abdurehmanarshd

I'll be honest, A Death in the Gunj broke me in a quiet, unannounced way. I cried a little, and then I just sat there, unable to move, letting the silence hang heavy. It felt less like watching a film and more like sitting through my own autobiography. Every glance, every silence, every moment of being overlooked or misunderstood, it mirrored a life I've lived far too closely.

Konkona Sensharma did not just direct a film, she crafted a slow-burning descent into a mind no one bothered to understand. Shutu isn't a character, he's a feeling, an ache you carry, a question you never get to ask. There's no exaggeration in how he's treated, no theatrical villainy, just the everyday cruelty of people who think they're kind. And that's what makes it unbearable. It isn't loud, it's lonely. And in that loneliness, you find yourself staring at your own reflection.

The cinematography quietly smothers you. The house, the woods, the family, all of it becomes a soft trap where nothing explodes but everything erodes. There's no escape in this story, not for Shutu and certainly not for anyone who's ever lived as the quietest one in a loud room. The ending did not shock me, it confirmed a fear that had been building since the first scene. That people like Shutu don't survive. Not because they're weak, but because no one ever pauses long enough to notice them bleeding.

Some films entertain. Some provoke. A Death in the Gunj just lingers, and if it truly reaches you, it never quite leaves.

Three episodes in, and I already feel like dropping Love, Death & Robots. It is no longer the show it once was. The depth, the atmosphere, the philosophical undertones that made earlier seasons so compelling are all missing. What we have now is a shallow parade of flashy visuals and overly emotional characters, with none of the layered storytelling or attention to detail that defined the earlier episodes.

Red Rose stands out, but only slightly. A post-apocalyptic galaxy, a lone cyborg yearning for lost humanity, and a mysterious presence that seems important only to amount to nothing more than a background footnote. The episode tries to evoke an emotional shift with its ending, but it feels forced, like it is begging the viewer to care rather than earning that reaction.

Overall, the show seems more focused on spectacle than substance. What was once bold and thought-provoking now feels hollow and overproduced.

I don't know the band, and I've never heard their songs. I can't relate to their fans in any way, yet somehow they've been featured in a globally streamed Netflix show. Why? What exactly does this add?

As for David Fincher's involvement, what did he actually direct here? The strings on the puppets? The endlessly flashing lights thrown in our faces like some shallow attempt at looking edgy? It all feels like a gimmick. Style over substance. Noise over meaning. If there was a point, it got lost somewhere between the strobe effects and self-indulgence.

In the end, this episode feels less like storytelling and more like a flashy music video pretending to be profound. It relies heavily on visual tricks and name recognition but fails to deliver anything emotionally or intellectually resonant. A disappointing start to a series known for its originality.