An examination of how 120 Bahadur reshapes the Hindi war film through historical accuracy, disciplined craft, and a clear-eyed look at the human cost of one of 1962’s most overlooked battles.
In contemporary Hindi cinema, where war films often march to the beat of patriotic spectacle, 120 Bahadur stands apart with quiet conviction.
Razneesh Ghai's second feature is not interested in inflating national pride, nor in building a mythic pedestal for its heroes. Instead, it attempts something far rarer: a war film driven by historical accuracy, muscular craft, and an unwavering commitment to the lived experience of soldiers.
Set during the 1962 Sino-Indian War, the film is told through the memories of Ramchander Yadav (Sparsh Walia), a young radio operator and the lone survivor of Rezang La. From his hospital bed, he recalls how Major Shaitan Singh Bhati (Farhan Akhtar) and 120 soldiers attempted to hold the icy Himalayan frontier against an overwhelming Chinese force. What emerges is not a tale of triumph, but a stark chronicle of endurance, strategy, and human fragility.
What truly differentiates 120 Bahadur is its refusal to genuflect before the usual grammar of Hindi war cinema. Ghai deliberately avoids the jingoistic shortcuts such as the blaring choruses, the soaring speeches, and the choreographed heroism that have long dominated the genre.
Bravery here is not noise but precision. It is not a slogan but a sequence of decisions made in impossible conditions. Shaitan Singh’s introduction embodies this ethos, and his authority flows from perceptiveness.
Rajiv G. Menon’s screenplay and Sumit Arora’s textured dialogue bring an uncommon intimacy to the battalion’s world. These soldiers are not background silhouettes in uniform. They are young men carrying small, bruised dreams into battle.
For instance, a new recruit shivers at 18,000 feet without a proper jacket, as his warmth is sacrificed to a broken supply line. These fragments do not sentimentalise their lives. They humanise their sacrifice. So when the film shifts into its intense, often brutal action sequences, the men do not die as distant emblems of patriotic mythmaking.
They die as individuals we have come to know: frightened, resilient, loyal, ordinary. Their loss feels devastating precisely because the film anchors them in the fragile textures of daily life.
The second half plunges into battle with clarity and restraint. The staging of combat avoids both chaos and glamour. Every assault, every retreat, is grounded in tactical desperation.
Even the soundscape heightens this realism: the howl of Ladakhi winds at 18,000 feet, the ricochet of bullets, the muted terror of approaching footsteps.
Where most mainstream war films amplify emotion, 120 Bahadur sharpens it. The action is visceral but never hollow, and Ghai’s direction finds power not in spectacle, but in the cold arithmetic of a battalion cut off from reinforcements, dwindling ammunition, and hope.
For a genre often defined by volume, 120 Bahadur’s greatest achievement is its quiet courage.
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Dipankar Sarkar is a film critic who contributes to different publications- both national and international. He is a Research Fellowship from the NFAI, Pune, India, and was one of the panelists for the selection of world cinema at the 27th International Film Festival of Kerala in 2022.
