Rock Yawn!

London Dreams (limited) 

Cast: Ajay Devgn, Salman Khan, Asin, Om Puri, Kababs

Direction: Vipul Amrutlal Shah 

Rating: Two stars (okay so it has a huge budget, technical varnish, A-list stars..so what?) 

Whip whip hurray. To keep himself away from carnal pleasures – read Miss Asin – the wannasing, wannarock star snaps his belt off, and flagellates himself. Ouch, grimace, ouch, scowl, angry-ooh-so-angry. Moral of the scene: next time you’re violently attracted to a woman,  keep a dany leather belt handy. Or better still, order yourself a sado-masochist whip, or a chabook, whatever blows your socks oof. Off. Whatever. 

Uncannily those whiplashes are the most potent image that stay beneath your eyelashes. Imaginatively photographed, darkly lit, terrific backdrop, all organised by director Vipul Amrutlal Shah for London Dreams, his best technical accomplishment yet. Sorry but as a film it is a head-clangier, lengthier than your lengthiest yawn, and totally destroyed by a story-script which is about as convincing as a technicolour zebra. Honest! 

In fact, Laka Shaka Waka Boom Woom (or some such) by Suneil Darshan – the first ‘inspired’ version of Amadeus – at least had a snappy music score. Here Ehsaan-Shankar-Loy strive to rock on once again only with rockaus effect. Why European concert audiences go berserk over the ding dong ditties blared here is as baffling as those blondes weeping in the front rows of the concert. Could they be doing out of sheer shock and dismay? Perhaps. 

Plus there is something so past historic about Vipul bhai using the by-now-done-to-Chopra gambit of alternating between footage  in the Punjab and  London.  Mustard fields meet Thames by the night, oh boy. This is not cinema, it’s a by-now-obsolete formula which you thought the director had wringed dry, and just about in Namaste London. Could we now get a Salaam Hong Kong or even a Namaste Nepal please?Pretty please with a chicken tikka over it? Enough is enough. STOP. 

Also the juvenile script -- whenever it doesn’t have stamina to pursue a plot point –just  hops-skips-leapfrogs from Punjab to London, as if was just going around the corner to buy a lollipop. Hilariously, then, an orphaned kid sprints away from Uncle Om Puri to play a wooden flute (Subhash Ghai’s Hero ki yaadein) in the Queen’s City. Uncle no like music because an ancestor, into classical ragas, had developed a songster’s block at the Wembley. Hyuk nuyk.So? Odd, just forget it. 

Om Puriji serves kababs at Piccadilly. Orphan becomes a 30-,40-something determined to become a huge rock star who’ll play at the Wembley. Why uncle never finds him, why the police doesn’t track the kid, what the kid survives on…are factors which don’t worry anyone except you-hoo. Grief. Anyway so runaway Arjun (Ajay Dvgan) stalwartly believes in his name, wants to be focussed, and so performs at Trafalgar square, and is instantly joined by a couple of Pakistanis who remain his lifelong sidies. He also draws Chennai Express (Asin) into his group London ke Sapnay. Asin’s made-in-Woodland dad wants her to excel in Bharata Natyam but she’d rather chiggy wiggy. Diggy? 

The plot appears to have been scribbled on tattered pages. Aha, now Wannarock star’s mustard pal (Salman Khan) pops up as the ultimate cretin, sleeping around with Punjab belles, running up debts that would make you feel quite comfortable about your own, but, yo, he’s super-gifted. He can handle a raga, talk eruditely about a song’s metre, make it sound like either Jagjit Singh or Rapchik Rapinem. Man, he’s cuuuuuute. Wannabe brings him over to London. Hell’s bells, this village hick is so much superior.  

Oi, is this Amadeus or Abhimaan? Or both. How you just want to run away to Hrishikesh Valley. 

Boyz will be boyz, natch. Wannabe gets Mustard Field hooked on to drugs, in a matter of two or three days. Ma’am  Asin looks sad, almost as if she were stoned herself. The sidies do their damage, and whoa, Om Puri saab makes a comeback to dispense some Confucian advice. Cringe cringe. 

Truly, whatever is going on? This poppish band hasn’t even cut a disc and their concert is packed with a crowd that would make Madonna go  walnuts with envy. By the way, the enormous crowds are so digitally enhanced that you wish Vipul bhai had stuck to the Rock On-style of intimacy. Compared to London Dreams, that  one is classic Woodstock. 

The editing is hopelessly repetitive. Shots of Ajay Dvgan brooding in a red room make you go purple. Sejal Shah’s cinematography is top class except when it goes for sky tints and unnecessary top shots. The dialogue is on the amateurish side. And you can’t figure out several elements, like why Asin was carrying a blue broom when you first see her.Symbolic? Can’t say. 

Of the performances, Rannvijay Singh already seen in Namaste London is ‘introduced’ here. Seriously suggest that he remains on television. Asin is passable. Ajay Devgn is miscast, he’s far too senior to convince you that he’s on the eve of a music career. Salman Khan, dammit, is lovable. He goes over the top, imitates Dharmendra (not successfully always) but he does rescueLondon Dreams from turning into a nightmare. 

With all its mad flaws and inadequacies, Shah’s enterprise still sees him going beyond the klutzy rishtas and pishtas. If you think that’s sufficient reason to buy a ticket , check out this London Whippy Whippy Shake.