Darde Ulfat: A Heavy Hangover of a Movie

Is it worth your Sunday afternoon?

Honestly, you probably already know if you’re the type of person who digs Darde Ulfat. If you love old-school, overly earnest dramas where every line of dialogue sounds like it was carved into stone, you’ll be fine. If you need pacing that doesn’t feel like it’s waiting for a bus, you will absolutely hate this.

It’s the kind of film that drags its feet through every single scene. Iqbal is clearly trying to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, but sometimes it just looks like he’s really tired. I don't blame him.

The Vibes

There is a strange, empty quality to the sound design that I couldn't stop noticing. It’s like they recorded the dialogue in a giant, hollow tin can. Sometimes Hiralal’s lines echo in a way that makes me wonder if the set was just a basement with no furniture. It’s weirdly charming, in a way.

I found myself comparing it to the more energetic pacing of Kalyan Khajina, which at least had the decency to keep the plot moving. Darde Ulfat, on the other hand, wants you to sit with the misery for a long, long time. It feels a bit like being stuck in a waiting room.

Odd Moments

• There’s a scene near the middle where a character stares at a wall for what felt like ten minutes. I checked my watch twice.
• The lighting in the garden sequence shifts from bright noon to sunset in the blink of an eye. Continuity was clearly a suggestion, not a rule.
• Ata Mohammed has this one facial expression that he uses for grief, joy, and confusion. It’s impressive, honestly.

The whole thing feels like a cousin to the darker, moodier moments in Transgression. It lacks the bite, though. It’s more of a whimper than a scream.

I caught myself looking at the shadows on the wall behind the actors more than I was paying attention to the plot. You can see the stage lights flickering every now and then. It reminds you that this is just a bunch of people standing in a room, pretending that their hearts are breaking. 💔

If you want something that feels 'complete' or 'polished,' look somewhere else. This is messy. It’s uneven. It’s probably a bit too long by twenty minutes. But there’s a flicker of something real in Iqbal’s eyes during the final act that almost made the slow crawl worth it. Almost.