This picture is still in the ‘90s. I’m pretty sure the audience has moved on.

This is a particularly poorly promoted picture, so I am not sure how well it may pack theatres. Fat chance. But talking of technology, this is just the kind of cinema that surely gets a second wind, sometimes even many years later, on DVD, YouTube, or through downloads in the Internet. I don’t think you should wait that long.

The film leaves your body, and you’re free again. Now that just felt like a magic potion, my friend. Maybe it was. I feel blessed. Thank you Papaji. Looking forward to MSG 2. Your bhakt; forever.

Here’s what they get, entirely out of context: Long pauses. Pretentious bollocks for dialogue between three decent Bollywood tracks. The massive mansion. Horses in slo-mo. Vast ocean under a semi-lit sky. Ranbir on a bike, or in a yacht, staring into the sea. Close up of the flying bird. Jacqueline in yoga pose, now doing the ballet. And the camera purposefully lingering on Arjun Rampal, forever and ever, while everybody is all so grim and serious… Oh man, this is fart-house cinema at its farcical best.

You only wish some of this grandeur could have been transported to give the fine Marathi biopic Harishchandracha Factory some of the scale it deserved to compete at the Oscars in 2010. I suspect that local, indie success was an inspiration for green-lighting this one (I’m just trying to figure out what could have led anyone to pump in crores into this unbearable bore). Who knows, they’ll probably send this one to the Oscars too. But what’s the point. Ancient Indians had won several Academy Awards during the Vedic Age anyway!

What matters is that at no point do you question, and you ought to hand it to the writer-director who creates enough tension in every scene, even if very little lies beneath. Some of the dialogues are crackerjack. As is the comic timing. The locations are real, and they look stunning. The film holds your attention, and it stars Akshay Kumar. Hey, when was the last time you heard that?

Plot isn’t so much the point. Most horror movies are about someone who feels the spirit and everyone else who’s unable to believe this. What’s important is Bipasha’s bed begins to fly and the portion where she duels with a dog is quite effective. I hear laughs around me, signifying both nervousness and humour. The hall is half full. Nobody’s alone. This review doesn’t predict box-office figures—it was never meant to. But I suspect the producers won’t be horrified by the results.

…the film itself, tightly put together, ideally watched without an interval, keeps you thoroughly engaged and almost at the edge of your seat until you get to that end. That’s fun enough. Would you even want to look back? I didn’t.

At some point towards the end the filmmakers also take their eyes entirely off the ball and begin to deal with extraneous things and side characters.

Responding as an audience, was I disappointed? Yes. Anybody walking in with massive expectations will be (Ab dil hi toot gaya, PK kya karenge?). But could that well be a knock on the expectations rather than the film? Who knows. Was I glad I watched it? Yes. There you go.

You know the film is called Action Jackson, and it will essentially be a series of stylized stunt and sexy song sequences. And it totally is. Yet, no one, really, no one, can adequately warn you against what to expect here.