The Toronto film fest winner has no clothes

It often strikes me in the opening moments of a new movie that desis and non-desis watch movies differently. Take the new movie about Russian gangsters in London. If you’re a regular Joe braving sold-out shows and breathless reviews to watch David Cronenberg’s Eastern Promises, you might think, ‘This director doesn’t know the meaning of segue.’ Or, ‘This is really just a B movie.’ Or, ‘How nice, Naomi Watts and Viggo Mortensen are blank together.’ Or, ‘This is the most overhyped movie of the year.’

But if you’re desi, you’re probably thinking something like: ‘Joy Indian Cuisine in the opening shot.’ Someone is murdered. ‘Pharmacist uncle speaking Hindi to Lalita Ahmed. Uncles always sound like they’re reading lines rather than acting. Like dear Kumar Pallana.’ A pregnant girl staggers in, and uncle asks if she wants methadone. ‘Harsh, uncle! Don’t be judgmental.’ She collapses. Auntie wonders in Hindi whether she needs an ambulance.

Cut to hospital. Raza Jaffrey from Bombay Dreams walks in. ‘Prepare the patient,’ he tells Watts. Many buckets of fake blood later, a crowd of football yobs are shown streaming out of an Arsenal game. ‘Wait, is that Debargo Sanyal?’ A Debargo double walks straight at the camera.

The audience suffers through two hours of ludicrous Russian accents (and you’ll do the accent thing all over again for the Brick Lane movie.) Mortensen is not an action hero like in the gripping A History of Violence. There are no savage love scenes with Maria Bello. There’s constant buildup with no payoff. The twist is beyond obvious. Mortensen’s Skeletor jawline contains no hidden depth. The schlocky, ballyhooed bathhouse fight scene draws sniggers, and you’re flashed repeatedly by Viggo underball. Which is pretty much what the screenwriter is doing throughout.

A.Lane is a bit kinder in the New Yorker. Here’s the trailer.