Badlapur is film noir gone horribly wrong. This is the genre where you have a motel in the vast, vacant outback, eagles hovering above, run by a balding, fat, older man whose wife is the young femme fatale in flowing slit silks, where our ruggedly good-looking hero, skin bronzed by being on the road, all washed-up and wise-cracking but with a dark melancholic past, the eternal Man With No Name, lands up and has a torrid affair with the alluring wife, who then plot to kill the philandering and abusive husband, break open the safe and make a run. Or where a gang of four, all good-for-nothing bums, hatch a hare-brained plan to rob the nearby bank, get away with the loot, meet a couple of slutty, smoldering ladies on the way, where everyone double and triple-crosses and finally ends up shooting one another. The last scene has to be a slow-mo sequence of the camera going over all four bodies (or six if you count the ladies) in pools of red syrupy blood.