Dhurandhar succeeds as a spy thriller, but risks reinforcing Islamophobic stereotypes

At a purely cinematic level, Dhurandhar is a competent and often compelling film. It is well paced, technically polished, and anchored by strong performances, particularly from its lead cast.

The action is sharp, the production value is high, and, as a spy thriller, it largely delivers on what it promises — and that is precisely why the conversations around it matter.

When a film is effective, its messaging carries more weight.

The issue with Dhurandhar is not its craft but the worldview it subtly strengthens. Beneath the slick surface lies a narrative that aligns closely with a nationalist political framework and, more concerningly, leans into familiar portrayals that risk reinforcing Islamophobic and anti-Pakistan stereotypes.

The film positions India’s intelligence apparatus as unquestionably moral, efficient, and justified in its actions. In contrast, Pakistan is framed almost exclusively as a hostile force, stripped of political nuance or historical context. This is not unusual in spy cinema, but Dhurandhar goes a step further by repeatedly associating threat and suspicion with Muslim identity through visual cues, character archetypes, and narrative shortcuts.

While no single scene may feel overtly inflammatory, the cumulative effect is difficult to ignore.

What stands out is how rarely Muslim characters are given interiority or complexity. They exist largely in service of the plot — often as antagonists or facilitators of violence. This pattern has become increasingly common in recent Hindi-language cinema, and Dhurandhar fits comfortably into that trend. When representation consistently follows this trajectory, it stops feeling coincidental and starts to feel structural.

The film’s anti-Pakistan framing also feels more ideological than dramatic. Pakistan functions less as a geopolitical reality and more as a narrative device, a stand in for absolute opposition. This framing aligns neatly with dominant political rhetoric in India today, which makes the film feel less like an independent creative work and more like one that reflects prevailing power structures.

To its credit, Dhurandhar does not descend into overt propaganda. It avoids heavy-handed dialogue or explicit political endorsements. However, subtle messaging can often be more effective than overt declarations. By normalising suspicion and simplifying conflict, the film risks reinforcing ideas that already circulate widely in public discourse.

The international reaction to the film underscores this discomfort. Its reception outside India, particularly in regions with large Muslim populations, suggests the messaging was clear enough to raise red flags. That response should not be dismissed outright as oversensitivity. It is worth asking why certain narratives resonate positively at home but trigger concern elsewhere.

None of this negates the film’s strengths. Dhurandhar is well acted, tightly directed, and engaging for much of its runtime. It is entirely possible to appreciate its technical achievements while still questioning the implications of its storytelling choices. Cinema does not exist in a vacuum, especially in a country as politically and socially complex as India.

A truly confident film industry should be able to handle this duality. Enjoyment and critique can coexist. Acknowledging the film’s craft does not mean ignoring its undertones. If anything, strong filmmaking makes it even more important to examine what is being said beneath the surface.

Dhurandhar succeeds as a thriller, but it also reflects a broader pattern in contemporary Indian cinema where nationalism increasingly shapes narratives and representation. That does not make the film inherently bad, but it does make it worth engaging with critically.

As audiences, we should be able to appreciate good cinema while still asking the hard questions about the stories films choose to tell and the perspectives they leave out.