It’s fairly simple. The film appears jumbled in parts, merely because no character holds a moral centre. No character, in particular, holds the plot together either. The picture goes all over the place to arrive at an end, even beyond the intended end. You leave for home with an exhilarating ride, still reeling in your head — though not quite the heart. The actors (each one of them inspiringly cast, stunningly moulded) help you get there. The movie seems infinitely better than the sum of its script. That’s usually true for fun thrillers. This is definitely one of them.

For the way it’s been made, it will be watched. It should be. Go for the kill!

This film is first-rate tribute; it’s visceral, I realise — both clichés for compliments. Nothing more appropriate comes to mind.

Luthria rightly recreates retro from the ‘70s. And this is not just in the low angles of the shots; strange prints on expensive nylon shirts; or trumpets for a background score. It’s most importantly in the sense of the big screen occasion, and a throwback to smart, terse dialogue.

It’s a sort of flick you ideally discover without burdens of expectation: a caveat you must bear in mind, in case you were planning on rushing off to cinemas right away. Where any Bollywood movie without a gyrating, lip-synching hero perceives itself as ‘different’, this one, from an audience’s point of view, is truly an experiment.

Forrest Gump in its scope, Rain Man in its approach, slightly convenient in its ‘Bollywood opera’, world-class in its photographic treatment (Ravi K Chandran), more sorted than Kurban (from the same producer, along a similar theme); you can sense, throughout, honesty in the film’s purpose.
There is least empathy for a problem you haven’t faced yourself. This film expresses that well. Being looked down as Muslim is at some level a global reality. Prejudices are part of human DNA, Americans being no exceptions.

The fact that you don’t feel like the fourth idiot watching 3 Idiots is, for its genre, the greatest relief. This is in every way Munnabhai – part 3. I think you shouldn’t miss it at all.

You’d much rather stick with this rare Rocket, than an yearlong racket that goes on in the name of filmmaking in Mumbai. Harpreet’s unique honesty in a sales firm goes well in the context of this film within Bollywood itself!

There’s the nation’s best-known actor, without his best-known assets: his deep voice, and his deadly presence. Amitabh entirely trades off his screen aura for a child-geriatric Auro. Mainline audiences can’t be used to this. They’re likely to laugh or leave. Surprisingly, they’ll laugh at the intended notes, and leave, quite satisfied actually. Therein lies the film’s grandest achievement.

Given the clichéd subject, most importantly, the coolness isn’t fake: something most films pretending to be for or about ‘youth’ don’t quite manage to grasp. You can immediately tell the writer-director (Ayan Mukherjee, a heart-felt debut) has lived though the material. So have the actors. I may not mind living through this again.