Some films are confusing because they are ambitious. ‘Bhagdaud’ is confusing because it barely understands its own story.

Written and directed by Himal Upreti, the film gestures towards financial hardship, fraud, trafficking, police corruption and caste prejudice, but develops none of them convincingly. Scenes jump without context, characters appear without introduction, and serious issues are abandoned before they can acquire any meaning.

At the centre of this confusion is Tirtha, played by Ghanshyam Joshi. He is apparently intended to be the film’s hero, although almost everything he does suggests otherwise.

Tirtha is a professional con man. At the beginning of the film, he is kidnapped, possibly for cheating someone out of money. The film never explains the situation clearly enough for the audience to be certain. This becomes a recurring problem: information is not revealed through storytelling but left scattered across disconnected scenes, leaving viewers to form theories about the most basic parts of the plot.

Tirtha is introduced as a con man who is kidnapped, apparently for cheating someone. Even this basic plot point is left unclear, establishing the film’s habit of replacing storytelling with guesswork.

Tirtha urgently needs money from his father, who will apparently give it to him only after he gets married. His solution is to pressure his girlfriend, Sapana, played by Sharda Rai, into marrying him almost immediately. Their wedding is completed in what feels like a minute, without emotional preparation or any meaningful sense of commitment.

By the following day, Tirtha is already communicating with Luniva Shakya, played by Anisha Shrestha. Luniva comes from a struggling Newa family and dreams of becoming an engineer, but lacks the financial means to continue her education.

Luniva’s father is one of the people Tirtha has allegedly scammed. Hoping to recover the family’s money, she contacts Tirtha under a false identity and attempts to lure him into admitting what he has done.

On paper, this is not an entirely hopeless premise. Luniva could have been an intelligent young woman strategically confronting the man who exploited her family. Her conflict with Tirtha could have explored class, education, financial desperation and the vulnerability of rural families to fraud.

Instead, the film quickly strips her of the intelligence it initially gives her.

Once Luniva reveals the truth, Tirtha threatens and manipulates her. She then follows him away from her family, without ensuring that they know where she is or how to reach her. What begins as an attempt to outsmart a criminal becomes another opportunity for the film to place a young woman under a man’s control.

The relationship is especially uncomfortable because Luniva is presented as extremely young, while Tirtha appears considerably older. Yet the film treats their interactions as material for romance. A situation that resembles abduction and coercion is accompanied by a song, as though music alone can transform fear into affection.

Tirtha later manipulates Luniva into sharing a bed with him and makes sexual innuendos. These moments are not examined as violations of her trust. Instead, they are packaged as playful encounters.

This is not the film’s only troubling portrayal of romance.

Officer Bikram repeatedly follows Sapana despite her asking him to stop. He touches her without consent, follows her into her home and continues pursuing her even after she marries Tirtha. None of this is treated as an abuse of authority or a violation of boundaries. Instead, the film frames it as humorous persistence, repeating the dangerous idea that a woman’s rejection is merely an obstacle a man must overcome.

‘Bhagdaud’ is far too comfortable romanticising women’s discomfort.

The film’s moral confusion is clearest in its treatment of Tirtha. He lies, cheats, threatens, impersonates a police officer, becomes involved in trafficking and even considers selling Sapana to save himself. Yet the screenplay repeatedly asks the audience to admire him for reciting religious verses and claiming that Luniva’s caste does not matter.

Rejecting caste discrimination does not absolve him of every other form of exploitation. These moral declarations do not deepen his character; they merely allow the film to avoid confronting his actions.

Much of the dialogue consists of misplaced shayari, moral declarations and jokes inserted wherever a scene feels empty. Conversations rarely sound natural, and the performers are left delivering lines without believable rhythm or emotion. Joshi’s portrayal of Tirtha is particularly one-note: the character moves through fraud, marriage, infidelity and supposed redemption without displaying convincing fear, guilt or emotional depth.

The other performances are similarly uneven, although the actors are not helped by the screenplay. Good acting can sometimes elevate weak writing, just as strong writing can support inexperienced actors. Here, the writing and performances repeatedly expose each other’s limitations.

The performer playing Tirtha’s father brings some much-needed sincerity to the film. His scenes feel more grounded because his reactions resemble those of a real person rather than of a device moving the plot forward. Laxmi Giri, who plays Luniva’s grandmother, also brings a sense of warmth, but parts of her performance are inaccessible to viewers who do not understand Nepal Bhasa.

The film deserves some credit for attempting to represent Newa culture. Luniva wears a haku patasi, while the use of Nepal Bhasa gives her family a distinct cultural identity. However, the absence of subtitles makes several exchanges inaccessible to viewers who do not speak the language. Beyond clothing and dialogue, the film does little to explore the richness of the community it invokes, leaving its cultural representation largely decorative.

The technical execution is equally careless. The camerawork is frequently awkward, and the editing gives the film no consistent rhythm. Scenes jump abruptly, while songs appear without narrative preparation. One musical sequence featuring Sapana arrives so suddenly that it feels less like part of the film than like footage inserted from elsewhere.

Then there is the mask.

At some point, Tirtha acquires a mask resembling Officer Bikram and begins impersonating him. How he obtained such a convincing mask, why he selected Bikram and why impersonating a police officer produces almost no meaningful legal consequences are questions the film raises and promptly abandons.

Even stranger, Tirtha introduces himself to Bikram while apparently disguised as him. The film repeats variations of this confusion, seemingly convinced that repetition will eventually turn the situation into comedy.

It does not.

The final stretch attempts to justify the film’s title by having the characters chase one another for what feels like an eternity. The fights are staged without weight or credibility, and nearly every male character is reduced to either pursuing a woman, making comments about one or behaving as comic relief.

When Tirtha and Sapana are injured, his response again reveals how little emotional continuity the character possesses. He shows limited concern for his unconscious wife, later fakes his own death and is eventually caught.

Then comes the inevitable apology.

Tirtha begs for forgiveness, suddenly discovers a conscience and is accepted with astonishing ease. Sapana forgives him too, despite the film having done almost nothing to earn that reconciliation. There is no sustained remorse, no legal accountability and no emotional rebuilding. Redemption is treated as something a man can claim by delivering the correct speech, while forgiveness becomes another sacrifice expected from women.

This is where ‘Bhagdaud’ is at its most preachy and least convincing. Its conclusion reaches for a positive moral message, but a message has little value when the story repeatedly contradicts it.

A character cannot spend an entire film exploiting people and then become virtuous simply because the background music changes.

‘Bhagdaud’ could have been a story about fraud, poverty and a young woman fighting for her family’s future. It could have explored corruption, cultural identity or the ease with which charming men escape accountability. Instead, it becomes a collection of unfinished ideas held together by weak jokes, random songs and a protagonist the film fundamentally misunderstands.

The title suggests movement, but the film goes nowhere.

If ‘Bhagdaud’ succeeds at anything, it is unintentionally demonstrating what love is not. Love is not stalking. It is not coercion, deception or endurance without limits. And redemption is not forgiveness demanded without accountability.

Unfortunately, the film appears unaware that it has made this argument.

Bhagdaud

Language: Nepali

Release Date: July 10, 2026

Available on: One Cinemas