‘Kurukshetra’ (2025) Netflix Series Review - A Mythic Battle Told from Many Hearts

I entered Kurukshetra with plenty of enthusiasm—and left, despite some reservations, mostly impressed. From the opening narration to closing visuals of Part 1, the series makes a daring proposition: it will retell a well-known tale not with its conventional sweep but by exploring the fractures and internal conflict of its many agents. It largely accomplishes that ambition, even if some of its pieces do not fully land.

From the outset, I appreciated the choice to share perspective vis-à-vis eighteen characters; it adds a scope I found refreshing. Unlike the usual black-and-white depiction of the Pandavas versus the Kauravas, the series explores characters rarely prioritized in adaptations, such as Sanjay, Jayadratha, Ghatotkach, and the mess of Yudhisthira. The first season (nine episodes) offers battle scenes interspersed with flashbacks that articulate motivations: Berishma’s vow or Dronacharya’s pride set wheels in motion, Arjuna’s inner turmoil with dharma, or Abhimanyu’s youthful bravery in the face of strategic brutality. I especially enjoyed the Abhimanyu episode because the series does not pull punches with the horror of his death and its aftermath. There are also passages, such as in the episode "Vishwaroop," that give space to Krishna’s voice, and you sense the divine and moral clarity of Krishna, as Arjuna addresses conflicting things with a mature cosmic perspective. The sequence stands out among the earlier ones that connected the epic calamity of the Great War with the struggle of a human soul.

Visually, Kurukshetra has an impact. The animation seems solid—if not amazing—and the chariot designs, weapons, landscapes, and armies seem thoughtfully designed. One episode stands out, the "Chakravyuh": the warriors spiral out from a central point, swirling meaningfully in the chaos of battle while the space itself becomes a trap for the unsuspecting. They do this convincingly. When the radial action punctuates the distance between players, the arrows ripping flesh, the dust storms, and elephants charge in a way with the promise of excitement as if translated from video games onto the screen. I appreciate and am captivated by those cinematic moments. The use of color is deliberate, sometimes too much, and the minor character's facial expressions read too rigid or similar. I sense some warriors begin to become less distinct the longer the episode goes, and you may have to lean in on the three or four key ones to tell who is who, either through the recall process or similar visual quality.

But visual ambition isn’t everything, and in some episodes, pacing sagged. The show often cuts back and forth between flashbacks and battlefield scenes, but it has not yet fully grounded us in the emotional stakes. There were several moments where I thought to myself, “Wait, why is this character doing this, now?” because the flashback hadn’t built enough connective tissue yet. This could be really off-putting for viewers who don’t have a deep knowledge of the Mahabharata. I also felt frustrated to see several of the deeper characters (Bhishma, Drona, for example) treated more like icons than flawed humans. Some slight internal doubts and contradictions were referenced, but never left room for them to breathe. The show identifies moral tension, but then sometimes walks back to the archetype.

One of the chief strengths of the series is the voice of narrator Gulzar. His voice is rich, subtle, and resonant, providing an imposing presence that gives even the quieter moments a gravity. Whether he is situating the war in the context of an interminable moral conflict or looking backwards to reflect on the consequences of choice, his narration adds a poignancy that grounds the animations in reflective weight. The voiceover, through Gulzar, gives this series its soul. Without his narration, some of the dramatic visual content may come across as flat or empty. However, outside of Gulzar, many of the other voice performances felt inconsistent. In several episodes, the emotional beats depend on the actor hitting the precise pitch of emotion, and the delivery sometimes did not quite strike the appropriate levels. At times, I could feel tension or strain in the voice when the character is supposed to feel torn, and in some of the line readings, the tone seemed monolithic. With a series that relies on voice, inconsistency in this area detracts from the overall impact of the story.

I wish the show had delved deeper into its philosophical richness. It frames the moment of the Bhagavad Gita, and there are references to dharma and karma and action’s burden, but I would have loved a separate, slow-moving episode just on the Gita! Instead, elements of it are spread out and shoved together, and sometimes it feels like a cameo and not central events. It seems like a missed opportunity to spread the Gita rather than focus on it, considering how central that dialogue is to the meaning of the Mahabharata.

Overall, though, the writing holds up nicely. Dialogue manages to balance meaning and clarity; the installments have dramatic framing on turning points (Abhimanyu’s death, appointing Drona as commander), and the series does not shy away from betrayal, tragedy, or moral ambiguity. There’s a scene in the Jayadrath episode, for example, when arousal, shame, guilt, and rage are all swirling at once, and the writing really makes that crackle. The series also resists telling the audience who is the “good” guy or the “bad” guy—and even the Pandavas have their emotional scars; they grieve uncontrollably, rage, and question their own process. That’s all layered and complex, which makes the show intriguing.

Often, the series is at its best when it slows down, when it pauses on aftermaths, and not just actions or explosions. Momentary quiet moments, such as a warrior gazing at a battlefield, for example, or a flashback dealing with regret from childhood, carry as much weight, potentially more so, than a grand duel. That willingness to pause is a mark of confidence in the direction. However, sometimes the directed leans more towards spectacle than other inclusions. It gets a bit more elaborate than it needs to be in many cases: from pans to quick cuts, to over-exaggerating movement, particularly during battle scenes, I would find myself losing some spatial coherence at times. Sometimes in those quick cuts, I would find myself longing for simplicity rather than grandeur.

Character arcs are mostly handled well, particularly about the primary warriors included in part 1: Arjuna, Yudhishthira, and Abhimanyu stood out for me. I felt connected to Arjuna's suffering, Yudhishthira's weight of upholding truth, and Young Abhimanyu's ironic, brave vulnerability. Secondary characters often loom, however - they have a movement or gesture here or there or a stereotypical line, but they hardly are poised with an arc. I hope that in the time to come with the series, they invest even more in secondary characters to engage real layering complexity over time.

Ultimately, as Part 1 concludes, the foundation is laid—alliances are set, wounds are open, betrayals are experienced—and there is a distinct sense that the real climax is yet to come. I was left intrigued to see how Karna, Duryodhana, and others would be rendered, and whether the story would deepen its ethical inquiries as battles become bloodier.

Kurukshetra is ultimately a unique animated retelling, and it is immensely visually vibrant and narratively audacious. It may falter in staying completely grounded at times, and not every voice can feel the emotional heft it should, but you can see its ambition, and it largely pays off, a sign of a patient audience. I engaged with it not just as a retelling of mythology, but also as a meditation on what it takes to contest in battle, to decide, to feel loss. Even in its inconsistencies, it offers space for doubt in consequence, and that makes it worth watching.

Final Score- [7.5/10]
Reviewed by - Anjali Sharma
Follow @AnjaliS54769166 on Twitter
Publisher at Midgard Times