Rajamouli has reserved all the grander and grandstanding for later, after interval. That’s when the film stands up and begins to strut like an epic. The battle scenes are monumental in scale and accomplished in detail, but lacked urgency and tension. Prabhas has some fun scenes, like when he literally slaps a sharp sword, and the fighting is rather convincing. But the acting, especially of Prabhas and Rana Daggubati, is very action-man like — grimace, clench, flex… But then, what are burly men to do when they have to slit, slash, slit, slash… Here’s hoping that part two will have the emotional drama that was missing here.

A review of Guddu Rangeela in its own tone and style would simply say, with a smilie: GR is neither rangeela, nor very guddu-guddu. And for this the satisfied team of Subhash Kapoor and Arshad Warsi are to blame.

…tries to be dark and comic, but it’s mostly a ha-ha-he-he satire where the joke is on all things — men and nations — macho and flexed. This description makes the film sound sublime. It’s not. It’s plain ridiculous and fun. It has the sort of jokes that you know are going to be dragged till our sides split.

The characters, though etched with firm, bold outlines, have just a shade or two inside. They are defined by but are also restricted to just their idiosyncrasies. For a film whose plot and progression depends almost entirely on its characters, they are limited. They needed to be illuminated by stories, anecdotes, to be constructed in layers that would have given them dimensions. They are not, especially Bhashkor Banerjee.

Director Krish and superstar Akshay’s GIB is a hectic, loud film that skids from one episode to another introducing characters — all prefabricated, one-dimensional ones necessary for simulating a vigilante melodrama — and pushing the story to its inevitable end.

My only humble request is that the next director who gets to sign Ms Leone in a title role and the film is certified A, no time must be wasted in telling a story. All efforts must be devoted to making sure that her orgasmic shenanigans are of the quality and quantity that merit the A certification.

Barring a few brief peccadilloes, the film is now homage to the redeeming powers of love and the institution of marriage. It’s all about how love, like the Hindus’ Ganga shanan, Muslims’ wuzoo, Christians’ baptism, washes away our sins, birthing a new, pure, righteous marriageable one.

This morality play, dragging us down since the Elizabethan times, is, well, again, fun interrupts.

Though the film is emotionally unsure, it manages to extract some lovely performances from its sturdy ensemble of supporting actors. Ayushmann Khurrana as Prem, eventually the only keeper of the film’s artifice — a fat heroine — delivers an exceptionally astute performance, reminding us once again of Vicky, the delightful donor.

Rarely do we get to watch films where we are constantly reading faces minutely, searching for answers, for clues. We do so here and they all remain dazzlingly ambiguous. None more so than the ever fabulous Irrfan Khan who inhabits the persona of a Sikh, a father, a husband, a soul with incredibly lyrical sagacity. Traumatised and desperate, he possesses and exudes spookiness that’s fundamental to connecting with this qissa.

Arjun Rampal is channelling his inner angsty hippie here. He gets the slumped demeanour right. The stubble and even the dandruff-hair work. But all’s lost in that exquisite but stony face. Is something the matter with Ranbir Kapoor? First hyper-stupidity in Besharam and now sleep-walking through this cuckoo? Should we worry about Bombay Velvet? Fernandez is, well, easy on the eye and charming. Now for some acting and diction lessons, please.