Abhimanyu, the latest Assamese film which hit the theatres on November 15, 2024, produced under Sabnam’s Entertainments, tells the story of revenge, cover-ups, and moral quandaries in a society grappling with corruption.

Directed by Achinta Shankar and edited by Protim Khaound, the film features an ensemble cast including Kamal Lochan as the protagonist, Prabhat, alongside Deeplina Deka (Jyotsna), Debajit Mazumdar (Jayanta Mazumdar), Hiranya Deka (Rahman), Amrita Gogoi (Advocate Sharmistha Konwar), Bhagawat Pritam (Dr. Keshab Kakati), Rajiv Goswami (Anirban Barua), and Sharafat Ali (Shankar Jyoti Rajkhowa), among others.

Despite its interesting premise, Abhimanyu stumbles in execution, leaving the viewer lost amid underdeveloped subplots, inconsistent tone, and over-the-top characters.

(Note: This review contains spoilers from this point forward)

Abhimanyu explores themes of systemic corruption, loss, and the pursuit of justice. The story revolves around the brutal rape-murder of Jyotsna, which sends her partner, Prabhat, on a relentless quest for vengeance.

Wrongfully accused and seeking justice, he and his friends kidnap five individuals linked to the crime. This leads to a tense cat-and-mouse game with Jayanta Mazumdar, an encounter specialist police officer investigating the crime.

The movie concludes with Prabhat successfully exposing the truth, resulting in justice being delivered to all the culprits (except Sharmistha Konwar) at the hands of the people (quite literally).

The COVID-19 pandemic serves as a backdrop to the film, highlighting the struggles of the people during that period—job losses, family tragedies, and the isolation that came with it.

Through Prabhat and Jyotsna’s characters, the director attempts to show the altruistic efforts of people who risked their own safety to help others during the pandemic.

The film’s critique of social institutions—from media and politics to healthcare and law enforcement—had potential but is marred by overly simplistic villains and forced symbolism.

The antagonists are reduced to caricatures of evil, feeling like hollow shells rather than layered representations of corruption.

The acting is functional at best. While Kamal Lochan’s performance as Prabhat displays moments of intensity, it does not quite reach his full potential. The chemistry between him and Deeplina Deka is acceptable, but neither performance leaves a lasting impression.

Debajit Mazumdar’s portrayal of Jayanta, the frantic, alcoholic, rebellious cop tasked with tracking down the kidnapped victims and solving the case, tries to add complexity to the plot but ultimately falls short.

His transformation from a relentless pursuer to a morally conflicted individual is rushed and lacks credibility.

The investigative work of Jayanta and Officer Moniraj Das suffers from serious shortcomings. Given the introduction Jayanta receives, he shows little beyond a few forced humorous moments.

Also, the scene where a youth is shot by Jayanta in the marketplace, with no reaction from bystanders, is simply unrealistic.

Additionally, Jayanta’s decision to interview the night-duty guard at the COVID center on the fateful night of Jyotsna’s rape-murder comes across as an afterthought, an elementary oversight that severely undermines his credibility.

Ethical hacker Nilofer, the “B.Tech from IIT,” adds little to the investigation besides childlike enthusiasm (“Look, Mom, I got a candy”), failing to bring any real expertise to the narrative.

While Jayanta frantically searches for Prabhat, the film blames a misplaced file during a police station relocation for the investigation’s delay.

This excuse strains plausibility—surely basic avenues like checking a marriage certificate or court records would have been obvious steps to find information on Prabhat.

Even showing Jyotsna’s photograph in the local community would have led them to Prabhat. Instead, the film contrives a dramatic encounter, with Jayanta and Prabhat only crossing paths in a climactic “A Wednesday”-style showdown.

In an equally unconvincing twist, Jayanta—who has acted as judge, jury, and executioner throughout the film—suddenly develops a conscience, ending the encounter with a lukewarm, “bhalkoi khoj diba,” which feels hollow given the narrative build-up.

The antagonists’ choice to use “06/B2”—the case number of the Jyotsna rape-murder—as a calling card for future meetings feels like a convenient plot device, allowing Officer Jayanta to link the kidnappings to the original crime.

Also, the scene where Prabhat and his friends overpower trained commandos and police, escaping in an open van, is utterly implausible.

This reliance on coincidence and unrealistic scenarios detracts from the film’s credibility, making it hard for viewers to fully invest in the unfolding drama.

The sudden revelation that Sharmistha Konwar is pregnant feels like a deliberate narrative choice to exempt her from the severe consequences faced by the other antagonists, suggesting that the director chose to spare her—perhaps due to her gender.

This is further compounded by Sharmistha’s abrupt change of heart when she learns that Jyotsna was pregnant at the time of her rape-murder.

It implies a troubling inconsistency in her character’s moral compass, suggesting that the rape and murder of a woman is acceptable to her—until she discovers that the victim was pregnant.

That’s where she draws the line! This arbitrary moral line undermines the authenticity of Sharmistha’s transformation, making it feel forced and unconvincing.

The film suffers from an excess of unnecessary scenes that add little to the overall narrative. Examples include the irrelevant conversation between Contractor Chaliha and the Chief Minister about fund releases, the pointless bedroom discussion between Sharafat Ali and his partner, and the bridge scene involving a car conversation between the circle officer and her partner.

These moments serve as distractions rather than meaningful contributions to the plot.

The film’s portrayal of a mental health institution raises ethical concerns. Its depiction of a mental hospital as a dark, foreboding place reinforces harmful stereotypes about mental health facilities.

The use of “electric shock therapy” (also known as Electroconvulsive Therapy, or ECT) is strictly mandated under the Mental Health Care Act (MHCA) of 2017 as a last resort.

It is performed under strict medical supervision, with the use of anesthesia and muscle relaxants.

Such misrepresentation trivializes mental health treatment and could potentially discourage people from seeking help.

Additionally, Abhimanyu resorts to cheap attempts at humor with crude sexual innuendos, such as the dialogue “kaath futaboloi gojaalo daangor lagibo,” which feels jarringly out of place in a film tackling such serious themes.

The inclusion of viral internet catchphrases like “ruko jara, sabar karo,” along with a scene featuring a journalist mimicking the viral clip of Pakistani reporter Chand Nawab’s “Karachi se,” comes off as lazy and uninspired. While these references might provoke a few chuckles, the filmmaker must recognize that the audience's laughter is directed at the familiarity of the memes, not the film’s comedic merits.

Ironically, the film’s subtitles provide more "comic relief" than the actual dialogue.

Mistakes like “Cornell Goswami” instead of “Colonel Goswami” or Colonel Goswami’s dialogue, “I have a new mission, Mission Russia” as “I have a new issue,” unintentionally add a layer of humor.

Abhimanyu sets out with the ambition of merging social issues with a gripping revenge storyline, yet it struggles to achieve either goal effectively.

The film’s attempt at social critique feels surface-level, and its revenge narrative lacks the intensity required to make a lasting impression.

Instead of a nuanced exploration of regional themes, the movie offers a disjointed experience that leans heavily on clichés and convenient plot devices.

For audiences hoping for a thought-provoking Assamese film, Abhimanyu falls short, leaving behind a lackluster and ultimately forgettable experience.

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