It turns into the ideal family film then, to be enjoyed by the filmmaker’s friends and family alone. I peer at the faces around me at the theatre. Of course, you shouldn’t go by their looks. Or reviews for that matter. Watch it yourself. Come on, you can do it.

From its start, to the way it progresses, you can tell, the film’s been through various stages of editing and several second thoughts. Sometimes the patchiness shows. It’s a stretch. Anything that’s 18 reels long (close to three hours) in a flickering world of low attention spans would be. Something fizzles out towards the end. You still don’t begrudge a movie that’s been this engaging, entertaining thus far.

Their nights out make for lead story on front page of The Times of India. As is everything else they do. Divorced dad wants his boy to marry a pretty Punjabi girl from the pind. That, by the way, is the central conflict in a film also about sport.

Clearly, someone’s let open a flick that must have been rightly, safely lying in the cans for years. Sounds like fun? Be careful.

This film actually has a darn good script, if you could excuse the hero for a bit. Just a bit. But how can you? We love you Himace. “Like mango, oh ho, like mango…”

Extreme love for the progeny produces corruption in several societies. It produces some terribly inspired entertainment in India. Few grudge the latter as much, I suppose. They don’t have to sit through it, if they don’t wish to. I didn’t have a choice.

Look at the film. The fuss was necessary! Producers make plans of a franchise obvious with the final scene. That, I fear may have G.One with the wind. But then you never know, right? Seriously.

These are interesting times. Different voices. Newer faces. Still Bollywood. The material here may be a lot better than the movie. But it doesn’t quite disappoint you still. Which is great to know. And you should be good to go.

The film, a romantic comedy as you can tell, surveys the rich, urban, over-dressed Indian young, where clothes are sponsored by designers Ritu Kumar and Manav Gangwani, and BMW is the sedan of choice.

This one defies a film. You just lose interest after a while. As do the filmmakers. At some point, out of the blue, they just abandon the whole project, start replaying scenes from the picture, everybody begins dancing together, friends and foes, Anthony Gonsalves, Bhagguji, Chetooji. You wonder what’s going on again. Credits start rolling. Nonsense ends. Poof. Thank you.