AK flaunting colourful costumes to a bloodied knuckle-duster placed gently on a child, to a chain weapon with a chomping mouth. And if all else fails, there’s always a nostalgic song to keep you interested. Sometimes, listening to ‘Ilamai Idho Idho’ play out in a theatre is its own form of pleasure. It's cheap pleasure, sure, but a pleasure nevertheless.

The Bad

The dialogues, when they are ineffective, burn and crash like the many cars in this film. A soup metaphor is dragged out embarrassingly. AK's gangster job is referenced like he was a successful Chartered Accountant. AK growls “TAKE OFF” out of nowhere. Another painfully stretched sequence has him bounce between “bank” and “mottai”—which left me looking around to see whether anyone else thought it bizarre too. They really missed a chance to bring in that iconic Vaali gesture—you know, the one with the thumbs shifting side to side. If you're going all out, you may as well include that too. Later, when Arjun Das' Jammy (or was it Johnny) reverses this idea with 'paiyan' and 'pondaati', it still doesn't work. Arjun Das, by the way, totally commits to the madness, and is a delight.

But even the most exhilarating party needs a breather—a chance to get some air, some silence. GBU doesn’t allow that. It’s cymbals-clanging, trumpets-blaring, start-to-finish insanity. I remember this same fatigue with Mark Antony. You become numb to it all at some point. You can't help but see the glaring cracks in the sound-and-light storm. And when the bluetooth connection with the film gets lost, when you’re no longer high on the party, Adhik’s films can start to feel like existential fever dreams that go on and on.

I also didn't understand why some of the wild ideas aren't utilised to their full potential. There’s a villain who inhales laughing gas on doctor’s orders—but there’s no payoff. Jammy’s hallucinations about women culminate in a ghostly presence in a gown—but again, no real follow-through. These are wonderfully imaginative setups, but then, the film’s momentum is so frantic, it bulldozes right past such ideas.

And then there’s Ajith himself. He’s the reluctant star who dismantles fan clubs and disowns the ‘Thala’ label. And yet here he is, cheerfully presiding over a film that resurrects every single fan fantasy. It’s as though he’s winking at the adulation, even while trying to walk away from it. Is this a strategic compromise? A final hurrah? The cinema equivalent of hiding medicine inside a chocolate? If so… is it working?

The Ugly

Good Bad Ugly is not remotely interested in emotional depth—until it suddenly pretends to be. That’s the problem. Father-son scenes meant to evoke pathos fall flat. A moral contrast between a violent husband and a law-abiding wife is introduced, only to become... nothing. When someone says AK is leaving town for his wife’s sake, you’re supposed to be moved. The music certainly sells it like that, but you feel nothing. And when a character proclaims love at the end, it feels said because it's in the script. It doesn't seem felt. These emotional beats could have perhaps elevated the madness, but instead, they sit like hollow echoes inside a rave, like speakers that don't work in certain corners of the venue.

And here’s where the melancholy begins to seep in for me. Are theatrical joys now limited to homage? Do fan-service, old songs, and actor worship count for more than original writing? GBU uses at least four retro tracks in full, including the now-classic ‘Aaluma Doluma’. Is that already an old song? What are we telling our writers, our composers, our young filmmakers? That it’s safer to repurpose than create?

Even as I had fun—because yes, I did—this film leaves you with questions. One of them took me all the way back to Vaali, to that unforgettable moment when Ajith, as a deaf-mute character, simply chews gum. There’s no fanfare, no slo-mo, no punchline. Just… a presence. Quiet, dangerous, unforgettable. A character with no voice-over introductions, no ‘mass’ music buildup. And yet, the moment hit hard—because it was born of solid writing. All these years later, just AK chewing gum rings as powerful because that moment was... original.

So, yes, by all means, dance to ‘Otha Rooba Thaaren’ and 'Thottu Thottu Pesum Sulthana' for Insta reels. But in between the dancing, in between all the manic scrolling, let’s also stop to ask: What might we be losing while we seek parties every day?