Bade Miyan Chote Miyan (2024) is a cinematic trainwreck—a shameless, soulless cash grab that digs up the corpse of the 1998 Amitabh-Govinda comedy classic, only to spit on its legacy with a script so atrocious it’s an insult to paper and a box office flop so spectacular it’s practically a cautionary tale. Directed by Ali Abbas Zafar, this bloated, overpriced disaster swaps the original’s goofy charm for a sci-fi action slog, banking on Akshay Kumar and Tiger Shroff’s fading star power to rake in nostalgia bucks. Spoiler: it didn’t work. With a reported ₹350 crore budget—one of the priciest in Indian cinema history—it limped to a measly ₹102 crore worldwide, a financial bloodbath that proves audiences aren’t as gullible as producers hoped.

The script is the film’s biggest crime, a steaming pile of incoherence that makes you wonder if it was written by an AI with a grudge against Bollywood. Kumar and Shroff play Freddy and Rocky, two ex-soldiers chasing a masked mad scientist (Prithviraj Sukumaran, the only one who seems awake) who’s stolen a vague “weapon” to destroy India. What weapon? Why? Who cares—the screenplay, credited to Zafar and a team of apparent amateurs, doesn’t bother with answers. Instead, it drowns you in a 164-minute deluge of cringe dialogue (“Mera desh meri maa hai” sounds like a parody), nonsensical twists (plutonium smuggling to buy a country?), and a plot so thin it’s practically see-through. The original Bade Miyan Chote Miyan thrived on slapstick and star chemistry; this reboot chucks that for a Terminator-wannabe mess that’s as fun as a root canal.

The attempt to cash in on the 1998 hit’s goodwill is laughably misguided. Where the David Dhawan classic leaned on Bachchan and Govinda’s comic timing, this version bets on explosions and slo-mo walks—about a dozen too many—hoping Kumar and Shroff’s abs will hypnotize viewers into forgetting the story’s a void. They don’t. Kumar, once a box office titan, sleepwalks through, his age jabs with Shroff landing like a tired sitcom rerun. Shroff, meanwhile, flexes and flails, his Gen-Z shtick more annoying than endearing. Their bromance, the supposed heart of the film, is DOA—forced, flat, and utterly devoid of the spark that made the original a hit. It’s a shameless name-drop of a beloved title, slapped onto a generic actioner that couldn’t care less about its roots.

The box office numbers tell the brutal truth: ₹59 crore net in India, ₹102 crore worldwide, a fraction of its obscene budget. Released on Eid, a slot that’s historically a goldmine, it crashed harder than a jet in one of its own shaky VFX sequences, outdone by Ajay Devgn’s Maidaan in the same frame. Critics trashed it—ratings hovered between 1 and 2.5 stars—and audiences stayed away, proving that even a holiday boost and a hyped trailer can’t save a film this rotten. It’s not just a flop; it’s a monument to hubris, a ₹250 crore-plus loss that’s left exhibitors reeling and the industry questioning Kumar’s bankability after a string of duds.

The action, hyped as real stunts, is a blurry, CGI-riddled letdown, the soundtrack forgettable, and the supporting cast—Manushi Chhillar, Alaya F—wasted on roles thinner than airline napkins. Prithviraj’s villain is the lone flicker of life, but even he’s buried under the script’s rubble. Bade Miyan Chote Miyan isn’t just bad—it’s a cynical betrayal of a nostalgic name, a failed flex of muscle over meaning, and a box office bomb that should’ve stayed grounded. 1.5 out of 5 stars, and that’s generous. Avoid it like a middle seat on a long-haul flight.