<img alt="" src="/imagedata/2010/jun/nanjappa.jpg" align="left" border="0" />We Indians are in deep sh*t. Or we're a crazy, crazy lot. We take a whole load of cuss words and crap (and in this case, literally so) and create a hit movie out of the damn thingy. No other movie I can think of has spent so much time on locker humour and toilet boomers. And yet people are flocking in the droves to see it in English, Hindi and in black. I still am not so sure whether I loved Delhi Belly or not. Do not get me wrong. I rolled in the aisles at every stupid, but admittedly well-timed, gag until my stomach hurt -- for reasons other than the protagonist's. I bit my fingers in excitement when the girlfriend was being shot. And I was at the edge of my stool when the stool samples were being poured out onto the mobster table. It's as senseless as a Govinda flick. It has a more improbable story line than a Johar epic. And stretches the levels of impossible reality as much as Rajini does -- sample this: a guy hung from a ceiling fan that collapses because a dancing school upstairs is in full thump. Or this: the landlord who was also caught in a sex-about-to-be-scandal stands at exactly the same spot where a kewpie doll carrying millions of dollars worth of diamonds drops -- knocking him to the ground. (A new-age version of blood diamonds?) This movie has all the cliches of a B-grade sink-on-opening- night production. The obligatory Russian pilot who is the courier for the diamonds. An indignant foreign couple in the next room. The usual dumb mobsters. A predatory ex-husband.u00a0 And a couple of dodo waiters caught in a flurry of curry. (Not to mention the college-y sh*t fits and the language that's as dirty as the poo.) You'd think it would be a stinking flop. But it comes up smelling of roses, and funnily enough, all the cliches work together in a seamless sequence -- with frequent pit stops for stomach rumbles.u00a0u00a0u00a0 Every time the guy's tummy exploded, the laughter erupted.u00a0 And surprisingly two hours that dwell lovingly on Nitin Berry's runs, is running full house.u00a0 (Didn't see too many people buying snacks at the interval though!) The movie script is as tight as its topic is on the loose. So one and a half hours after you're first introduced to the shall-we-say "hero" of the movie in the loo, you're rocked into the end titles by Aamir Khan on Sixties Steroids and Disco written on his bum (you can't escape the theme even in the only item song!) And as you laugh out of the theater on a high, you still wonder: hey did I love that movie? Or is it just a load of crap?

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We Indians are in deep sh*t. Or we're a crazy, crazy lot. We take a whole load of cuss words and crap (and in this case, literally so) and create a hit movie out of the damn thingy

Popcorn and Peptobismol

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