Often punctuated by a single heartbreaking tear, these scenes are designed to humanize – and somewhat justify – her manic-pixie whimsicalness. In Kapoor & Sons, she confides in her new male friend about her parents’ death in a plane crash. In Highway, this occurs when she confides in her perplexed kidnapper about sexual abuse. The confession is a long, hypnotic, unbroken shot of her face, where, with a trembling voice, she pours her heart out to a virtual stranger about a scarring childhood incident. There are two breeds of Alia moments: the confession and the explosion. Dear Zindagi seesaws between these two scenarios. They are so powerful that either the film is immediately elevated, or the rest of it is devaluated. Verbose eruptions, forces of nature – singular all-consuming disintegrations so simultaneously disarming and disturbing that they sweep away everything in their path, including our momentary perceptions of the films she occupies.

Jokes aside, “Alia moments” have become a trend of sorts. The young (to a fault), undoubtedly talented actress (Alia Bhatt) has been developing quite a penchant for lost-little-girl roles. What an adorably volatile couple they’d make.

It was only a matter of time before Alia Bhatt, the ultimate poster child of cinematic meltdowns, found herself in therapy. The young (to a fault), undoubtedly talented actress has been developing quite a penchant for lost-little-girl roles. I’d imagine Ranbir Kapoor, everyone’s favourite coming-of-age man-child, would fit perfectly next to her on the sofa.

Dear zindagi movie poster