Metro… In Dino: An Ambitious Mosaic of Modern Love

Anurag Basu’s Metro… In Dino arrives nearly two decades after his acclaimed Life in a Metro. It is not a direct sequel but a spiritual continuation. Like its predecessor, it is a hyperlink film, weaving together stories of love, infidelity, middle age, and modern morality. However, the horizons are broadened this time. Basu sets his stories not only in Mumbai but also in Delhi, Bengaluru, Pune, and Kolkata. He builds a web of characters whose lives intersect in surprising ways, offering a portrayal of modern love. Our review of Metro… In Dino looks at how the film measures up to its predecessor.

The film begins with Monty, played by Pankaj Tripathi, blurting out to his wife Kajol (Konkona Sen Sharma) that their marriage has become about “infertility, infidelity, and morality.” It is a funny line but also a signal of what is to come: relationships pulled apart by secrets, betrayal, and shifting expectations. From there, the film splits into five main arcs. Monty and Kajol navigate their fraying bond with equal parts humor and pain. Parth (Aditya Roy Kapur) and Chumki (Sara Ali Khan) struggle with mismatched values, his reckless philandering clashing with her faith in long-term commitment. Shruti (Fatima Sana Shaikh) and Akash (Ali Fazal) wrestle with the tension between her pragmatism and his uncompromising dream of becoming a musician. Shivani (Neena Gupta) and Parimal (Anupam Kher), former college sweethearts, reconnect after decades apart. Finally, a teenage girl begins to question her sexuality, a subplot that threads quietly through the adult stories.

The arcs are handled in different tones. Some are treated with weight and seriousness. Others play out almost as farce. There is a freshness in the way Basu allows comedy and tragedy to rub against each other, though the tonal shifts are not always smooth. At times, it feels like two different films stitched together. But the variety also gives the film a restless energy.

The cast is strong, and their performances keep the film from collapsing under its own sprawl. Tripathi is the anchor, once again proving his ability to embody ordinary men with extraordinary warmth. His Monty could have been played only for laughs, but Tripathi balances comedy with quiet pathos. Konkona gives Kajol both spirit and weariness. The two together create some of the most believable exchanges in the film, their conversations sharp yet tender. Kapur plays Parth with charm, but the writing makes him predictable. Sara Ali Khan, despite effort, is saddled with a weak character and an ill-fitting wig that distracts more than it helps. By contrast, Shaikh delivers one of the best performances here. Her Shruti feels layered, torn between reason and longing. Ali Fazal carries Akash with conviction, though his refusal of compromise makes him hard to sympathize with. His character often comes across as a tortured artist rather than a living, breathing man. Gupta and Kher bring warmth and humor to their roles, though their story dips too far into melodrama at times. Nevertheless, their long-standing rapport makes their scenes easy to watch.

Sara Ali Khan, despite effort, is saddled with a weak character and an ill-fitting wig that distracts more than it helps.

The script contains sharp observations, though they are sometimes rushed past. A housewife compares herself to a handkerchief in a pocket, forgotten until needed. A lover recites a line of poetry that lingers long after the scene ends. These details remind us of Basu’s talent for small truths within sprawling narratives. Yet too often, the film moves on quickly, leaving these moments as fragments rather than foundations.

Basu’s major strengths lie in visual style and rhythm. Co-shooting with Abhishek Basu, he creates warm interiors, textured cityscapes, and sudden comedic cuts that mask pain with playfulness. The camera often feels like it is moving with the characters rather than simply observing them. This intimacy softens even the most contrived moments. The editing, by Bodhaditya Banerjee and Satish Gowda, keeps the many threads in balance. Hyperlink films often collapse under uneven pacing, but the transitions here are fluid, if not always seamless.

The movie’s soundtrack is eclectic, ranging from qawwali to pop-rock ballads. At its best, the music deepens the emotion of a scene, guiding us from sorrow to laughter to yearning. At its worst, it overwhelms. There are sequences where characters sing directly to the camera, or office workers break into choreographed numbers, or Pritam and his band appear like a Greek chorus. The ambition is obvious, but the non-stop score sometimes cuts against genuine feeling. Scenes that should rest in silence are instead drowned in song. Yet when the blend of dialogue and music works, it comes together beautifully. Some tracks, with voices like Papon and Raghav Chaitanya, move the story along without smothering it.

The film’s most divisive strand is the queer subplot. At first, it was handled with care. The teenager’s nervousness and hesitation feel real. But the narrative quickly goes astray. Her aunt, played by Sara Ali Khan, brushes off her confusion as the result of “too much internet.” This line, presented as a joke, is troubling in a country where online spaces often provide the only support for queer youth. Worse still, the aunt advises her to “just kiss someone—boy or girl—and see if you get butterflies.” The girl takes this advice literally and kisses her friend while she is asleep. The moment is framed as harmless curiosity, but it is not. The film treats this non-consensual behaviour without reflection or consequence. In a society where conversations about consent are rare, this is a dangerous message. Instead of opening a door to understanding, the film risks reinforcing harmful stereotypes.

The film treats non-consensual behaviour without reflection or consequence

Other flaws remain. The runtime is long, and the tone uneven. But the film also dares to be ambitious in an industry where formula dominates. It fills a genuine gap in Bollywood, where love stories have grown rare. In a time when many films prefer action spectacle or franchise building, Basu devotes three hours to the chaos of romance. 

The question is whether the format serves the material. With so many characters and threads, the film often feels like it would have worked better as a limited series. The characters could have had room to breathe, their arcs unfolding with more weight. Instead, the compression makes some of them feel like bullet points. Infidelity is introduced, argued over, and resolved too quickly. Dreams and failures are mentioned, then dropped. Betrayals are forgiven with little struggle. The result is a film that is fascinating to look at but sometimes hard to relate to. 

Betrayals are forgiven with little struggle. The result is a film that is fascinating to look at but sometimes hard to relate to.

Still, Metro… In Dino is not without its rewards. It shines in fleeting moments: the smile that sneaks across a partner’s face, a lyric that seems to capture everything unspoken. Basu’s refusal to punish his characters, even when they hurt each other, keeps the film humane. It is refreshing to see love stories treated without cynicism, even when they are messy. He blends tones and risks clashing styles to capture the contradictions of modern love. Metro… In Dino is ambitious, sometimes hollow, but always alive. It stumbles in its most delicate storyline and drags in others, yet it also offers flashes of beauty that linger.