Film review: Fugly

Film review: Fugly
No rang, only basanti

Director: Kabir Sadanand
Actors: Jimmy Shergill, Vijendra Singh, Kiara Advani, Mohit Marwah
Certification: U/A
Stars: 1.5

F*ugly is a movie that tries to make searing statements about many pressing issues - none of which are clear after more than two hours of irresponsible storytelling. There is an alarming lack of subtlety and finesse that seeps into every department of filmmaking, stemming from an urgency to portray Delhi in the crudest manner possible. Unfortunately, the film begins to resemble the relentless sleaze-fest it attempts to expose; a sort of mutant offspring resulting from the reluctant union of Shaitaan, Khiladi and Rang De Basanti.

It begins with a disillusioned young man named Dev (Marwah) riding his motorbike to India Gate in slow motion. He proceeds to set himself on fire in slower motion, before being admitted to the hospital. In between, he manages to have a chat with overenthusiastic reporters at the gate. There will come a day when filmmakers don't feel compelled to take cliched potshots at Indian news channels, but that day isn't today. The writers know something that doctors don't, because Dev-seemingly burnt to a crisp (flakes of drying red paint) on his death bed—manages to narrate his story to a reporter that treats the ICU as her living room. There will come a day when writers do not feel the need to begin flashbacks of their once-carefree protagonists with a party song, but that day isn't today.

The four friends (hero, spunky girl, political scion boxer, nerd with latrine business), even as their slightly-younger selves, share forced banter in breathtaking locations (Leh) that are woven into a shallow plot designed exclusively for superstars. By the end, it remains difficult to feel sympathetic towards their contrived plight. Wherever they look, there is molestation, corruption and drugs. This representation is manipulative and lacks a basic degree of restraint, forming the primary conflict that eventually snowballs into an orgy of generalized scenarios (sting operations, crowd reactions, redemption). Things get messy when they run into homicidal Jaat Inspector Chautala (Shergill), whose threats (and moustache) are linguistically limited—a man that insists on lodging objects into posteriors in varying tones of rage.

Much of the second half has the hot-headed foursome further corrupting the system to survive. By the time they are pushed to their limits, it is impossible to ignore the obvious disconnect between writing, direction and editing. No line spoken is memorable or delivered with any sort of conviction. The actors look uncomfortable, at the mercy of a director that struggles to add character to their on-screen personas. To add to the disturbing dichotomy of sensibilities, songs with lyrics like "I'm good in bed baby, I'm the ironman" play only minutes after the one of many eveteasing incidents. As a result, the film ends up becoming a mildly offensive take on everything that is offensive and vile in this country.

There will come a day when an ambitious filmmaker decides to raise awareness in a focused, entertaining and constructive manner, but that day isn't today. F*ugly is more of a fight for all that is ugly, than against it.
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