Few films hit where it hurts — Pink reveals how patriarchy controls in silence, but never quietly when it’s questioned. The story unfolds in Delhi, now the default setting for narratives about toxic masculinity and gender-based violence — a choice sadly justified by its recurring headlines. But the truth is, this story could take place anywhere. The specifics change; the pattern doesn’t.
The film centers on three working, independent women—Minal Arora (Taapsee Pannu), Falak Ali (Kirti Kulhari), and Andrea Tariang (played by Andrea Tariang). One night after a concert, they encounter Rajveer Singh (Angad Bedi), the entitled heir to a politically connected family. Rajveer assaults Minal; in self-defense, she injures him. He presses charges. And a courtroom drama ensues.
The filmmakers—Aniruddha Roy Chowdhury, Shoojit Sircar, and screenwriter Ritesh Shah—avoid the obvious route of a didactic issue film. Instead, they begin with the tempo of a thriller. In the opening scene, the women sit in a speeding cab at night, visibly shaken. Elsewhere, a man clutches a bloody cloth to his eye, flanked by friends rushing him to a hospital. The audience is hooked, even before a single piece of exposition lands.
Return of the Archetype
This structural misdirection pays off, pulling viewers into a deeper conversation about power, patriarchy, and perception. But in its effort to confront misogyny, Pink leans—perhaps too heavily—on a familiar trope: the male savior. The burden of resolution falls not on a woman but on the weathered shoulders of the archetypal Hindi film hero.
That hero is Amitabh Bachchan.
Casting Bachchan is a tactical choice, and it works. For decades, his voice has echoed through Indian cinema as the mouthpiece of the wronged — the most formidable embodiment of ‘anger’ in its pantheon. He gave expression to the angst of the oppressed and deprived of this country in the ‘70s and ‘80s.
Here, as Deepak Sehgal, a retired lawyer drawn back into the fray, he once again becomes the conscience of the film. Sharp, simmering, and self-aware, he delivers courtroom arguments and moral judgments with the same force.
A Stage for Morality Plays
The courtroom in Pink becomes what it has often been in film: a stage for morality plays. From The Passion of Joan of Arc to 12 Angry Men, A Few Good Men to The Trial of the Chicago 7, it’s where society’s fault lines are exposed through oration and drama. Hindi cinema has embraced the format too—from the feminist crescendo of Damini to the cross-border plea in Veer-Zaara to the plea for harmony in Mulk.
Bachchan’s past is full of these courtroom showdowns—Adalat, Main Azaad Hoon, Aakhri Raasta. Pink continues that tradition, except this time he’s older, grayer, and arguably angrier.
The film sets up the perfect stage for Bachchan, but the screenplay stumbles in its attempt to deepen his character beyond that of a mouthpiece for its message. Deepak Sehgal is portrayed as both a man grappling with a mental health condition and a devoted caregiver to his bedridden wife — perhaps as a gesture to show that he embodies the very gender equality he’s advocating for in court. He tends to his wife with the same quiet care traditionally expected of women.
Women at the Foreground
But beyond that, we learn little. The screenplay offers no insight into the cause of either his mental state or his wife’s illness, nor does it attempt to tie those experiences to his impassioned defense of Minal Arora. The effort to build a backstory and add dimension to his character feels half-hearted. Sehgal remains the film’s voice of reason — a powerful one — but little more.
Taapsee Pannu and Kirti Kulhari serve as the film’s emotional anchors, each portraying a woman caught in the crosshairs of misogyny. Pannu’s Minal, the primary accused, is the most assertive and unconventional of the three. A dancer by profession, she chooses to live alone despite having family nearby, and defends her independence with clarity and resolve — even resorting to violence when pushed to the edge.
In the early cab scene, moments after the assault, Minal remains alert and composed. When the driver nearly hits a truck, she calmly asks if he’s drowsy and offers to guide him. It’s a brief but telling moment of presence under pressure. Through Minal’s ordeal, the film shows how patriarchy reserves its harshest judgment for women who dare to live on their own terms.
It’s a challenging role, and Pannu — now frequently seen in such parts — brings both steel and vulnerability to the character.
Supporting, but Silenced
Falak Ali, played by Kirti Kulhari, is the most restrained of the three. She tries to de-escalate the fallout and restore some sense of normalcy after the assault. In a key scene, she appeals to Rajveer (Angad Bedi) to let things go, only to be met with cold dismissal. He tells her he wants to “put Minal back in her place.” The remark pushes Falak to a breaking point.
Kulhari delivers a composed, quietly powerful performance. It’s unfortunate we haven’t seen more of her in roles like this since Pink.
Andrea Tariang plays a woman from the North-East, but the screenplay offers her little beyond that identity. Her character is thinly sketched, present more as representation than as a fully developed person. This becomes especially clear in a courtroom scene, where she’s made to state the obvious: “I think I am being harassed more than an average girl on the street because I am from the North-East.” It’s a line that feels less like dialogue and more like the film justifying her inclusion.
Men as Symbols
Piyush Mishra plays prosecuting lawyer Prashant Mehra with just the right mix of force and restraint. As Bachchan’s courtroom rival, he delivers the expected barrage of character attacks—each one echoing the tone of someone defending the patriarchal status quo. He never overplays it, which makes the performance all the more effective.
But it’s Vijay Varma, as Ankit, who leaves a deeper chill. His portrayal of casual, everyday misogyny—delivered with unnerving ease—gives the film its most unsettling edge. It’s not just what he says, but how naturally he says it, that adds a dreadful urgency to the message.
The film’s characters and writing demand a conversation—about the grim reality women in India continue to face, even 75 years after independence. With daily headlines of discrimination and violence, the urgency is hard to ignore.
A Legacy of Speaking Up
Satyajit Ray once said, “Films don’t change society—they never have.” That may be true. But they can start conversations, and sometimes, that’s enough. Indian cinema has made scattered attempts over the years to address these issues.
Ray’s Mahanagar and Ketan Mehta’s Mirch Masala are more finely crafted films that explore gender inequality without relying on speeches or didacticism. Their strength lies in subtlety and nuance. But we need more such films—consistently—to remind us that women are still far from the equal footing they were promised.
Pink remains a notable addition to Hindi cinema’s sporadic engagement with gender politics. Viewed today—amid a wave of bold regional and international storytelling—it may feel stagey, and parts of it haven’t aged particularly well. But its core message endures: a firm, unambiguous stance on consent and a woman’s right to say no, delivered in Bachchan’s unmistakable baritone — “No means no. And when someone says so, you stop.”
