Perhaps it’s the repetition of certain ideas, or perhaps it’s the undeniable power of Shankar’s hit cinema, but it’s impossible not to think of his earlier works—his heyday, shall we dare call it—while watching Game Changer. A road grinding to a halt due to governmental apathy reminds you of Mudhalvan. A government authority dismantling corruption? That’s from the same film. There’s even a self-aware reference to Kadhalan as Ram Charan’s shoes perform a little jig during a song. A love-meter reminds you of Anniyan. When the hero lands out of a helicopter, it’s impossible not to think of Sivaji, especially with Jayaram’s character doing the signature tap on the villain’s shaved head.
But Game Changer’s core idea isn’t derivative. Crucially, Shankar—known for his vigilante stories—steers clear of that trope this time. In a film like Anniyan, the Ambi character was treated almost as a parody, his rule-following exaggerated to the point of mockery.
Game Changer looks to do better. Here, there’s no need for an Anniyan-like transformation because a rule-following, rule-implementing protagonist isn’t depicted as helpless. Armed with education and authority, Ram Charan’s collector becomes a force of nature. Ambi would be delighted with this film.
My favorite portion of the film is towards the end of the first half when SJ Suryah’s Bobbili Mopidevi, a minister and heir apparent, finds himself unable to establish authority over Ram Charan’s collector. Mopidevi storms into the collector’s office, as many ministers have done in the past in our films—but here, he fails to intimidate.
Ram, in rebellion, isn’t Duraisingam though. He doesn’t threaten violence; he simply, politely recites the letter of the law, explaining why the minister needs to wait until evening. It’s such a relief from the usual loud, chest-thumping hero-villain confrontations. It’s a hoot to see a corrupt politician struggle to deal with an educated man with good intentions. Shankar’s films are fantasies—almost like they cater to the child within us craving simple, permanent solutions to complex issues.
Will a Pugazhendhi ever take to the streets to fight bad men? Will an old freedom fighter ever instill fear about bribery? Will an NRI relinquish wealth to battle the powerful? These are wish-fulfillment exercises you immerse in before stepping back into the unsolvable complexities of the real world. With Game Changer, however, the solutions feel less outlandish. Perhaps Karthik Subbaraj’s involvement in the story plays a part. This isn’t a Chief Minister performing mimicry, while calling government servants.
Ram is simply an unusually angry man who channels his frustration through education and a government post. His battles are won not just with brute force (sure, that helps), but with his understanding of government systems. His punchlines aren’t quips but proclamations of authority—like when he points out that a politician’s relevance ends with their tenure, while an educated administrator’s role endures.
Even when SJ Suryah’s Mopidevi might act in Shankar villain ways—assassination attempts, bomb threats, destruction of government property...—Ram isn’t responding with the same methods. He’s winning the individual battles and the overall war largely through interpretations of the rulebook, through protecting the sanctity of the system, including the elections. The film aims to show that an overhaul of the system may not be needed if effective enforcement of it can be accomplished.
It must have been a real challenge to mount such a story as a big-budget massy entertainer, with a stickler-for-rules protagonist in the centre. Yet, while Game Changer succeeds in parts, it struggles to maintain cohesion. Big-budget films, especially of late, seem content to hurtle from moment to moment, sacrificing emotional resonance.
The opening stretch—a Chief Minister on the brink of death, a collapsing flyover, Ram escaping a train to board a helicopter, and a song—epitomizes this issue.
The ideas are there, but the emotions don’t land. Indian works because the flashback works. We are invested in the old man’s plight as he desperately seeks help for his injured daughter. Here too, there’s a flashback, but this time, there is simply no resonance. The romantic subplot with Kiara Advani’s Deepika feels cursory.
There’s a hint of humor when she advises Ram to pursue IAS over IPS, joking that the latter might lead to ‘encounters.’ I even liked that Ram’s IPS training justifies his fighting methods, and yet, the relationship with Deepika ends up feeling more as a setup for extravagant love songs than a meaningful arc. A bigger problem is the mother sentiment, too, falling flat, particularly with an ending that feels just bizarre, despite Ram Charan’s earnest performance. The biggest issue, of course, is the Shankar flashback™ not working.
Even here, the idea—to show the well-intentioned origins of a political outfit derailed by ambition and corruption—is clear, but the execution feels dated. The death of a key character, for instance, lacks the weight of comparable moments in films like Vada Chennai. There, a restaurant murder scene captures the urgency and darkness of betrayal; here, the violence feels staged, failing to convey the characters’ turmoil, failing to create tension and emotion.
If I sound rather disappointed, it’s because halfway through the film, I found myself hopeful about its potential, about how it rises in energy and rhythm as it goes along. But as the story progresses, it settles for predictable resolutions and doesn’t stretch its boundaries. Philosophically too, the film feels conflicted.
The flashback emphasises that ends don’t justify means—a bribe from an industrialist or a murder cannot be excused with the justification that the party can perform acts of good. Yet, Ram’s actions (a lie about his mother’s mental state, egging people to receive increased bribes for their votes...), as the film goes on, seem to contradict this, as he encourages deception when it suits his goals. And for that reason, something feels rather off too about the self-serving destinations his roads lead to. Has politics corrupted him too? That would definitely be in keeping with a Karthik Subbaraj padam, but here, we aren’t quite clear.
But yes, this is a film which tries to be at least thematically consistent. Its comedy, for instance, is drawn from a man who walks sideways—which makes sense in a world where nobody chooses straight paths, it seems. Its weaponisation of JCBs is an extension of Ram’s desire to find solutions from within the system.
And perhaps the best moment of the film for me is at the halfway mark when an injured, relentlessly fighting, badly bruised and confused Ram is protected by the very policeman who got him into trouble. Here, you see the real power of authority. Here, you also see the heroism of this badly bruised protagonist, even when so confused and unsure of himself, as he is dragged towards his destiny. It’s the kind of heroism you don’t once see in all those repetitive shots of Ram uttering a punch dialogue and walking away in slow-motion from the scene of his victory. It’s starting to feel like a familiar lesson, but one that continues to be ignored.