Q: What’s worse than wasting 90 bucks on an awful work of cinema?
A: Living through the trauma.
Because, really, this is a joke. I was mistaken — thought YRF couldn’t get worse after Neal ‘N’ Nikki. Oops — they can.
It isn’t funny. It isn’t emotional. It’s silly, and it’s not even slapstick — just plain silly. Two-odd hours of absolute wastage, where cinema, art and entertainment are assassinated to a horrific death. The story is missing, and if it wasn’t for a recognizable cast, the execution would’ve gone begging too. The designer looks like he had a ball — with the costumes plummeting down from the heights of creativity to the depths of absurdity. Lime green shoes, for Pete’s sake?
Oh, the ‘plot’ (for lack of a better word). Ricky Thakural (AB Jr.) is a fun-loving Punjabi to his fingernails. Just that, we aren’t convinced, which is why we’re forced to consume a Punjabi-coated ‘Blimey’ every minute or so. And oh-so-coincidentally, he consistently bumps into Alvira Khan (Preity Zinta), before finally sharing a table at a London tube stop. He tries to sweet-talk — she thinks he’s a flirt, and shows him a ring.
‘Listen, I’m already engaged.’ in an accent that would do Posh Spice proud. But like everything else about JBJ, it’s damn artificial, and it’s bloody flawed.
And the Brit-wannabe follows suit, before they get into their respective narrations, on how they met their soul mates — and the works. Ricky starts with his fiancé, Anaida (Lara Dutta) — French, plastic and dressed in little. Hotel Manager at the Ritz. A song is thrown in, Ticket to Hollywood — and it makes you cry in anguish. Sign numero uno of bunking the rest of the flick. I had guts and coffee for company — I stayed back.
And just when sanity was restored, Alvira starts off with her tale. Steve Singh (Bobby Deol) — a lawyer who saves her from a Superman statue that nearlly fell and creamed her at Madame Tussaud’s. She sues, they win — and predictably, they’re together in love. Another song, ‘Kiss of Love’, and while I wonder what other emotion deserves a kiss, there’s a hint or two in the lyrics:
‘Oh teri aankhon mein jab bhi jhaakun
Mein saaans atak jati hai
Oye band karle oye bandkar yaara
daka dalti di aankhein
Kiss of love, Kiss of love, Stay away from the Kiss of love’
(damn right — we should’ve just stayed away — but I stayed on)
Post-interval, JBJ crashes to absolute crap. Because, oops — spoiler warning — Ricky and Alvira fall for each other. And they try and work it out. Just that, they got to lose their — another spoiler — fabricated partners.
And that’s what JBJ is all about. Fabrication. Nothing substantial, really, because this isn’t a movie. It isn’t. Maybe it’s an extended ramp-walk of four stars, the costumes having enough colors to fill an all-time Wikipedia list. And they’re mixed and matched like never before. Or maybe, JBJ is a showcase for Big B’s refreshing and rather ridiculously bizarre get-up (albeit pleasant — in the context, mind you).
But a movie, it’s not, and for the very reason, deserves more than a miss. AB Jr. makes the ride somewhat acceptable until the first half, and Bobby Deol in the second was passable. Preity does what is expected of her — act silly, while Lara’s just about eye-candy. The support cast hang around for a bit — but there isn’t anything with substance.
The music by SEL, shockingly, is awful, barring the title track. Perhaps, the filmmakers realized this — and the song was played oh-so-many times, reused and abused until we puked and screamed ‘mercy!’. And honestly, somehow I felt Daler Mehndi should’ve sung it after all.
In the closing moments, we got Big B laughing like a madman, looking at newspapers, comics and correlating them with the ‘plot’. And it hits him, he laughs like a madman. At wit’s end, really — like the rest of us.
Worst movie thing in theatres this year, and heck, I’d be damned if it deserves a single star. Hate-mail is welcome, indeed.
