Bhaimon Da is a heartfelt and commendable cinematic effort that pays tribute to one of Assam’s most revered filmmakers – the legendary Munin Barua.

The very idea of creating a biopic on such an iconic and layered personality is ambitious and laudable. The makers deserve genuine praise for taking on the formidable challenge of capturing the life and legacy of a man who shaped Assamese cinema in profound ways.

Bringing Munin Barua’s journey to celluloid is no easy feat. His contributions span decades, and the emotional, creative, and cultural depth he carried is difficult to condense into a single film.

The passion of the team behind Bhaimon Da is evident, and their reverence for the subject shines through.

For me, the film is more about the person and his personal battles than the person and his films and other creative works. The film attempts to explore two parallel father-son narratives: that of Munin Barua with his father Hemendra Nath Barua, and of Munin Barua with his son Maanash Barua (Rijoo).

These relationships form an emotional undercurrent throughout the story, capturing the complexities of love, conflict, and legacy across generations.

The film captures the evolving dynamics between Munin Barua and his son Maanash with particular sensitivity. Their bond is layered with moments of both love and disagreement, shaped by their shared passion for cinema.

One such moment unfolds when Maanash gets into an altercation with a stranger who dismissively claims that Munin Barua would not be able to do justice to the character played by Tapan Das. The remark strikes a nerve, and Maanash’s anger flares—not just as a filmmaker, but as a fiercely loyal son who has immense faith in his father’s creative vision.

In another stirring sequence, Maanash takes the bold decision to reopen a closed cinema hall in Golaghat to screen Raamdhenu, driven by his belief in his father’s work and the need to bring it to audiences, no matter the obstacles.

Tensions also rise at home when Munin decides not to cast an actress Maanash had promised a role, leading to a heartfelt disagreement.

Yet, even in such moments, the film never suggests a fractured relationship. Instead, it portrays a powerful emotional undercurrent—of mutual respect, creative friction, and the inevitable complexities that come when familial love and artistic ideals intertwine.

These moments land well emotionally and ground the story in real, relatable conflicts.

However, in their attempt to include a wide range of events and themes, the makers sometimes falter. Some scenes feel unnecessarily inserted and dilute the narrative momentum.

Paradoxically, while trying to cover so much, the film misses out on certain key moments that could have greatly enhanced its emotional impact. One such omission is that of a young Bhaimon playing the mandolin alongside the legendary Dr Bhupen Hazarika—a deeply symbolic event.

Including a scene where Hemendra Nath Barua witnesses this musical collaboration would have added a touching layer to their father-son bond. It's the kind of emotional beat that could have powerfully mirrored the later, well-crafted tension between Munin and Maanash.

In fact, Munin Barua’s unconditional love and affection for his son seems to stem from the emotional void he experienced in his own childhood. While his father, Hemendra Nath Barua, was more like a stern school headmaster—distant and disciplined—Munin chose a different path with Maanash. He became more of a friend than a father, at times even sharing a smoke from his son’s packet when he ran out of his own, reflecting the easy camaraderie they shared.

Another notable shortcoming, which I feel, lies in the film’s editing. Several sequences suffer from abrupt transitions and lack smooth continuity. The jump from one timeline to another is often jarring and disorienting.

Rather than enhancing the narrative structure, the frequent temporal shifts feel forced and, at times, poorly motivated. The film would have benefitted from more polished transitions and a clearer narrative rhythm to help the audience stay emotionally engaged without confusion.

Character development also suffers in this overambitious attempt. Several characters are introduced without proper establishment and fade out without narrative closure. Some could have been retained until the end, using creative liberties to build a more cohesive and satisfying emotional arc.

Certain characters, such as those based on Jahnu Barua and Bidyut Chakraborty, feel largely ornamental and add little to the narrative’s progression. Their presence, while perhaps well-intentioned, ultimately feels unnecessary—and the film would have been no lesser without them.

In contrast, greater focus on Harpal Saikia’s character, who plays Munin Barua’s close friend, particularly in the latter half of the film, could have enriched the emotional fabric of the story. His character had the potential to offer a more grounded, intimate perspective on Munin’s journey.

One can’t help but feel that, had the filmmakers exercised a touch more creative liberty in this regard, the narrative might have resonated more deeply. And indeed, taking such liberties—for the sake of storytelling—is not only acceptable but often essential

When it comes to performances, the film manages to deliver a fairly strong show overall.

Bondip Sarma convincingly carries the emotional weight of the film as Munin Barua, skillfully portraying both his artistic passion and inner struggles. His dedication brings the character to life, and his commitment is clearly evident on screen.

Yasashree Bhuyan gives a sincere and commendable performance as Manjula Barua. However, the character herself feels somewhat underwritten. In stories that chart the personal and professional journey of an individual, the emotional and moral support of a spouse is often vital. In this case, that dimension didn’t come through as strongly as it could have. This might be because the narrative remained so firmly focused on Munin Barua, leaving little space for Manjula’s character to be fully developed or her influence to be meaningfully explored.

Samudragupta Dutta gives a standout performance as the legendary Shiva Prasad Thakur. Whenever he appears on screen, the focus often shifts to his character, making it feel like the film could almost be about him rather than Munin Barua. Dutta’s presence is captivating, and he easily steals the spotlight in every scene.

Unfortunately, the filmmakers do not fully utilise this strong introduction, as the character quietly disappears from the story. The dynamic between Shiva Prasad Thakur (Dutta) and Munin Barua (Bondip Sarma) could have been developed further, which would have enriched the film’s emotional and narrative layers.

Zubeen Garg's character is one of the notable highlights—portrayed with conviction and subtlety by Partha Pratim Hazarika.

The representation doesn’t feel like mere fan service; rather, it gives an honest glimpse into his camaraderie with Munin Barua and his role in shaping that cinematic era.

Gitartha Sarma delivers a noteworthy performance as Maanash Barua (Rijoo). He skillfully conveys the complex layers of his character—capturing not only Maanash’s inner conflicts and moments of frustration but also his enduring love and deep respect for his father.

Sarma’s portrayal reflects the nuanced emotions of a son navigating the challenges of living up to a legendary legacy while asserting his own identity.

Through subtle expressions and well-timed intensity, he brings authenticity and depth to the role, making Maanash’s struggles and affections feel genuine and relatable.

Most performances in the film are focused and moving, capturing the emotional depth of their characters. However, some actors occasionally slip into melodramatic territory, with certain emotionally charged scenes feeling somewhat overdone.

Nevertheless, the majority of the cast delivers grounded and sincere portrayals that help the film’s emotional arcs resonate with the audience.

However, Himanta Biswa Sarma’s portrayal is undeniably poor—a fact the filmmakers cannot overlook. His character comes across as exaggerated and caricatured, sharply clashing with the film’s otherwise naturalistic tone. This performance disrupts the narrative flow and detracts from the overall viewing experience.

Two major drawbacks that stood out for me were the character make-up and the use of CGI or VFX—whichever term one prefers.

The ageing make-up, in particular, felt unconvincing and somewhat amateurishly executed. While the characters’ hair was visibly greyed, their skin remained entirely smooth—lacking even a hint of wrinkles. This created a visibly inconsistent and superficial portrayal of ageing across the cast.

In a biopic, especially when younger actors are aged on screen, such transformations need to be believable. Unfortunately, it seems insufficient effort was invested in achieving that realism.

To put it in perspective—back in 1983, when Nipon Goswami portrayed Pranjal Saikia’s grandfather in Kokadeuta Nati Aru Hati, a bit of white powder on the hair and some occasional coughing might have sufficed.

But in 2025, with several highly skilled make-up artists in Assam capable of working with prosthetics and creating lifelike aged appearances, the lack of attention to detail feels like a missed opportunity.

Quite frankly, the make-up in Bhaimon Da is jarring and detracts from the film’s immersive storytelling.

Similarly, CGI or VFX—though used sparingly in the film—lacked consistency and polish in the scenes where it was applied. Period films and biopics spanning decades often rely on visual effects to enhance realism and atmosphere.

In Bhaimon Da, sequences like bats flying out of the abandoned Chitralekha Cinema Hall in Golaghat or the steam rising from a locomotive as Bhaimon arrives in Delhi were executed without the necessary finesse. These moments felt rushed and unconvincing.

If the filmmakers anticipated the technical challenges of recreating such scenes, they should have aligned that awareness with proper budgeting and planning.

Some may argue that these are minor technicalities that shouldn’t overshadow the film’s core message. But are they really minor when they disrupt the authenticity and emotional immersion of the experience?

Sasanka Samir, making his directorial debut with Bhaimon Da, deserves appreciation for taking on such an ambitious subject in his very first film.

Crafting a biopic—especially one that traces the vast and nuanced journey of a cultural icon like Munin Barua—is no small feat. It requires not only technical precision but also emotional sensitivity, historical understanding, and the ability to balance fact with cinematic storytelling.

For a debutant, that’s a formidable challenge. And yet, Samir manages to navigate this complex terrain with sincerity and vision.

While there are rough edges in the execution, what stands out is his courage to attempt a film of such scale and depth at the outset of his career.

It’s a promising start, and one that suggests greater things to come as he continues to grow as a filmmaker.

Bhaimon Da undoubtedly has its strengths—an inspiring subject, emotional depth, and cultural importance. But for me, and for many others, it misses the emotional connect that a biopic of this nature should ideally deliver.

In conclusion, Bhaimon Da serves as a sincere and passionate tribute to Munin Barua. Although the film exhibits occasional unevenness in its narrative flow and some editing choices that I personally feel is somewhat abrupt, it nonetheless represents a significant contribution to Assamese cinema.

With a more focused script and refined editing, the film has the potential to emerge as a truly definitive biopic.

Despite these minor shortcomings, it remains a poignant celebration of a legendary filmmaker and offers a thoughtful exploration of generational legacy within the arts.

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