Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s sexless ode to sex workers undermines their struggle and spirit, according to Gangubai Kathiawadi.

In the many interviews he gave in the run-up to his latest film, Gangubai Kathiawadi, director Sanjay Leela Bhansali invariably ended up repeating the same stories. He’d tell journalists about growing up in a house with no paint on the walls, a life experience that inspired him to create the most extravagantly colorful sets for his films. He’d brag about his leading lady, Alia Bhatt, and how he’d never met anyone as talented as her. However, one story stood out. As a child growing up in Mumbai’s Bhuleshwar neighborhood, Bhansali said he was always within walking distance of the city’s red-light district, Kamathipura.

And it is in this setting that the episodically structured Gangubai Kathiawadi, which dramatizes the life of a brothel madame-turned-activist, takes place. After a successful theatrical run, the film is now available to stream on Netflix. It frequently resembles a child’s perspective of a harsh world. Regardless of the difficult subject matter he occasionally chooses, Bhansali’s sensibilities have always been old-fashioned. And it’s clear early on that his hyper-stylized and overly sanitized filmmaking isn’t suited to the uncompromising nature of the story he’s attempting to tell here.

For a while, particularly in the first of the film’s five acts, when Gangu is sold into prostitution by her lover, I was impressed by the director’s apparent deliberate decision to avoid any sex scenes. After all, none of this happens with Gangu’s permission. As a result, Bhansali was wise to withhold these scenes from us. It would have been exploitation to show us even a second of her abuse—we see her beg for help before, and her broken body after— And hasn’t Gangu had enough of that without the addition of a self-important filmmaker?

But my admiration for Bhansali’s restraint—I realize how gullible I was as I reread the previous sentence—was fleeting. Restraint is the last thing that comes to mind when thinking of someone who also created Goliyon Ki Raasleela Ram-Leela. And a few minutes later, after Gangu has risen to a more powerful position within the brothel hierarchy, Bhatt unleashes a swear word so strong that I thought I was in the Delhi Metro. It was still a swear word, even if it was directed at an unsavory man—one of many who cross Gangu’s path. And, having assumed that Gangubai Kathiawadi was aimed at a broad audience—perhaps to cast as wide a net as possible—I can’t say I was prepared for it.

The film was rated U/A by the Central Board of Film Certification, a 15 by the British Board of Film Certification, and Netflix has stated that it is appropriate for anyone over the age of 16. These are all reasonable assessments. But it still doesn’t explain why Bhansali can be so obnoxious with swearing and graphic violence—a man is beaten to a bloody pulp in this film—while being so conservative with sex.

It would have been acceptable if this mentality had been limited to scenes of sexual violence. Surprisingly, Bhansali exhibits the same timidity when Gangu encounters true romance. Midway through the film, after establishing herself as a powerful figure in Kamathipura, she meets Afsaan, a tailor’s assistant played by a very innocent-looking Shantanu Maheshwari. And it’s love at first sight; in fact, Gangu starts the romance by making some very direct remarks to him while she guides his hands over her body while he takes her measurements.

Their love story unfolds almost wordlessly—also there’s an elaborate song sequence shot in a single take that everyone seems to enjoy—until they can’t take it anymore. Asian pays a visit to Gangu to drop off her freshly stitched new blouse, only to run into her while she’s bathing. Gangu is, of course, nearly naked. The sexual tension has become unbearable for both characters, and they blurt out, “Mujhe Tumse Pyaar hai,” at each other before Afsaan moves in for a… hug.

“How about a hug?” I remember being surprised at how the climax of such a meticulous plot thread could have been so underwhelming. But all we see is a hug. There’s no doubt that the filmmaker averted his gaze here; in true Bollywood fashion, Bhansali doesn’t even imply that anything else happened between the two. We’re supposed to believe that Afsaan simply returned home after the ‘jadoo ki jhappi.’

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It’s almost as if Bhansali is apprehensive about showing sex on screen, Bollywood-style or not. However, when Jim Sarbh’s journalist character enters the picture, he isn’t afraid to push your imagination in some truly bizarre directions. Sarah plays Fez, the man who encourages Gangubai Kathiawadi. to use her power and run for political office for the sake of her people’s future. As a thank you, she directs a swarm of her subordinates to have a good time with Fez. The camera lingers on the scene as the women encircle Fez and run their hands over him.

This raises several questions. Does this imply that the women will be compensated for their services in these characters’ transactional world? If that’s the case, who will pay them: Gangu or Fez? Is this supposed to be a favor if not? Did the women have the right to refuse? And, most importantly, did the virginal Fez just take part in an orgy off-screen? We’ll never know because, as usual, Bhansali cuts away.

This constant uncertainty, this second-guessing, detracts from the character that Bhansali is attempting to honor. He is disrespecting Gangu’s spirit by failing to demonstrate proudly that she was capable of true love despite being brutalized for so many years. Nobody in their right mind would have expected Bhansali to capture the griminess of the Oscar-winning documentary Born Into Brothels or the empathy of Mayank Austen Soofi’s nonfiction book Nobody Can Love You More, but the film’s superficiality is annoying.