‘Call Me Bae’ review: What Karan Johar thinks happens when privilege meets poverty

Prime Video’s Call Me Bae opens with all the subtlety of a ketchup stain on the face of an overstuffed designer handbag. From the first frame, it’s as if the show’s producers entered a competition called "How Many Designer Brands Can We Cram into One Scene?" The answer, as it turns out, is all of them. Louis Vuitton, Prada, Chanel—they’re all there, lined up to ensure even the most air-headed viewers understand that the protagonist, Bella (nicknamed "Bae"), is rich. Bae even names her designer handbags and says goodnight to them. Should we take her seriously? Of course not. But that’s the point, isn’t it?

This being a Karan Johar production, there were of course problematic undertones if you pondered on them for a bit longer than necessary. When Bae is kicked out of her bajillion dollar mansion by her husband Agastya, we’re supposed to feel bad for her. She’s cheated on him, sure, but now the poor soul’s out in the pouring rain with nothing but a closet full of designer gowns and no roof over her head. In a classic Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna way, Johar attempts to seduce his audience into rooting for infidelity with violins and close-ups of designer makeup running down the face. It may have worked in the early 2000s, but it definitely won’t now.

Fusion of familiarity 

More about Bae - she’s an heiress-turned-trophy-wife who has turned short online courses into her identity. “How to Communicate with Your Spirit Animal,” “Underwater Basket Weaving”—you name it, she’s done it. Her character’s wildest achievement, however, is enrolling in Social Media Journalism and somehow landing a job at a news channel. 

Enter Neel N, her new boss and the show’s saving grace. Neel, played by Gurfateh Pirzada with a nerdy charm, is a workaholic terrified of swimming. Just as we’re warming up to this dynamic, something hits: Haven’t we seen this before? Ruggedly handsome yet poorly dressed editor hires unqualified fashionista? Yes, it’s Confessions of a Shopaholic. Neel is Luke Brandon with an Indian accent down to his refusal to use his last name due to an influential family. You’d think this derivative setup would make us groan, but surprisingly, it’s one of the few elements without which this show would be a certain DNF (“did not finish” for those unaware).

But here’s the thing: Call Me Bae has an identity crisis. Is it Schitt’s Creek? Is it 2 Broke Girls? Or is it Emily in Paris? It tries to be all three, and that’s where it falters. It has too many Western shows on its mind to forge its own identity. A completely unnecessary Bridgerton-style dance sequence, a few forced pop culture references, and you’re left wondering where Call Me Bae fits in the TV universe. For the record, Bae’s outfits are the only thing that make sense in this kaleidoscope of confusion. They’re stunning, logical even, in a way that Emily in Paris could only dream of—no malfunctioning AI outfit generators here.

In the name of pseudo-poverty 

As Bae transitions from princess to pauper, she experiences a lot of firsts. Hostel life, washing her own dishes, eating white bread (which she hilariously believed was extinct), and navigating the trauma of a leaky ceiling. These moments are played for laughs, but beneath the glitter, there’s an unexpected resilience to her. You might actually catch yourself rooting for her, especially if you turn off the part of your brain that’s too logical to suspend disbelief. Sure, she’s clueless and frivolous, but there’s a sliver of optimism in her that’s strangely endearing. 

If there were a debate on the series, some might suggest that on some level, Bae always knew her family would ultimately have her back, and she is on her way to enjoy pseudo-poverty, a concept where the wealthy ditch their luxuries temporarily to have a new experience of how normal people live; for sheer entertainment or a self-discovery facade.

The kiddy-pool of social commentaries 

Call Me Bae tries to be about more than just haute couture and Instagram selfies. The show touches on loneliness, and childhood neglect. But these moments are criminally undercooked. Instead of a meaningful exploration, the plot hurries back to another selfie session, leaving the audience with emotional whiplash. Are we supposed to care about these issues, or are we just here to laugh at Bae’s mishaps?

That said, the show does get one thing right—its takedown of modern journalism and its exploration of MeToo. Neel’s news channel is a thinly veiled jab at the sensationalism dominating today’s media landscape. Enter Vir Das, playing a journalist who’d rather stir up drama than report on actual news. He would shamelessly disclose people's personal lives on national television and magnify irrelevant facts in his reports to add the spice. For him Pakistan spells D-R-A-M-A and office attire includes lux coats and boxer shorts.

It’s true—Call Me Bae is predictable, overflowing with cheese, and has enough plot holes to make even the most patient viewer roll their eyes. But that’s exactly why it works as a guilty pleasure. The show’s over-the-top enthusiasm perfectly mirrors its delusional lead character. This is the kind of series you watch when you need to switch off your brain and embrace the mindless entertainment. Don’t expect anything profound or an emotionally stirring experience, it never promised one. 

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