Rated NR

For the ensemble cast of B-movie actors, this big screen bomb provides a branding of embarrassment their careers can’t afford. For the hopeful Tracey Jackson in her screenwriting debut, this crass script of racial slurs and stereotypes creates a delusion for her ticket into Hollywood. For paying audience members, this insult to movie-making is a waste of our time and money. Jimi Mistry stars as the title character who yearns for the fame and fortune NYC has to offer. However, in his wayward quest for the American Dream, the Indian immigrant does a shameful Tom Cruise impression in his tighty whities, befriends a brainwashed Swami groupie (Marisa Tomei) and a hairblown porn star (Heather Graham), and becomes the next Deepak Chopra of sex therapy who philosophizes that ejaculation releases our fears so the genitals can open the doors to our souls. The foolish filmmakers who thought sexual chakra mantras and a tribute to Risky Business with an Indian spin were good ideas need a guru of their own, and this fused Bollywood fiasco isn’t it.


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