Picture this: a talk show where the entire premise crumbles because the hosts are so enamoured with the sound of their own voices that guests might as well be decorative cushions. Welcome to ‘Two Much with Kajol and Twinkle’, a train wreck of epic proportions that somehow survived five episodes before limping onto the OTT graveyard.
This isn't just bad television; it's a masterclass in how not to conduct interviews. Kajol and Twinkle prove that whilst interviewing may look effortless on screen, it actually requires genuine talent: the ability to listen, empathise, probe thoughtfully, and here's a revolutionary concept, let your guests complete a bloody sentence.
The show bills itself as refreshing feminist counter-programming to male-dominated talk shows, but what we get instead is two hosts with the on-screen chemistry of oil and water, bickering like schoolgirls who've been forced to work on a group project together. The segments feel disjointed and non-cohesive, lurching awkwardly from one topic to another with all the grace of a three-legged elephant on roller skates.
Kajol appears visibly uncomfortable throughout, wrestling with clothes so restrictive she occasionally abandons the couch altogether, sprawling across cushions like she's given up on life itself. Her vocabulary seems limited to one word: ‘absolutely,’ which she deploys absolutely every other second with the enthusiasm of someone who's just discovered it exists.
On the opposite end of the spectrum sits Twinkle Khanna, Mrs Funnybones turned Mrs Unfunnybones, whose verbal diarrhoea knows no bounds. Yes, she's a writer, but writing for video and writing for print are entirely different beasts. Her supposedly witty analogies fall flatter than a pancake: Karan Johar is pineapple on pizza, then he's margherita pizza, ageing is division, not multiplication... It's exhausting mental gymnastics designed to showcase her intelligence, but instead highlights how desperately she's trying.
The delivery is cumbersome, the wordplay forced, and every rebuke feels like it's been rehearsed in front of a mirror seventeen times. They're both rote learners who've crammed their lines so thoroughly that heaven forbid anyone interrupt; they might forget what comes next.
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Here's where things get truly problematic. Twinkle, in particular, positions herself as progressive whilst simultaneously reinforcing every regressive stereotype in the book. Calling marriage ‘barbaadi’ (destruction) isn't edgy; it's a dad joke nobody asked for. Perpetuating the ‘women are terrible drivers’ trope, then doubling down with ‘women are good at driving everyone around them insane’ isn't clever, it's lazy and sexist.
Most egregiously, she calls Chunky Pandey ‘joru ka ghulam’ (henpecked husband), pointing and belittling him with a phrase that's been weaponised for decades to shame men who, shock, horror, actually support their wives. If women can be praised as Sati Savitri, why can't men proudly be their wives' champions? This phrase exists solely to uphold patriarchal structures, and Twinkle's casual deployment of it exposes her performative feminism for exactly what it is: superficial lip service.
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The most infuriating aspect? They occasionally stumble upon genuinely important questions, then completely abandon them at the first sign of resistance. When questioning Aamir Khan about age-gap casting, they cave immediately when he claims he and Kareena ‘looked the same age.’ Ladies! The entire point, which someone clearly wrote hoping you'd champion it, was that women become uncastable as leads after 40, regardless of how they look, whilst men like the two gentlemen on your sofa play studs well into their sixties.
They breeze past infidelity with a dismissive ‘raat gayi baat gayi’ (what happens at night, stays at night), then have the audacity to disparage Janhvi Kapoor for expecting the bare minimum loyalty in relationships. Both Aamir and Salman open up about crying in public, touching upon how men are conditioned to suppress emotions, yet it's swept aside with ‘girlfriend ke liye kaun rota hai’ (who cries over girlfriends) instead of exploring toxic masculinity and mental health.
Janhvi candidly discusses mollycoddling male egos, and what's the response? ‘You know what happened to me... my... me…’ Everything circles back to the hosts' personal anecdotes because this show ultimately boils down to two self-obsessed presenters who've confused a talk show with therapy.
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The title is accidentally perfect; it genuinely is too much to endure. They secured a decent guest lineup, which makes the waste even more tragic. What's the point of booking interesting people if you won't let them speak? Kajol occasionally displays flashes of empathy (despite being repeatedly scolded for her ‘cackling’), but it's nowhere near enough to salvage this sinking ship.
If you've somehow survived all five episodes like we have, you'll emerge with newfound appreciation for hosts you previously couldn't stand. Suddenly, Karan Johar and his coffee seem absolutely brilliant, and that's saying something.
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