In an all-out assault on logical storytelling, the film Sikandar, written and directed by A.R. Murugadoss, endeavors to elevate Salman Khan‘s dharmic persona but stumbles in execution. With airs akin to an unerring emperor, the film, unfortunately, doesn’t manage to hit its mark, failing to convert ambition into substance.
Sikandar mirrors the blueprint of Murugadoss’ 2008 blockbuster Ghajini, which revolved around a protagonist driven by vengeance following a tragic loss. In this case, Sikandar evolves into a love story mired in complexities. Sanjay Rajkot, played by Salman Khan, is embroiled in a tale of memory, loss, and a political adversary’s vendetta.
Set in the contrasting locales of Rajkot and Mumbai, Sikandar presents itself as a vehicle to showcase Salman Khan’s dynamic personality, akin to his iteration in Jawan. Yet, the film opens multiple narrative threads that it struggles to weave together cohesively, resulting in a disjointed narrative structure.
Much of Sikandar’s script, credited to Murugadoss alone, fails to achieve coherence. It leans heavily on implausible and uninventive plot devices that stretch credibility to its limits. Salman Khan, portraying the Maharaja of Rajkot, lacks the regal demeanor expected of his character. Instead, his portrayal aligns more with his previous roles as assertive law enforcers and altruistic figures.
Sanjay, as Rajkot’s benevolent ruler, operates without the backing of an army, relying instead on his retinue of followers. When faced with adversity, he single-handedly transforms into a formidable force, protecting his domain through sheer will and action.
Sikandar attempts to present Sanjay as a generous leader, donating land to his subjects, yet emphasizing his role as a formidable persona more than a monarch immersed in governance. His philanthropy and persistent combativeness mark his character, but the film fails to anchor these qualities in a credible narrative.
A key figure opposing Sanjay is Minister Pradhan, portrayed by Sathyaraj, a politically powerful figure who commands influence over the Mumbai police. This confrontation inevitably sets the stage for the film’s climactic showdown, but the journey there is fraught with narrative floundering and lack of solid writing.
Sanjay’s dual identity of both Raja and Sikandar is amplified as he confronts wrongdoers, ranging from corrupt police officers to gangs vanquished with ease. His core mission leads him to combat the corrupt influences of a politically-motivated opponent on his people, depicting his role as both protector and avenger.
An aspect of Sikandar’s narrative delves into his relationship with his much younger wife, Srisai (Rashmika Mandanna), which is marred by a lack of time and attention from Sanjay. His commitment to his public duties overshadows their personal life, resulting in estrangement followed by poignant tragedy.
The early parts of Sikandar mark the slowest sections as Sanjay endeavors to demonstrate romantic passion, but these entries lack authenticity. Srisai, portrayed more like a lively college student than a regal Rani, states that they are separated by age but united in beliefs, a sentiment that echoes less as couple synergy and more as narrative device.
Srisai, characterized as an artist with social empathy, is shown as being devoted to humanity, advocating organ donation as a higher form of service than divine devotion. Despite this depth of character, her creative contributions are scarcely explored on screen.
Following her demise, the narrative widens to encapsulate Sanjay’s interactions with three individuals—Qamaruddin, Vaidehi, and Nisha—whose lives entwine with his and Srisai’s. These interactions illustrate Sanjay’s regret, admitting to his friend Amar (Sharman Joshi) his failure in providing Srisai the time she deserved, further tying into prior scenes that highlight his neglect.
Sanjay’s penance assumes the form of significant social missions. First, he embarks on protecting slum residents from harmful real estate developments. Second, he assists a woman resisting her conservative father-in-law, and third, he supports a young woman deceived by love.
The primary adversary, Minister Pradhan, frames the political and moral battleground. The deep-seated animosity between Sanjay and Minister Pradhan dates back to a confrontation with the latter’s son Arjun (Prateik Babbar), which unfolds in the film’s opening. Despite dynamic editing and vibrant action sequences designed for excitement, these fail to hold the film together.
Sikandar crafts a narrative of opposition between steadfast righteousness and corrupt manipulation, representing one man’s activism against the upper echelons’ apathy. “Yeh kalyug hai,” the antagonist declares, signifying the era’s challenges, but the film’s thematic layers struggle to convey strong substance, leaving a hazy impact.
The duality of power, one charitable and the other exploitative, underlies Sikandar’s narrative, but predictable plot movements only serve to critique its familiar tropes rather than invigorate the storyline. Salman Khan’s character insists on action rather than mere retribution, but despite its action-packed premise, Sikandar fails to deliver clarity and consistency in storytelling, diluting the intended message in convoluted execution.
