Jolly LLB is funny in parts but preachiness and the need to flaunt the film’s sincerity and heart get in the way

It’s evident these movies aren’t about anything but the person starring in them, and all that matters are punches and punchlines, both sadly unmemorable.

It’s a somber, well-assembled film in contrast to the quick and flashy schlock that would have been doled out by the aforementioned merchants of middlebrow masala, and while the film’s craft — and the acting chops shared by its considerable cast — can’t at all be denied, it must also be said that perhaps the trashier approach may have worked better for this material. Or, at the very least, made for more fun.

Heroine is quite stupendously glossy, with every actress soaked in bronzer, and much flattering lighting. And the actors really aren’t the problem here, each of them — even the disastrous ones — earning more than their fare share just for keeping straight faces through this malarkey.

Does Joker hold up, then, as a children’s film? Not a chance. It’s clean, sure, bereft of swearing or innuendo (yet with a sultry item song) but it’s also daft.

The film wants to be racy, but has television-friendliness forced onto its very being: which explains actors dropping their jaws at the (suggested) mention of genitalia and constantly hiding behind clumsy innuendo. Even a man reading Playboy isn’t allowed to open the pages of the magazine, but flip it over entirely to reach the cover of the next issue. The covers, you see, are safe-for-Hindi-film-work.

It’s a pity, and not just because this could have been the great unconventional cinematic threesome we so desperately need. Cocktail has a handful of moments and a few genuine sparks, but finally crashes and burns so spectacularly that it’s hard to focus on the positives. We must thank it, thus, for Diana Penty.

In the end, almost like an afterthought, Kaushik realises he’s left too many guns unfired, and things come to a head in a pointless hail of bullets, rivals trading fatal gunshots in turn, like polite ping-pong players.

Nothing justifies a 139-minute length, but Akshay Kumar carries both moustache and cop uniform better than his peers — yes, I include Salman Khan in that comparison, the one whose clothes refuse to stay on — and while both Khan and Ajay Devgn can competently scowl and maim (and make Lady Gaga claws, if need be), Kumar’s way better at playing the fool.

If Ram Gopal Varma were to film me writing this review, I assume he’d start with a tight close-up. First of my eyes watering from his new film’s assault, then a series of jump-cuts showing me massaging temples, yawning, cringing in my seat, then — abruptly — a slow-motion walk to my writing desk.