Nadaaniyan arrives on Netflix under the Dharmatic Entertainment banner, directed by Shauna Gautam and produced by Karan Johar’s team. The story hinges on Pia Jaisingh (Khushi Kapoor), a privileged Delhi boarding‑school student, who hires Arjun Mehta (Ibrahim Ali Khan), a merit‑scholar with washboard abs, to pose as her boyfriend. Set against the leafy corridors and modern classrooms of Falcon High, this teen romantic comedy wears glossy production values like a badge of style.
At first glance, the film slides into familiar rom‑com territory—fake dating, parental pressures, campus politics—but whispers of class tension and ingrained gender bias surface early. Pia’s social standing crumbles after a rift with friends, forcing her into a pact that tests her family’s patriarchal expectations. Meanwhile, Arjun’s scholarship drive and app‑developer ambitions introduce stakes that reach beyond teenage flirtation.
By framing the narrative within India’s elite‑school subculture, Nadaaniyan nods to global trends in youth‑oriented streaming fare while keeping its roots in Bollywood melodrama. The choice to spotlight a star‑kid pairing underscores ongoing debates about industry privilege, yet the film’s glossy sheen often overshadows attempts at authenticity. This review will explore how Shauna Gautam navigates the line between spectacle and substance, dissect performances, unpack thematic choices, and assess technical craftsmanship within today’s streaming landscape.
Rhythms of Privilege and Pressure
In Nadaaniyan, the narrative kicks off with Pia’s social fallout—her friends’ doubts prompt the wealthy student to recruit scholarship‑holder Arjun as a stand‑in partner. This inciting incident mirrors a familiar trope in both Bollywood campus tales and global teen streaming hits, yet the film interweaves class awareness with youthful romance. The debate‑club reveal stands out: Gautam frames Arjun’s six‑pack unveiling in slow‑motion close‑ups, scored by Sachin–Jigar’s pulse‑quickening beat. That scene shifts the dynamic from playful scheme to charged performance, setting the pace for the months‑long charade.
The story pivots when the sham arrangement breeds genuine concern—Arjun’s drive to fund his parents’ future through a legal‑aid app clashes with Pia’s inherited expectations. Cultural context seeps in during a dinner sequence at Pia’s home, where cross‑cutting between her stony grandfather’s remarks and Arjun’s polite rebuttal underscores entrenched patriarchy. Yet the app subplot sometimes strains credibility: a teenager engineering a start‑up that nets Google‑level buyouts feels more fantasy than grounded commentary on entrepreneurship.
Tempo varies across the 120‑minute runtime. Comedic moments—campus gossip, text‑speak banter—ride energetic camera pans and quick cuts. Dramatic scenes rely on tighter framing and resonant score cues. However, momentum flags in extended social‑media montages that rehash the same selfie‑driven visuals, and familiar romantic‑comedy tropes recur without fresh twists. Those stretches interrupt the film’s forward drive, contrasting with the high‑voltage peaks of public debates and family confrontations.
Unmasking Performances: Privilege and Pressure
Khushi Kapoor’s Pia Jaisingh radiates the sheen of affluence—her crisp uniform and designer accessories catching every glint of light—yet close‑ups reveal fissures beneath the polish. She speaks with controlled elegance, then falters when genuine fear of familial disappointment surfaces during a private dinner. In that moment, Kapoor’s trembling glance and catch in her voice hint at deeper insecurity, lifting the role beyond mere socialite trope. Her exchanges with Ibrahim Ali Khan hinge on charged pauses; when Pia hesitates before proposing their arrangement, Kapoor’s subtle eyebrow arch suggests she’s testing her own limits as much as his.
Ibrahim Ali Khan’s Arjun Mehta splits his time between the driven scholar and the idealized “six‑pack” hero. In debate‑club scenes, he unleashes rehearsed confidence—shoulders back, voice firm—only to reveal a softer side when he confronts parental expectations in hushed corridor conversations. That mix of bravado and vulnerability echoes coming‑of‑age stories from global indie dramas, where performance masks deeper yearnings.
On the home front, Suniel Shetty and Mahima Chaudhry as Pia’s parents alternate between pointed critiques of merit and protective warmth. Shetty’s clipped remarks on privilege shift to quiet pride in private moments, while Chaudhry threads empathic warmth through barbed observations about gender bias. Opposite them, Jugal Hansraj and Dia Mirza imbue Arjun’s family with grounded support: Hansraj’s steady presence anchors each scene in lived‑in affection, and Mirza’s gentle encouragement turns a tense scholarship debate into a testament to familial solidarity.
Among peers, Rhea and Sahira embody teen‑group dynamics familiar to any streaming‑era audience—sharp retorts over lunch trays give way to shared alarm when Pia struggles. Rival debaters, in their preppy blazers, hurl class‑taunts that land with unexpected sting thanks to lingering camera work on their shifting expressions. Archana Puran Singh’s cameo as Mrs. Braganza Malhotra brings a wink to campus‑comedy veterans, her rapid‑fire quips and well‑timed gestures bridging nostalgic homage and playful satire.
Across bustling corridors and sunlit quad sequences, the ensemble’s chemistry underscores recurring theme: youth perform to survive. The seasoned cast roots each tableau in authenticity, while the newcomers capture the gloss and grip of a generation learning to claim its own story.
Symbols of Stratification
The gulf between Noida and Delhi plays out in vivid costume and set design. Falcon High uniforms mark privilege in stark navy and gold, while Arjun’s simple hostel attire hints at his middle‑class roots. Wide shots of sprawling bungalows contrast with intimate dorm rooms, underscoring a merit‑versus‑inheritance tension familiar to both Bollywood campus tales and Western boarding‑school dramas.
Patriarchal slights surface in family dialogue: a grandfather’s jibe “Peasants, not princes, are her type” lands like a social verdict, driving Pia’s performative quest for acceptance. Her parents’ offhand remarks about her lack of a male heir echo real‑world debates on lineage in South Asian households. These lines anchor the film’s romance in cultural reality, even as scheming teens share selfies and hashtags.
The fake‑dating premise doubles as a mask for personal doubts. Pia’s #FakeBF posts stand in for deeper identity questions; Arjun’s rehearsed bravado in group selfies belies his fear of failing scholarship tests. This duality mirrors global coming‑of‑age films where digital personas clash with lived selves. Quick‑cut editing of social‑media feeds juxtaposed with whispered corridor confrontations highlights that performance extends beyond the stage.
Arjun’s side quest—building an app to connect legal aid with those in need—casts ambition in commercial terms. Selling his creation for a windfall parallels a modern‑day rags‑to‑industry pitch, yet irony seeps through: trading civic service for family security hints at authenticity sacrificed for finance. That subplot nods to Silicon Valley origin stories while situating them in a Delhi‑elite milieu.
Archana Puran Singh’s Mrs. Braganza Malhotra cameo recalls ’90s campus comedies, from wardrobe flourishes to satirical text bubbles. Production design, with its pastel‑toned corridors and retro‑inspired trophies, keeps nostalgia in view, linking Nadaaniyan to its genre predecessors without losing sight of teen‑drama immediacy.
Precision in Craft
Shauna Gautam’s direction balances playful banter with moments of earnest emotion. She times comedic exchanges—like Pia’s social‑media reveal—with crisp cuts and light camera moves, ensuring each joke lands firmly. Emotional beats, such as Arjun’s private confession in a quiet hallway, receive longer takes and softer focus. Yet at times the film’s glossy visuals clash with evident post‑production dubbing, creating a disconnect between polished imagery and uneven vocal tone.
The cinematography paints Falcon High in saturated hues. Daytime sequences glow in warm sunlight, with wide shots of manicured lawns evoking Western boarding‑school dramas. Interior family scenes use softer, lamp‑lit frames that highlight subtle performances. When Arjun removes his blazer to reveal his physique, the camera lingers in low angles, emphasizing physicality over character depth—an echo of global rom‑com visuals that prize star appeal.
Editing weaves together the campus story through montage and match cuts. Debate‑club scenes build energy via quick intercuts between close‑ups and audience reactions. Social‑media montages employ jump cuts and on‑screen graphics, but their repetition stalls momentum. Lip‑sync mismatches emerge in dialogue‑heavy moments, drawing attention away from the narrative flow.
Sachin–Jigar’s soundtrack pulses through key scenes. Upbeat tracks drive playful montages, while softer themes underscore budding intimacy between leads. Background score shifts tone smoothly—light piano chords during vulnerable confessions, staccato strings in confrontation scenes—though occasional overuse of musical cues can feel prescriptive rather than supportive.
Falcon High’s production design merges sleek minimalism with digital culture flourishes. Corridors lined with neon art installations mingle with traditional school trophies. Costumes reflect status: Pia’s tailored blazers and designer accessories contrast with Arjun’s unadorned sweaters. This visual shorthand signals character background at a glance, anchoring social themes within every stitched lapel.
Inheritance and Identity
Within Bollywood’s ongoing nepotism conversation, Nadaaniyan spotlights two star‑kids in lead roles, framing their casting as both opportunity and burden. Audiences familiar with dynastic families may expect debutantes to command the screen; here, the performances often swerve between polished delivery and visible unease. That tension echoes broader debates in global film industries over meritocracy versus lineage, questioning whether family ties can coexist with genuine craft.
The film’s Gen‑Z milieu leans heavily on on‑screen slang and social‑media shorthand. Hashtags splinter dialogue into bite‑sized sound bites, but they sometimes ring hollow against how real teens communicate off‑camera. Quick montages of selfies and direct messages aim to mirror digital life, yet the glossy finish of each frame contrasts with the rough edges of authentic youth culture. This gap between lived experience and its cinematic rendering reflects a challenge for any portrayal of today’s hyperconnected generation.
As a Netflix India original, Nadaaniyan joins a wave of streaming campus romances that offer sleek visuals and aspirational settings. The production’s ambition to rival global rom‑com offerings is clear in its high‑gloss cinematography and soundtrack hooks. However, at its heart lies a question of access: when creative industries so often favor legacy over newcomer talent, where does space remain for voices outside established lineages? The film invites viewers to weigh privilege against potential in every crafted scene.
Final Reflection & Viewer Guide
Nadaaniyan shines when its supporting cast grounds the story and the score injects energy. Archana Puran Singh’s cameo and Sachin–Jigar’s soundtrack deliver warmth, while luminous cinematography and crisp editing amplify the debate‑club peaks. Yet uneven writing hampers emotional depth, and lead actors occasionally read as too posed. The film’s glossy sheen appeals to viewers craving stylized campus romance, but those seeking genuine teen voice may feel kept at arm’s length.
Emotional highs spark real empathy, yet stilted dialogue curtails resonance. Tone shifts between breezy humor and heavy‑handed drama create jolts rather than fluid immersion. While moments of cultural commentary resonate, deeper exploration of privilege and gender bias remains on the margins.
Audience response may split: streaming‑rom‑com enthusiasts will relish its energy and star‑kid draw, critical watchers may critique its thin motivations. In rating, assign 40% to narrative coherence, 25% to acting, 20% to technical craft, and 15% to thematic depth. This yields a score out of ten that reflects both flair and substance.
The Review
Nadaaniyan
Nadaaniyan offers glossy visuals, a spirited supporting cast, and an earworm soundtrack, yet its script lacks emotional depth and its leads often feel posed. Fans of curated campus romance will enjoy its style, but viewers seeking authentic insight into privilege and identity may find it underserved.
PROS
- Vibrant supporting performances
- Energetic, memorable soundtrack
- Polished, sunlit cinematography
CONS
- Thin emotional core
- Uneven lead performances
- Repetitive social‑media montages
- Surface‑level handling of class divides
- Noticeable dubbing inconsistencies
