A bittersweet tale of family, loneliness, and emotional overdrive, Amaar Boss blends sentiment with slapstick, raising valid questions while slipping often into melodrama and moral grandstanding. Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri reviews the film…

Aamar Boss (2025) by Shiboprosad Mukherjee and Nandita Roy explores the emotional neglect of elderly parents in urban India, highlighting middle-class struggles, generational gaps, and family reconciliation. Featuring Rakhee Gulzar’s much-anticipated return to cinema after 22 years, the film combines humour and melodrama with mixed results. While moments like the heartfelt opening montage and light workplace comedy shine, the narrative falters due to inconsistent tone, regressive gender politics, and forced sentimentality. Amaar Boss is a typical example of feel-good Bengali cinema that resonates with its core audience but lacks the depth and nuance to elevate its social message.

The films of Shiboprosad Mukherjee and Nandita Roy follow a certain template—tropes that are instantly recognizable as their stylistic trademarks. They typically take on a subject with contemporary resonance, often inspired by real-life incidents. The treatment is reminiscent of TV serial aesthetics, addressing Bengali middle-class values, traditions, and aspirations. This approach naturally appeals to the TV-watching demographic. The narrative is laced with broad strokes of humour, steers clear of understatement or intellectual nuance, and remains straightforward and simple. If you enjoy this concoction, there's fun to be had. If not, well, the duo’s films often become blockbusters regardless.

The Setup: Loneliness in a Busy World

Aamar Boss is no exception. It tackles the very real issue of the elderly being neglected—unintentionally—by their overworked children. The opening montage effectively sets the stage: a cross-section of busy urban life, with everyone—from a priest to kissing students—fielding phone calls from their lonely mothers, all offering variations of, “Maa, I am at a meeting, will call once I am free.” It’s an instantly relatable and cleverly crafted sequence that reflects generational distance with tenderness and wit.

The film quickly narrows its focus to Shubhra Goswami (Rakhee Gulzar, returning after 22 years) and her son Animesh (played by Shiboprosad Mukherjee), a workaholic publishing house owner. Despite a glimmer of freshness in the opening scenes, the film reverts to the familiar rhythms of the director duo’s storytelling. Animesh is a tyrannical boss, disrespectful to employees and emotionally estranged from his wife, Moushumi (Srabanti Chatterjee, miscast in a thankless role). Their marriage is in crisis, rooted in his refusal to accept her career trajectory in Mumbai.

Unable to bear her isolation, Mrs. Goswami decides to join her son's office as a “trainee.” These scenes offer some genuinely humorous moments, including a magnifying-glass-reading gag and an irate author scolding the incompetent editor. Rakhee’s dignified charm helps sustain the humour without descending into full-blown caricature. These light-hearted sequences provide relief when the film begins to veer into overwrought territory.

Soon, Mrs. Goswami becomes the soul of the office, identifying with the staff’s personal struggles and initiating changes—revamping the canteen, organizing a Saraswati Puja, and proposing a revolutionary daycare for employees’ elderly parents. Naturally, this sets her on a collision course with her son, who wants to lease the space to a multinational. Unfortunately, the conflict fizzles rather than erupts, with the son's transformation feeling abrupt and unearned.

A Hollow Heart Despite Noble Intent

Despite the film’s heart being “in the right place,” sincerity alone does not guarantee quality. The narrative feels artificial, and characters lack depth. Rakhee’s formidable presence can only do so much. Beyond the excellent montage and an amusing Ludo game in the credits, authenticity is largely missing.

The film’s treatment of gender roles is troubling. In a pivotal scene, Moushumi asks if her husband would move to Mumbai for her. He agrees—but only if they can restart their marriage, a condition that effectively demands she abandon her career. Later, she does exactly that, returning with her widowed mother and accepting a job from him in Kolkata. The power dynamics here are unmistakably patriarchal, painting her sacrifice as a form of romantic reconciliation.

The humour, particularly involving Sabitri Chatterjee, feels strained. Her subplot, involving incontinence and elderly characters with diapers, borders on tasteless. Similarly, a poet urinating on a colleague—allegedly inspired by Shakti Chattopadhyay’s real-life protest—feels gratuitous and out of place. What might have been a layered tribute descends into cheap buffoonery.

The Final Stretch: Cringe and Catharsis

The climactic emotional outburst—complete with “meray paas maa hai” vibes and a grown man begging for ‘ador’—leans heavily into melodrama. While mother-son bonds are a staple of Indian cinema, this portrayal teeters into mawkishness. It evokes discomfort rather than connection.

Maybe this is just a feel-good, wish-fulfilment film not meant for close analysis. Yet, when a film claims to address real issues, it cannot afford to shy away from authenticity or pander to sentiment alone. Amaar Boss promises more than it delivers, hiding its potential behind formulaic tropes and emotional manipulation.