“Ye mentally disturbed case naa khud ko bhi mental kar deta hai,” a police investigator tells his subordinate while racing a car to a crime site in Zee5’s Duranga. He is, of course, referring to the investigation of a psychopath. Duranga is the type of true-crime/romance procedural that neither races the heart nor sends the imagination straying down shady alleys of deception.
Instead, it’s a harsh, almost dated version of a K-Drama that considers streaming as the site where all trash may still be quantified as usable matter.
Unfortunately, Duranga isn’t particularly bad or tacky in a goofy manner, so it can only be appreciated for how it flip-flops through an idea that, though intriguing, isn’t aided by pretty much everything else.
The story of Duranga is about a sociopath attempting to live a regular life. The notion is intriguing, but the creative framing of this material is so languid and uninspired that it lends to absurdity, but not in the lavish, awe-inspiring way that pulpy messes accidentally do (think Ek Villain).
In series Duranga, Gulshan Devaiah plays Sammit, a metal artist/sculptor with a murky past that he keeps hidden on the inside. This is the first piece of information that the series throws to you. Devaiah is thus pushed to appear gloomy, inaccessible, and to whisper in a monotone that, when not suggestive of introverts, is meant to infer a violent past.
Sammit is married to Ira, a police officer played by Drashti Dhami, whose voice has either been dubbed or has been produced into an overly deep baritone that, I’m thinking, is meant to convey she is a serious cop.
Again, the notion of packaging evil into a tidy little frictional relationship with intended good is delightful, but the series is played by performers who live within Teflon-coated skins, barely opening up to emote or even allow emotion to touch them.
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Devaiah, by far the most competent actor in the ensemble, isn’t helped by a script and writing that feel like they sped off from the CID writing room and merged themselves into this weirdly antiquated view of storytelling. Unfortunately, it is mostly the tumorous exterior growth that is observable, rather than the handful of emotional occasions.
The police work, which is supposed to carry such shows for speed and authenticity, feels groomed, almost annoying. Police officers, for example, operate in an office that resembles a yuppie start-up.
While this is more accurate, the surroundings lack character, much as Mumbai, the city, makes no contribution to the show’s progression or setting.
With its basements and private art galleries/operating rooms, it could have been placed anywhere. Then there’s the bad writing. In one scenario, when a nurse is being pinned down by Ira after being attacked, her young, overeager colleague, rather than offering assistance or feigning adrenaline, says, “I can’t believe this, isne truly appe attack kiya.” I can’t believe how unglamorously written and emotionlessly played this series is.
Devaiah, who has constantly shown himself, finds himself between a rock and a hard place in a production that similarly appears to dwell in limbo between a great premise and an undetermined potential. At times, it appears that there was simply not enough talent or skill behind the camera to make a decent meal out of a series that could have clearly been milked for its eerie sensationalism.
Instead, Devaiah is forced to act as if he has just arrived from the era of cable television. He mumbles things, stares shadily from different angles, and says inanely exposed speech such as “Main bilkul mere baap ki tarah hun.” Mera, thanda khoon hai. “Kisi ka dard nahi ataa.”
Even the nice bits, which this show could have used for significant reveals, are flashed one after the other, like cards at a casino table. It’s almost as if the producers are rushing to inform us that this story is considerably more complicated than we realize, rather than allowing the plot to do it for us.
Not everything in Duranga is a flop, but it is generally a case of discarding promising raw material on the fly. Hell, I’d rather see the campier, more bollywoodized version of serial killer panic.
Everything is hammily written and executed with the conviction of individuals who don’t know what time, age, or era this is supposed to be set in.
Even the scenes in which Devaiah attempts to conjure certain hidden truths to perpetuate a history of suffering are portrayed with awkward, racy transitions that suggest a blind adherence to the surface of a story rather than what it bears beneath.
