What happens when a builder offers a huge sum for your home, everyone around you agrees to sell, and you are the only person who refuses? In Mumbai, where redevelopment has become almost routine, such a decision can turn neighbours against each other and push friends into manipulation. Based on Aravind Adiga’s novel, Last Man in Tower explores this conflict through a sharp and unsettling story about ambition, greed, loneliness and the difficulty of letting go.
At the heart of the film is Yogesh Mishra, a retired schoolteacher played brilliantly by Manoj Bajpayee. He lives in a home filled with memories of his late wife. When a builder makes the residents a lucrative offer, almost everyone agrees to sell. Yogesh, however, refuses, insisting that residents have a legal right to reject the deal and should not be pressured into surrendering their homes.
The film's strength lies in refusing to portray Yogesh as the unquestionable hero while painting everyone else as greedy. Every resident has a genuine reason for wanting to sell. A mother caring for a special-needs child hopes to provide her family with a better life, a single mother wants to fund her daughter's education abroad, while another resident needs the money to clear his debts.
But what initially looks like a disagreement over property and personal principles gradually develops into a story about pressure and coercion. An elderly couple eventually surrender after masked men attack them, while Yogesh's lawyer practically advises him to accept the offer and move on. Elsewhere, workers who had raised concerns about safety change their position after being offered substantial money. The film's most pointed observation may be that in Mumbai, money can purchase more than property — it can also buy silence, loyalty and even people's sense of morality.
The housing society itself becomes one of the film's most compelling characters. Its redevelopment meetings, evening conversations, alliances and moral policing feel instantly familiar. A single woman becomes the subject of gossip because various men visit her, while the society secretary even discusses finding used condoms in her garbage. Yogesh, with his often irritating reliance on legal terminology, reminds the residents that privacy is a fundamental right and that they have no right to intrude into someone else's personal life.
In another revealing conversation, Yogesh points out that the society was once predominantly Christian and did not allow Hindus to live there. He argues that if the city has evolved enough for people from different communities to share the same building, perhaps they should also learn to accept single residents. Such seemingly minor exchanges add a broader social dimension to the story and help create a Mumbai that feels authentic and lived-in.
The emotional conflict becomes particularly compelling through Sangeeta Puri, played superbly by Divya Dutta. She has a special-needs son who shares a strong bond with Yogesh, making her efforts to persuade him to sell particularly uncomfortable. She reminds him that when his wife was battling cancer, everyone supported him, and now he should support them and their aspirations. While her approach is emotionally manipulative, Dutta never reduces Sangeeta to a villain. Her pain, frustration, jealousy, desperation as a mother and disappointment are often visible in her expressions without requiring dialogue.
Manoj Bajpayee, meanwhile, delivers a masterclass in acting. Yogesh is elderly, but Bajpayee never simply relies on stereotypical mannerisms to portray his age. His slight tremors, slower movements and altered body language around his son feel remarkably authentic. Anyone familiar with elderly parents will recognise his stubbornness, unsolicited advice, certainty that he knows best and, beneath all of it, his desire to remain relevant.
Bajpayee allows Yogesh to shift naturally between irritation, pain, defiance and loneliness. His difficult relationship with his son adds another dimension to the character. When his son tells him that his constant advice has never been particularly welcome, it becomes a painful reminder that being correct does not necessarily make someone easy to love.
Boman Irani is wonderfully vicious as the builder. Rather than becoming a loud or stereotypical villain, he remains composed, persuasive and almost intrigued by a man who refuses to be bought. In one particularly effective exchange, the builder appears genuinely curious about what Yogesh wants if money is not what he is after. The film never provides a clear answer, and perhaps Yogesh himself no longer knows.
That uncertainty becomes one of the film's greatest strengths. After the society turns against him, Yogesh loses access to electricity, water and support, and even finds human faeces smeared on his door. He is pushed towards both mental and physical breaking point, yet the film refuses to simply validate his position. Instead, it asks whether standing firmly by one's principles is an act of courage or whether, beyond a certain point, it can become another form of selfishness.
Ben Rekhi portrays Mumbai with the same restraint. This is not the glamorous city of sweeping skylines, but one of ageing buildings, cramped apartments, evening conversations, neighbours constantly observing one another and a housing society gradually being consumed by redevelopment.
His greatest achievement is keeping the story personal even as the conflict becomes increasingly intense. What starts as a disagreement between neighbours slowly takes a darker turn without forcing the audience to choose a clear side. The building itself almost becomes a reflection of its residents: something old that some want to preserve, while others believe it must be torn down to make way for something better.
At roughly 97 minutes, the film finds an effective balance. It moves briskly without feeling rushed and remains faithful to Adiga's novel without simply translating the book onto screen. The ending is particularly devastating for viewers who have not read the novel.
Ultimately, the film leaves behind an uncomfortable question: when does the pursuit of a dream cross the line into greed, and when does refusing to compromise on one's principles become an act of selfishness?
