Kya super fool hain hum

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Kyaa Super Kool Hain Hum

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Kyaa Super Kool Hain Hum.JPG [2]

Jeepers creepers. It’s one of those, guaranteed to cast a spell of woes over those who are still optimistic about expecting a shred of sense, sensibility and taste in popular entertainment. Naah, no chance, unless you derive pleasure from juvenile jokes, vulgar gags and sexual jiggery pokery.

Almost makes me think twice before using the word “pokery”, after emerging alive from this goulash of American Pie and Dostana. Eeee.
Now come on, you might say, what did you expect of Kyaa Super Kool Hain Hum written and directed by Sachin Yardi, who also co-scripted the first titillation fest, nearly five years ago? Certainly not sophisticated humour. Still, even if you chill (like someone does literally in a refrigerator here), you can’t quit feeling mildly ill. Grrroan.
Producer Ekta Kapoor has sufficient resources and clout to raise the bar of entertainment, three times over, but no, instead she vends a two-hour-plus session of overcooked non-vegetarian wisecracks, an absurd plotline, besides darting gross insults to film personalities who don’t have the time, energy or market status to launch a protest. Examples: Manisha Koirala (equated with the 1942 era) and Danny Denzongpa (linked with chinkiness). Not to forget the puns on the names of upcoming heroines like (Nargis) Fakh…ri and (Diana) Panty.
To be fair, the producer makes fun of herself, too (Ekta Tiger!, it seems) but the constant in-jokes about showbiz becomes a pain in the butt (the movie’s lingo is infectious). Director Rohit Shetty shows up in a stiff-as-starch cameo, his Singham is turned into Chingam, and quite naturally self-congratulatory references are made to the Balaji banner’s The Dirty Picture. Note a gross bra-like outfit and the Oooh la la refrain in the background score. An imagined soap used by an attendant to the handless Thakur of Sholay is only so much more for jest of the toilet paper kind. Ooof.
Curiously, the fact that this sex watchamacallit is a spin-off from Dostana has been kept under the wraps, except of course for the take-off on John Abraham flashing his butt (lots of bum exhibitions here). Instead of Abraham and Abhishek Bachchan, the heroines (Sarah-Jane Dias, Neha Sharma, decorative strictly) pretend to be into a same-gender relationship. Why? Stupid question. Just. That rattles the two guys who’re after their skirts. Etc. One of them is a wannabe film hero (Tusshar), the other dreams of becoming a deadly deejay (Riteish Deshmukh). Cinema and music aspirants? Umm, coincidental perhaps but they’re just like Raavan and Eddie, the dithering heroes of Kiran Nagarkar’s book Extras. Wow, how cerebral is that?
While Dostana couldn’t be accused of homophobia, here gays are butts (again!) of ridicule, like an elaborate sequence between the deejay and a gay geek in mid-air.
And posteriors are flashed right into the eye of the camera during a retread of Shilpa Shetty’s Main aayee hoon UP-Bihar loot ne. Ewww.
To top it all, a pug becomes a stud siring puppies a la Vicky Donor. And Anupam Kher, as a mad dad, believes that a couple of the mating pugs are his parents reborn. Funneee? Maybe for those who’re amused by doggerel.
At least one of the cracks is extremely objectionable: a woman’s breasts are compared with the Twin Towers of the 9/11 tragedy. Enough said. Kyaa Super Kool… comes with an anti-criticism vaccination. Be it references to “bjs”, a wacko scene showing a gang of houswives raping the deejay, and wedding between two dazed pugs for the climax, anything goes.
On the techfront, the set designs are youthful and candy-coloured, especially the venue for the dance set piece Dil garden garden. The editing is sharp enough, employing split screens smartly. The visuals are constantly overlit as if the unit had bargained discount rates from the electricity board.
Of the cast, Tusshar and Riteish Deshmukh do have a talent for precise comic timing. What’s the use though? They may score a hit at the ticket counters. As for any form of respectability in any hall of fame, forget it. Just like the rest of this obsessive backside disorder.