Script or no script, there's something presumably appealing - to directors - about scenes wherein a person's head/body is thrashed against a surface that's prickled with sundry metal projections. And something apparently comforting in fifty greasy deadpan goons hanging around an ageing Rayalaseema villain.
And until our directors muster the nerve to soak in another formula and make it second nature, we'll keep lapping all that up for the next decade. Right?
Formula is a feature that works when a film takes cover under superstardom and hit music. Seetharamula Kalya....