Baaghi 4 Movie Review

Baaghi 4. What a spectacle. Not of filmmaking, but of pure, unadulterated cinematic desperation. You drag yourself to the multiplex, popcorn in hand, hoping for some escapist fantasy, and what do you get? A two-and-a-half-hour public service announcement on why you should have stayed home and alphabetized your spice rack.

Tiger Shroff, bless his six-pack, is back. And he’s jumping. And kicking. And flipping. The man is a human pretzel. He defies gravity, physics, and any semblance of a credible plotline. Honestly, his body of work is less about acting and more about anatomy. He has the grace of a gazelle, the abs of a Greek god, and the dramatic range of a houseplant.

This isn't a critique of his athleticism. As a stuntman, he'd be gold. A walking, talking, flying special effect. But a hero? A character with depth? That’s asking too much. The man can't act. His emotional scenes are as believable as a politician's promise. You feel nothing. Not for the cardboard cut-out he calls a character, not for the plot that makes Swiss cheese look solid, and certainly not for the film itself.

Baaghi 4 isn't just a bad movie; it's a cinematic crime. It’s a loud, relentless assault on your senses and your intelligence. So, save your money. Save your time. And for heaven’s sake, save yourself from the a