Director: Sangeeth Sivan
Actors: Shreyas Talpade
The math of this movie is pretty sound. The film, by its genre (horror) alone, is likely to be certified for adult viewing. This gives them bandwidth to slip in the odd sleaze. For long, this has been the primary purpose of Ramsay sort of horror movies anyway – the heroine bathes under a shower in a white petticoat up till her neck; she lies around in bed in a negligee, waiting for the vampire to undress her from the back… You know what I mean: the great Indian erotically repressed on-screen delicacy!
The filmmakers bring in here instead a bunch of under-dressed models to pose for a fashion photographer, the hero. Items strike the pose. Songs play in the background. You don’t want to figure movements in the theatre’s front-seats.
Budget for such flicks remain low. The losses (like the investments) aren’t much. No one walks into such a film expecting a super-star, super-script, or any sort of worldview. Shreyas Talpade is the leading man. An unknown face is his leading lady. Sundries from Mumbai’s Lokhandwala make for rest of the bumbling cast.
The leading duo in this film imagines phantom images of a girl they knocked down in a car crash. They fled after the accident. The victim follows them around. She appears in pictures they click. You get the drift: she’ll appear, and then disappear. The audience will wait in anticipation. Hopefully.
And then you watch how something this simple can so well be screwed up. Characters (psychic shrink, poet for a photo-shop owner, kooky parents, collegian rapists…) materialise from nowhere, and disappear accordingly. One commits suicide piercing a knife through his neck; the other, lies in bed with a charred face. There’s a back-story to every back-story. The rubbish never stops.
The raw-stock, I suspect, came for free. The soundness of math is lost in the cacophony of the background score. You can’t even sleep in pieces. How you wish such bull remained in the balance sheet alone.