Grand Masti Review By Mayank Shekhar
Grand mein dum nahin…
Director: Indra Kumar
Actors: Aftab Shivdasani, Riteish Deshmukh, Viveik Oberoi
By Mayank Shekhar
Ideally a film like this doesn’t merit a review. Let me graphically describe the first scene still so you can sense the pointlessness of detailing any further.
The three gentlemen in this movie, who it seems graduated straight from kindergarten into college, start out by lecturing students about how they had been taught their alphabets wrong. That A’s not for apple, it stands for… This is when the camera starts following women’s bums (or arses). Likewise B is for, now you see tight close-ups of several women’s breasts. And C is for, they don’t say what, but obviously imply the organ they’ve come out from. D is for dil-se, which is how these boys closely study these human parts, hoping to get to F, and you know what F stands for. In the same scene, a busty woman in a bikini slowly wipes ice-cream off her cleavage in a fountain, the water from the sprinkler rises up at the sight.
Now let’s not get prudish. This humour was meant to be lewd. The film’s genre was always known to us. We knew the movie would be loaded with double meaning jokes. The issue is that a whole lot of the movie’s gags — if you can call them that – have, if at all, only one meaning. In which case, we’re not really watching a sex comedy now, are we? Male private parts aren’t spared either as they literally stand in ovation, are fondled with, or pushed up with a suction pump. You don’t really get grossed out by it, which may have been the point. You just don’t laugh. Something so spelled out and direct is not even a cheap joke, definitely not even in the ‘desi daddy of this genre’ Dada Kondke’s dictionary.
So is this really a movie for adults? Hopefully they have access to real sex either in movies or in life. And if they are truly sexually repressed, along with the 14 or 15-year-olds (who aren’t supposed to be in the theatre), they might giggle at pixilated shots of nude men or continuous references to male or female genitalia. The laughs I guess won’t be for the humour, but for the audacity of some of the spoken words. Indian movies, much like the society they represent, have remained sexually frustrated for generations. Collective giggle has been a natural response to randomly explicit material on the big screen, because we’ve just not been used to them.
At least half my row in the theatre had already left at the interval though. One is often advised to leave your brains behind for a film like this. It is the only way to ensure your IQ doesn’t drop to negative when you’re finally done with the movie.
Yet, Masti I remember was a lot of fun. This is supposedly its sequel. That one even had a story. This one also must. You see married men (three natural over-actors) get invited back to their college for a quick weekend reunion, I guess. They meet no old classmates, only three desperate porn-star types — the college principal’s wife, his daughter and his sister — who are dying to somehow dream, dance and sleep with these dolts. These guys briefly get into trouble with the principal. Their asexual wives pay them a surprise visit as well. They fully mend their ways. The movie carries on for a good half hour thereafter, just as long as it had taken to get to the plot.
I feel something throbbing between my ears. Clearly, the brain is not at home. Come on, there’s got to be something funny enough to report.
Okay, these porn-stars from the principal’s family have amusing names, if you may. They are called Rose, Mary and Marlowe. The screenwriters love this poor joke as they do everything else they’ve written so far, because they keep repeating them anyway. So we hear: Mary, Rose, Marlowe; Marlowe Mary Rose…
I don’t know about roz (daily). But you hope nobody’s brains get maro-ed (bajao-ed, screwed) this badly too soon.