He’s no ace of face. A goon goes into a swoon — in a gargantuan close-up — about the foul deeds which are about to erupt in a couple of moons.

While inveigling a truck driver to gear into an upcoming political assassination, the goon’s credentials are established as a psycho. Oh oh.

Next at the very outset of Shanghai, director Dibakar Bannerjee depicts the tarring of a progressive party worker in excruciatingly boring high speed. Sorry but the opening makes your heart sink. Is this the creator of the excellent Khosla ka Ghosla and Oye Lucky, Lucky Oye at work here? His Love Sex aur Dhoka, albeit with a cheesy slices, had its searing moments too.

The common thread between this triptych, as such, were their original content and stylistic bravura. This time around, alas, Bannerjee makes the fatal flaw of adapting a story by the Greek writer Vassilis Vassilikos (acknowledged in the credit titles) which was the raw material of the 1969 feted political thriller Z (1969) helmed by Constantin Costa-Gavras (unacknowledged despite strong resonances). It’s absolutely baffling why Bannerjee opted to co-write a screenplay with Urmi Juvekar “inspired” by the Z story. Presumably, he believes that the Greek dictatorship dramaturgy fits into the scheme of things in an Indian under-developed township, which incidentally isn’t identified distinctly. Perhaps it’s in Rajasthan, but in a snatch of dialogue Naxalbaris are mentioned. Huh?

And there are a couple of allusions to Generon (Enron?… go figure!). So the exact backdrop and the period remain opaque. Also the title — referring to the periodic ministerial promises to make Indian cities as buzzy as the most populated city of the Republic of China — is more opaque than ironical. Moreover, you’ve seen so many movies about the nasty semi-urban-semi-rural stretches of late, that you even long for the return of the Swiss Alps romances. Much cooler.

Be that as it may, the debonair, craggy-faced Yves Montand of Z makes way for a flirtarious Prosenjeet Chatterjee as the progressive politician, Professor Ahmedi. Not great casting that since the actor doesn’t ever invest an Urdu lihazz in his diction. He arrives in a mini-plane to Dibakar Ville to address his supporters, the most prominent one being his ex-student (Kalki Koekin) who adores him to tiny pieces. Aah, that’s love.

Oddly, her parentage is left ambiguous. It is even hazarded if she is, “American ya English.” To compound the confusion you’re repeatedly informed that her father, a general, was caught in a terrible scam, a sub-plot that is never explicated. No problem, there’s too much going yawn anyway. Like the professor, just chill.

Over to a sleazy videographer-cum-fixer (Emraan Hashmi flashing vampire teeth) is around, for a bit of levity-cum-gravitas. Once the Ahmedi saab is run over by a speeding truck, it seems he’s the only one who can access a hard “dicks” (really, now) containing incrementing evidence. The question is: will the one-man inquiry — a propah Tamilian gent (Abhay Deol) — do the right thing? An honest-Abe sort, he is, but he’s pressured by his superiors led by a power-wielder (Farouque Shaikh, eating so much food that his intake could have fed an army). More: Under dim table-lamp light, there’s the state’s chief minister (Supriya Pathak), who’s alternately benevolent and beastly. Grrrr.

Meanwhile, Ms America-ya-England runs all over the mysterious, burning township to seek justice. If she halts briefly, it is to get a saracastic admonishment from the professor’s legal wife (Tilottama Shome). Next: the body count begins. Quite sweetly, at some point, Emraan Hashmi does get close to a woman’s lips, but retreats just in the nick of time. This no dirty picture, please.

Densely-plotted, the dramaturgy keeps meandering, preventing a connection with any of the characters. Initially, the screenplay seems to be from the perspective of Ms England-ya-America. Then it suddenly becomes the inquiry commission chief’s take on corruption. That Costa-Gavras’ serves as a reference point is obvious from such vignettes as the professor’s wife in a toilet room. Irene Papas was terrific in that scene, Tilottama Shome’s just about serviceable.

All said and endured, it would be facile to see Shanghai as an effort which breaks the formula, makes a political statement, and is photographed without the usual fussy, overlit framework of commercial cinema. For sure Nikos Andristsakis camerawork enhances the edgy ambience and Namrata Rao’s editing is occasionally brilliant. Snag is that the screenplay moves either in fits and starts (the professor in the hospital goes invisible) or dwells on certain scenes for too long (the goon’s attempts to get his pay packet after the assassination bid).

Vishal and Shekhar’s music peps up for the item number Imported kamariya. As for the controversial Bharat Mata ki jai, its tune doesn’t have recall value.

Cut to the acting crew: Emraan Hashmi is certainly evolving, particularly credible when he adds touches of humour, like his act in a toilet room, with the inquiry commission chief. Abhay Deol, without caricaturing a Tamilian accent, is consistently restrained and yet conveys self-protective cunning.

Clearly, the performances of the two lead actors are inspired. So is Shanghai but in the wrong sense of the word. Why Dibakar Bannerjee went derivative is a conundrum, especially when he has a 1,001 real-life stories to tell around him.

Bottomwhine: Check out Z instead, or even re-see Khosla… or Oye Lucky. This one seems unlucky.