Bar dancer Tarannum Khan financed C-grade movies at her prime, only to have an F-grade film “loosely based” on her made a decade later. Don’t correct me if I’m wrong, because I’m certain that she didn’t already live in a large haveli in Mumbai, when her father tells her he can’t pay her college fees (10k). He dies in generic riots, and a mandatory Maula song begins while: Mother becomes maid, poverty porn, local trains, sweat, Jogeshwari station shots, job interviews, sleazy bosses, Haji Ali shots, repeat. To be fair, actress Ashima Sharma does resemble Tarannum a bit. If only this film resembled a film too.
I was under the impression Mumbai Can Dance Saala was about a dance competition. I was reasonably sure Shakti Kapoor and Aditya Pancholi would play rival coaches, with Prashant Narayanan as an outcast maverick dancer. As it turns out, Kapoor, in an attempt to look less lecherous, plays a gay designer. He stitches bargirl dresses only, a low-budget Stanley Tucci from The Devil Wears Prada. He bellows for a waiter in a British accent, apparently a sure sign of homosexuality. His shirts are tight and his surprisingly pale belly fat proudly pops out. An effeminate “Hello” thunders on screen, before he spouts gems like, “Yeh hai Anna, sab ko khilata hai Ganna!”
But neither he nor Bappi da as music director is the highlight of this…thing. Neither is the Dubai don called ‘Badshah’, who has an item song called Badshah, and strolls to ‘Badshah’ background chants.
None of them come close to Julie, a veteran bargirl and selfappointed idol to the young’uns. “You jhoppadpatti!” she yells, in a heated exchange with her lover in Dubai. When she isn’t breathing heavily on his face, she calls him a street dog. I’ve adopted one recently, and he is trying to bite me as I write about her. Julie’s screen presence is accompanied by cries of a wildcat in heat. Rakhi Sawant, who now resembles Chucky from Child’s Play, is Julie. Thankfully, her voice is dubbed.
The second half ran with an audio lag of 5 seconds. Suddenly, dogs began talking in Prashant’s voice, Rakhi began to purr ferociously, and Shakti spoke in moans. This, without doubt, became the greatest auteur work since Godard’s defiant Goodbye To Language 3D. If only it was intentional.
On a serious note, if this is a sign of things to come in 2015, I might consider alternate career options.