The season is dry for Amar (Deshmukh), Prem (Shivdasani) and Meet (Oberoi) due to reasons-in-law. One has a screechy mother-in-law who makes her daughter wait for the right moment to consummate her marriage. Another has a stammering, body-building brother-in-law who barges into their bedroom at inopportune times. And the other one has a juvenile sister-in-law who plays "Statue" with him and then proceeds to tickle him till he pitches a tent in his pants.
It is painful, yes. Colourfully shot, dully written pain.
It doesn't stop there, of course. They drive off to a haunted haveli in Doodhwadi where a virgin ghost (Urvashi Rautela) is waiting for the man who'll finally unseat her from her virgin status. The flashback declares that she was murdered by her father when he discovered her canoodling with some bloke. However, we believe it is her push-up bra that must have choked her to death.
Oh, speaking of death, around this time, a hooded being (if, well, he is indeed a being) glided along in the theatre and coolly sunk in the seat next to us (this is the kind of movie where everyone has a few seats empty next to them). We didn't mean to be rude but we couldn't help notice how disturbingly black his hooded robe was. Also, we'd begun to feel terribly uneasy and we knew it had something to do with this black glider next to us. This is when he extended his hand and gave his card.
"Yamaraj / Thanatos / Grim Reaper / any other name depending on which faith you follow" the card read on one side. On the other side, it simply read "Death".
We sheepishly grinned, also becoming more conscious of the wrenching of the gut. Our nefarious neighbour seemed to be in a talkative mood, and in a voice that sounded like the lowest octave of an organ, he gently boomed "Hello".
J: Uhm... Hello... Hehe... You are indeed who you claim to be, eh?
D: Death? Yes. I am death.
J: *Breaking into a sweat* Oh... Nice to meet you.
D: You have met me earlier. You just don't know it.
J: I did? I don't seem to remember...
D: Remember Kya Kool Hain Hum 3
That's when it flashed in our mind. This wrenching of the gut, this restless mood, this loss of will to survive, we had experienced before. Not once but twice.
J: And in Malini & Co
D: Precisely. I'm amused that you remember.
J: They weren't exactly experiences that I could forget, you know.
*Faint booming snigger*
J: Look, it's all very fine that circumstances are terrible. Do you need to rub it in as well?
D: Hmm... But you deserve it, you know. You walk into these films that we commission, and suffer so much. And yet here you are, determinedly walking again into one more. I'm so pleased with you that I decided to converse with you personally.
J: Um, wait a minute. You commissioned this film?
D: Well, not I personally. One of my subordinates. I only deal with the masterpieces. Malini & Co was my own work and I'm very proud of it.
J: *Exasperated* What do you mean "commissioned it"?
D: Ah... You don't need to know the fine details, but everything in the world is commissioned either from our side or from the other side. As far as films go, you can tell its our film by how badly the actors ham, how non-existent the script is, or how incompetent the direction is. It isn't easy to make films so bad that they could kill people, you know. We work hard on these things. How else do you think you can get an actor like Vivek Oberoi to not act and just don a pair of goggle eyes?
J: Uh, yeah. Sorry. I'm a bit dazed. I can't exactly follow what you are saying. I hope you won't mind, though. I might be dying.
D: *Baritone chuckle* Of course you're dying. As you're watching Aftab Shivdasani play the piano with his Viagra-enhanced manhood, that feeling you're experiencing right now is a million of your neurons frying. Frying slowly and cooking into a warm saucy stew.
And he slurps. A slurp all the more disgusting when you realise what he wanted to do with the neuronal stew.
J: Oh God!
D: Too late for God now, ain't it? You should have thought about it before coming to the show.
J: But... but...
D: See, I've always been curious. We certainly like victims who have suffering thrust upon them. Like those parents whose daughters take them to a One Direction concert. But we absolutely love victims like you who willingly walk into suffering like this. However, I have always wondered why you would do that. Look at that screen, will you? It has Aftab, Vivek and Riteish stripping in front of a 66-year-old Usha Nadkarni to get to bed with her. Exactly why would you willingly walk into a film like this?
A moment of silence but we could feel his curious gaze upon us. We decided to be honest.
J: I'm, um... I'm a reviewer.
D: A what?
J: A film reviewer. I watch films and try to tell people whether or not they will enjoy that film.
D: So... So you're saying you're not masochistic but you're watching these movies to help other people not go through such pain themselves?
J: Yes, good sir. I have no fancy to be conversing with you like this.
D: *Mellow sigh* You are doing God's work, son. I can't take you with me tonight.
As we stared in awe and horror, the dreaded hood began to get up and adjust his robe. He glanced in our direction one more time and was about to leave.
J: Um... sir, I have a question... if you have the time.
D: Ask, son.
J: These two guys in the hall who're guffawing. How come you aren't visiting them?
D: I already visited them before. They have experienced the death of something much more important.
J: Really? What might that be?
D: Good taste.
J: What about the rest of the men in the hall? What did you kill for them?
D: Their sex lives.
With that, he glided away again as the end credits of Great Grand Masti rolled. We all walked out never once looking at another face hoping that everyone else was following the same code.