Salaar Part 1 Ceasefire review: Prabhas delivers the gore as Prithviraj Sukumaran delivers the goods with an explosive second half

In Salaar Part 1, Prabhas’ typically languid figure slips into the mould of a madman, seductively chained by those around him. (Screen grab/YouTube/Hombale Films)

There is a sequence in the second half of Prashanth Neel’s Salaar: Part 1 – Ceasefire, where our larger-than-life hero rains carnage on a paedophile and his gang of thugs. It’s the first moment of a lengthy flashback, where a violent but caged man is finally unleashed. You know what’s coming but the manner in which it is unrolled and framed - as a crescendo of action, music (a choir of women) and exotic imagery - feels nerve-rackingly satisfying. Before he finally puts the villain out of his misery, our protagonist stops to say something that amounts to ‘eat your own words’.

It’s the kind of moment that catapults a theatre full of fans into a frenzy. Easily the film’s finest sequence, it effortlessly merges causality, rage and injustice. Set to the tone of a ritual, it also feels like the coronation of a superstar. The only problem is that the set-piece seems secluded from the wider concerns of a film that baffles in terms of scale, impresses in its commitment to its leading men but also underwhelms when it comes to spinning it around a cogent spindle.

The story begins somewhere in 1985 when two young urchins, living in an unnamed land, are separated through the enactment of a brutal law. The two are blood-brothers, in more ways than one, but are also contradictory in their make. One is level-headed, sound and rational while the other is beastly, a somewhat deranged specimen of heedless, raw savagery. They are wired different.

Also read: Prabhas on Salaar: ‘In my 21 years in the industry, I’ve never felt this level of connection with a director’

Fast forward to 2017 when a girl, Adaya (Shruti Haasan), returns to India after a gap of many years. Her arrival triggers a ‘woman-hunt’ led by different groups that look and speak like tribal clans (obviously related to the events of before). Adaya is instantly rescued by a mysterious saviour and lands in the care of an authoritarian mother played by Easwari Rao. Though rankled at first, she warms up to the tough hospitality, especially to Deva, the quiet, but mysterious son played by Prabhas.

Shruti Haasan as Adaya in Salaar 1. (Screen grab/YouTube/Hombale Films)

The chase to capture Adaya flips a page in the history of not just a person, but a country. She is merely the bookmark in a bigger, bloodier chapter of power, greed and bureaucratic intrigue. Deva is obviously the angry, ruthless kid who has grown up in exile, caged by the controlling rigour of his mother.

After he is finally unchained, he does the one thing no one, including the state machinery, has managed to do – stop a consignment headed to the secret city of Khansar. A city where Deva and his best friend Sharada (Prithviraj Sukumaran) grew up. The very city, Deva and his mother had to leave as the cost of defending their pride.

But the upcoming reunion/battle between former friends isn’t the story we’re told. Instead, the film takes us back to the time when Khansar was embattled by crime, thuggery, chaos and a possible coupe. A time when Sharada, called upon his old friend to return, to hesitantly unbridle, that copious appetite for bloodletting he has witnessed since childhood.

Prithviraj Sukumaran as Sharada in Salaar 1. (Screen grab/YouTube/Hombale Films)

Firstly, there is a lot to chew on here. Too much, actually. The first 40 minutes feel so randomly urgent, it’s hard to place a nib on a coherent area of focus. There are two timelines, except the second half of the film, takes place in a third one.

Khansar, this mythical, self-governing utopia that has practically ghosted the arm-wrestling diplomacy of the Indian subcontinent, actually comes to the fore in the second half.

It’s another audacious attempt at world-building and though it has obvious textural parallels with KGF, Khansar is a mixed bag of unruly tribalism, chawls and elite cityscapes, despotic cabals and flailing ideas of democratic process.

Sharada was the heir to the throne but his act of kindness that saved Deva and his mother’s life all those years ago, cost him that right. He isn’t exactly Machiavellian or greedy, but simply wants what seems right.

In his somewhat elegant attempt to argue his side, Deva (also called ‘Salaar’ – meaning commander) becomes the one-man army that annihilates in his stead. The plot is dense enough to keep you on your toes, but also over-indulgent and overlong for a runtime that tests your backside as much as the many blades Prabhas gets to wield.

Like KGF, the winner here is Neel’s world-building. For all the random aerial views of what seem like handpicked European cities, there is this under-lit, grunge quality to the sets where the action almost always takes place. This feels like an extension of the coal mines we have seen before, except our protagonist is a ragged, unkempt mix of oil, dirt and blood. A man of the people, by the people so to speak.

Neel has an eye for curious detailing, and though his frames struggle to reprise the coherence of KGF’s, there is still a larger-than-life audacity about them.

Prabhas as Deva – also called ‘Salaar’, meaning commander. (Screen grab/YouTube/Hombale Films)

Red is pre-empted as the colour of rage, madness and hunger. Deva only eats rice and red chilli and operates like a rusty machine which eventually combusts into action, mania and awe-inspiring sense of singularity.

At almost 3 hours long, Salaar Part 1-Ceasefire also feels like a bit of a drag. It really doesn’t take off until after the interval, and its bureaucratic twists and chessboard politicking feel bogged down by an overlong interlude.

There are moments of genuine mainstream madness here, and Prabhas’ typically languid figure kind of plays into the glove of a madman, seductively chained by those around him. His relationship with, and possessiveness of, Sharada borders on love and lunacy, but it is what gives the film that feeling of the unknown.

You just wish Neel could have trimmed that sprawling, confused prologue that travels to so many states, through so many forgettable faces and verbal cues, it disorients you into seeking that pivotal figurehead. When he arrives though, it’s bedlam.