Two years ago, Biraj Bhatta’s ‘12 Gaun’ helped revive action cinema in Nepal. But it also resurrected the conventions of Nepali films from the 1990s and 2000s, when heroes routinely made dramatic entrances to rescue women in distress.
The film marked Bhatta’s return to the screen and introduced his son, Sameer, to a new generation of audiences. Yet for all its action, the story felt like old wine in a new bottle.
‘12 Gaun 2’ repeats the same formula: when a woman finds herself in danger, a man must come to her rescue. This is, after all, an action film, and its larger-than-life spectacle asks viewers to suspend their disbelief. But cinema does more than entertain. It shapes how audiences see the world, and how filmmakers portray their characters matters.
Like its predecessor, the sequel reduces women to helpless figures who need a hero to save them whenever trouble strikes. The director appears unable to move beyond the idea that women cannot face a crisis without male intervention. Fiction does not have to mirror reality, but its portrayal of society should reflect at least some awareness of changing social attitudes.
The film’s more fundamental problem, however, is its story. A compelling plot is the foundation of good cinema. Simply piling one contrived event on top of another cannot make a weak narrative work.
The first film was set in a village where outsiders were forbidden to enter, and residents were not allowed to leave. Anyone who broke the rules faced death. Biraj and Sameer’s characters eventually toppled the oppressive order. On paper, it was a premise with the makings of an engaging action film. In execution, the story was so weak that little remained memorable beyond the fights.
The sequel only reinforces the sense that the first film never had a strong enough story to warrant another instalment. In the original, Gajendra’s death signals the collapse of his empire. In the sequel, audiences discover that a more powerful villain has been operating all along. Ajay (Sameer) and Arjun (Biraj) set out to defeat this new enemy, but soon go their separate ways.
Their storylines barely intersect for the rest of the film. Worse, neither character’s motivation is clearly established. Why do they want to defeat the villain? What drives them beyond the demands of the plot? The film offers little reason to care. Ajay and Arjun might as well belong to two different films, their journeys divided less by narrative necessity than by an apparent need to give both leading men equal screen time.
The film briefly invokes Nepal’s Gen Z protests, placing Ajay on the road during the demonstrations. His demeanour suggests that he is carrying a secret, and the film encourages viewers to wait for a revelation. But the mystery leads nowhere. Whatever intrigue the setup promises, the film fails to deliver a meaningful payoff.
Ajay’s journey takes another turn when he encounters a young woman fleeing bandits. From then on, his story revolves around protecting her. His own ideas, intentions and plans remain frustratingly elusive. In his poem ‘Lakshya’, Nepali poet Lekhnath Paudyal likens a person without a goal to a monkey. The comparison seems apt for Ajay, who drifts from one mission to the next without a clear purpose.
He dispatches his opponents with little effort or resistance. The story barely has time to develop before it ends, and his adventure never connects convincingly with the central plot.
Arjun’s journey fares little better. His single-minded pursuit of weapons leads him into mysterious places that never feel particularly threatening. The film fails to establish why he needs the gun or what he intends to do with it. Then, quite unexpectedly, he finds a red shawl and begins following another trail in search of its owner.
The film’s villains are no more convincing. An effective action film needs antagonists who pose a credible threat, with the conflict between hero and villain driving the story forward. ‘12 Gaun 2’ does little to establish either the scale of the danger or the cost of confronting it. The protagonists face no meaningful struggle, and the villains never seem formidable enough to justify the elaborate pursuit.
This leaves Anoop Bikram Shahi with little to work with in the villain’s role. His character inspires neither menace nor suspense. Even his appearance distracts: the beard looks so artificial that it is difficult to believe it belongs to the character.
There is a more serious concern with his styling. The character’s appearance seems intended to suggest that he is Muslim, yet the film offers little meaningful characterisation beyond this visual cue. By associating this appearance with a villainous figure, the film risks reinforcing the damaging stereotype that Muslims are linked to terrorism. Such a portrayal can alienate Muslim audiences and contribute to prejudice in a society where communal harmony matters. The director should have treated the character’s identity with greater care.
The climax brings the expected final fight, with the villains defeated. But there is no significant revelation, clever twist or mystery to unravel. Once again, the action has to do all the work that the writing has failed to do.
The performances are another weakness. With a few exceptions, the main cast’s acting feels stilted and theatrical. Nepali cinema has made notable progress in acting in recent years, but that improvement is not evident in the performances of either Biraj or Sameer. Their dialogue delivery and body language often seem manufactured rather than natural.
Sunil Pokharel, the veteran theatre practitioner who has helped shape generations of character actors in Nepali stage and screen productions, stands out as a minister. His performance avoids the familiar caricature of a politician or government official, bringing a measure of credibility to the role.
Laxmi, Arjun’s love interest, also makes effective use of her limited screen time. Her body language and dialogue delivery feel natural, giving the character a convincing presence. The difference becomes particularly apparent when she shares a scene with Biraj, whose performance feels considerably less assured. The new actress playing opposite Sameer, meanwhile, sounds more as though she is reading her lines than inhabiting the character.
Given Biraj’s long experience in action films and the preparation Sameer has put into his screen debut, the action sequences are where the film’s leads are best placed to deliver. Beyond the fights, however, the thin plot and unconvincing characterisation make the film a struggle to sit through.
Nepali cinema has increasingly ventured beyond formulaic storytelling, with filmmakers finding more distinctive ways to draw on local experiences and traditions. Action cinema, too, has plenty of room for original stories. The Kannada film Kantara offers a strong example of how action can be rooted in folklore, local culture and a distinctive cinematic vision.
‘12 Gaun 2’ shows little comparable imagination. Its story, visuals, action and background score offer scant sense of a distinct Nepali identity. Instead, the film serves up a formula that feels borrowed and uninspired.
The danger is that sequels of this kind will narrow the possibilities for Nepali action cinema just as the industry is beginning to explore them. The original ‘12 Gaun’ helped bring the genre back to life. But Nepali cinema has spent the past decade and a half moving towards greater variety and maturity. Whether Biraj Bhatta can move with it, rather than return to the formulas of the past, remains an open question.