Script-Less Sorrow


Batul Mukhtiar

DIRECTOR SUPARN Verma has one yellow Lamborghini, a boat, a few bikes, cross-country tracks, several cars that he can blow up, a limousine and an acid factory in South Africa. A few seminaked women writhing in ecstasy are thrown in for good measure. He also has seven men in black and two women in black, some of them can act, and some of them can’t despite the support of expensive hats, sunglasses, and leather jackets. What Suparn Verma does not have is a script.

The story that unravels in the background is lame. It’s difficult to understand why the entire South African police force is after Kaizad (Irrfan Khan) who spends most of his time cruising in his boat, or leering at his girlfriend Max (Dia Mirza) and giving her limp kisses on her lips in an attempt to look cool. Particularly since his crimes seem to revolve around stealing cars and kidnapping selfish businessmen.


The story that unfolds in the foreground, i.e. six people suffering from temporary amnesia because of exposure to pentane gas, fizzles out like a soda water bottle opened carelessly. The tension is lost in a loop of repetitive dialogue – Who am I? Who are you? I will kill you. I will kill you. The only exchange that brings a laugh is Sultan (Manoj Bajpai) asking Om (Danny Denzongpa) – “Chinese, Japani, Korean, Nepali?” Om abuses him in Hindi and Sultan says – “Oh, Indian”. Everything is black and blue. Including my mood. Do I care for this film? I can’t because I don’t know whom I should care for. The cop, the bad guys, the victim, the traitor, the bad girl, the wife, all of them look the same, dress the same, talk the same, walk the same. Within 15 minutes of the film, I no longer know who’s Romeo (Fardeen Khan), who’s Sultan, who’s Kaizad, who’s Max, who’s JD (Dino Morea) and who’s Sarthak (Aftab Shivdasani). And guess what, I don’t care.

The characters are trapped in an acid factory. They slap, punch, fight, fire guns when they are not throwing seemingly smart lines at each other. I feel trapped in the theatre with six other viewers and 13 food vendors, who ask me to stuff my mouth with junk food every three seconds. And I have no one to throw smart lines at or slap, punch, fight, fire guns at. Soon, I feel as if the pentane gas from the acid factory has seeped into the theatre and I’m no longer sure who I am, and whether I have already died and gone to hell.


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