Three men stand in a line peeing with the two at the sides taking turns to hold the middle man’s urinating instrument.
Om Puri, a swami who swings both ways, rubs himself against a middle-aged overweight auntie and then in the next scene is shown canoodling amorously with a man.
Prem Chopra, in a yellow-blue ensemble sticks out his bum and begs Rakhi Sawant to spank him.
A girl practices her item number moves by trying to seduce her dead grandfather (Anupam Kher) by sensually dancing to “Husn ke laakhon rang”.
During a family dinner, the bahu of the house announces that her son is not the patriarch’s grandson but actually his “son”. [Shades of Chinatown “she’s my sister and my daughter” here]
Welcome to Rahul Rawail’s “Buddha Mar Gaya”, a modern-day comedy classic that rips the mask off the “Hum Aap Ke Hain Kaun” perfect Indian household and lays bare a vision of Jerry Springian family dystopia where incest, defiling dead bodies, man-man love and holding the other’s pee-wee are as wholesome and joyous as a game of antakshari and tambola.
Needless to say, there will be some who will say that it would have been a more fruitful use of celluloid had the reels that store “Buddha Mar Gaya” been used to wipe human excreta off soiled asses—so putridly unfunny the entire exercise is, where shock substitutes for subtlety, where the dialogs are bereft of even a whiff of wit and where the humor is so forced that the director has to plant, at multiple places in the movie, the line “You will die laughing” as if somehow repeating this ad nauseum would shame the audience into rolling in the aisles.
The people who say this just don’t get the subversive genius inherent in this self-declared “dark comedy”. Ostensibly a story of how desperately low people can stoop for money (that theme in itself being neither novel nor excessively creative), the focus of “Buddha Mar Gaya”‘s innovative farce does not lie in the debasement of the characters in the movie for their inheritance moolah but that of the actual big-name actors who signed the dotted line out of nothing but utter desperation for a few lacs (or perhaps even thousands).
Yes I am talking about Om Puri, Paresh Rawal and Anupam Kher, the doyens of Indian “serious” cinema, prostituting their artistic integrity by allowing themselves to be involved in a moronic monument to seediness masquerading as a comedy with not even one redeeming quality. [Rahul Rawail only needed to have convinced Naseruddin to get into drag, Shabana to don domintatrix gear and Shyam Benegal to wear nipple rings and we could have had the whole “alternative cinema” movement in one frame].
Did I say no redeeming qualities? I take that back. There is one—Rakhi Sawant , playing a bed-hopping casting couch “struggler”, (she is so natural in the role that one might think that she is simply playing herself) who outshines the rest of the cast by a fair magin.
And when Anupam Kher, Om Puri and Paresh Rawal get upstaged in acting by Rakhi Sawant—well what can be funnier than that?