Hollywood is running out of ideas, so it’s decided to quadruple down on the ones it already has. Sam Mendes isn’t just making a Beatles movie. He’s making four. One for Paul, one for John, one for George, and one for Ringo. It’s a logistical nightmare that sounds less like a cinematic vision and more like a high-stakes stress test for Sony’s accounting department. But the latest wrinkle in this Liverpudlian multiverse isn’t a casting choice from the London stage. It’s Farhan Akhtar.

The Bollywood polymath is reportedly heading to the UK to join the fray. It’s a smart play. Maybe too smart. For those who don’t track the Mumbai film circuit, Akhtar isn't just an actor. He’s a director, a singer, a producer, and a legitimate cultural disruptor. He’s the guy who defined "cool" for a generation of Indian youth with Dil Chahta Hai. Now, he’s stepping into the most scrutinized biopic project since Bohemian Rhapsody tried to convince us Freddie Mercury was a saint.

The cynical take? This is a spreadsheet move. Sony looks at the global box office, sees a billion people in India, and realizes that the "Fab Four" might need a little extra help to move tickets in suburban Bengaluru. It’s a trade-off. You get Akhtar’s gravitas, and in exchange, you secure a massive demographic that might not care about the technical nuances of the Sgt. Pepper recording sessions.

But let’s look at the friction. Mendes is attempting to film four features simultaneously. That’s a collision of schedules, ego, and continuity that would break most directors. Adding an international superstar into that blender adds a layer of complexity that’s either brave or suicidal. Akhtar isn’t a "small role" guy. He carries weight. You don't bring in the man who played Milkha Singh just to have him stand in the background of a Cavern Club scene holding a pint.

So, who is he playing?

The internet is already screaming "Ravi Shankar." It’s the obvious choice. George Harrison’s sitar-fueled spiritual awakening is the narrative bridge between the West and the East. It’s the moment the Beatles stopped being a boy band and started being a cult. Shankar wasn’t just a teacher; he was the person who forced the most famous men on earth to realize they were actually quite small. Akhtar has the intensity for that. He has the musicality. It’s a role that requires a specific kind of quiet authority, the kind that can make a Beatle feel like a student.

Then again, Mendes might be messier than that.

Maybe Akhtar isn’t playing a historical figure at all. Maybe he’s a fictionalized composite of the various industry fixers who tried to keep the band from imploding. Or perhaps he’s playing Brian Epstein’s rival, a sharp-suited executive trying to navigate the shark-infested waters of 1960s London. There’s a certain grit to Akhtar that works well in a boardroom. He’s good at playing men who know something you don’t.

The problem with these "event" biopics is that they usually trade soul for spectacle. We’ve seen it a dozen times. The wig budget goes up, the script quality goes down, and we end up with a glorified Wikipedia entry set to a great soundtrack. Mendes, to his credit, seems to be trying to avoid that by fracturing the perspective. But four movies? That’s four times the opportunity to get it wrong.

The production is already burning through cash like a vintage Bentley. The trade-off for this kind of "unfolding perspective" storytelling is usually a lack of cohesion. If Akhtar is the glue that holds the George Harrison chapter together, he’s got a lot of heavy lifting to do. He’s stepping into a machine that is designed to be a "global event," a term usually reserved for things that are expensive and ultimately hollow.

Still, there’s something fascinating about Akhtar’s entry into the Western ecosystem. He doesn't need Hollywood. He’s already a king in his own territory. This isn't a desperate grab for relevance; it's a strategic expansion. He’s picking a project that is arguably the most ambitious thing Sony has attempted this decade. It’s a gamble for everyone involved.

Will he be the spiritual guide in a silk robe, or a cynical suit in a London office? Either way, he’s probably the most interesting thing about a project that otherwise feels like a corporate attempt to colonize our collective nostalgia.

We’ll find out in 2027 if four movies were a stroke of genius or just four different ways to tell us we’ve already bought the album. How many versions of "Hey Jude" can one audience actually sit through before they start rooting for the break-up?