Rocky Aur Rani Kii Prem Kahaani is Karan Johar’s latest attempt to resuscitate his brand of syrupy, overstuffed Bollywood romance, and it’s a garish misfire that collapses under its own pretensions. Billed as a modern love story with a twist of family drama, it follows Rocky (Ranveer Singh), a loud Punjabi gym bro, and Rani (Alia Bhatt), a snooty Bengali journalist, as their whirlwind romance leads to a contrived “family swap” experiment. What ensues is a 168-minute slog that’s less a film and more a bloated showcase of Johar’s worst impulses—shallow characters, tired tropes, and a desperate bid to stay relevant that lands with a resounding thud.

Ranveer Singh’s Rocky is a walking caricature, a hyperactive man-child whose every line is delivered at a volume that could wake the dead. He’s meant to be endearing, but his relentless mugging—prancing around in sequined shirts and spouting Punjabi platitudes—feels like a parody of himself that’s gone on too long. Alia Bhatt fares slightly better as Rani, bringing a flicker of nuance to an otherwise flat role, but she’s drowned out by the script’s insistence on making her a sanctimonious mouthpiece for progressive platitudes. Their chemistry, supposedly the film’s beating heart, is forced and frigid—two stars play-acting at love rather than igniting it.

The supporting cast is a parade of wasted talent. Veterans like Dharmendra, Shabana Azmi, and Jaya Bachchan are saddled with roles that range from saccharine to shrill. Dharmendra’s amnesiac poet is a plot device masquerading as pathos, while Jaya’s matriarchal tyrant chews scenery with such ferocity it’s almost camp. Shabana Azmi tries to inject dignity into her underwritten part, but even she can’t salvage the mess. The ensemble feels like a nostalgia grab gone wrong—icons reduced to props in Johar’s overdecorated dollhouse.

The plot is a convoluted disaster. The “family swap”—Rocky living with Rani’s cultured Bengalis, Rani enduring Rocky’s crass Punjabis—aims for comedy and commentary but delivers neither. It’s a tired fish-out-of-water gimmick stretched beyond breaking, padded with endless montages and musical numbers that halt any semblance of momentum. Johar and writer Ishita Moitra stuff the script with half-baked ideas—toxic masculinity, cultural stereotypes, generational trauma—but none are explored with depth. Instead, we get preachy dialogues that sound like they were cribbed from a self-help seminar, delivered with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

Speaking of music, Pritam’s soundtrack is a letdown. The songs—”Tum Kya Mile,” “Dhindora Baje Re”—are lavishly shot but forgettable, lacking the earworm magic of Johar’s past hits. They’re just excuses for more costume changes and choreography that’s more exhausting than exhilarating. Visually, Manush Nandan’s cinematography drowns in a candy-coated haze—every frame is so polished it’s suffocating, with production design that screams “look at our budget” rather than serving the story. The film’s 2-hour-48-minute runtime is indefensible; it’s a marathon of fluff that could’ve been trimmed by an hour and still felt indulgent.

Johar’s attempt to blend his old-school romance with new-age wokeness is where Rocky Aur Rani truly implodes. The film gestures at feminism and inclusivity—a Kathak dance-off challenging gender norms, a nod to queer acceptance—but it’s all surface-level posturing, undermined by the same regressive clichés Johar’s built his career on. Rocky’s redemption arc is laughably shallow, and Rani’s sanctimony grates. It’s as if Johar wants credit for evolving without actually doing the work, resulting in a film that’s neither fun escapism nor meaningful critique—just a loud, confused mess.

Rocky Aur Rani Kii Prem Kahaani is a gaudy relic masquerading as a modern classic. It’s Karan Johar at his most self-indulgent—overlong, overwritten, and overacted. I’d give it 1.5 out of 5 stars—a grudging nod to its glossy sheen and the occasional chuckle, but little else. It’s a love story that forgets to make you feel, a comedy that rarely lands, and a comeback that proves Johar’s once-golden touch has rusted. Skip it, unless you’re nostalgic for the days when Bollywood excess didn’t need to make sense.