I'm speechless. I think Mard must have come to me (thanks PPCC!) as Bollywood's retort to my hubris of thinking I am capable of understanding popular Hindi cinema. I am duly humbled.
So bad it's good? Crazy/genius? Cartoonish/clever? Fantastical/relevant? A generous feast of R(ecommended) M(asala) A(llowance) ingredients or wallowing, shameful gluttony like Mr. Creosote in The Meaning of Life? I have no idea! It seems so wrong to label Manmohan Desai, the Master of Masala himself, as finally off his rocker and backwass/masala madness extravaganza/decline and fall masala, a.k.a. teetering towards embarrassingly debauched and past its prime, but what else can a person do with all the tiger namaste-ing, rubber mask peeling, plane lassoing, still-alive burning, baby scarring, hut rocking, life bleeding, Maa muting, salt rubbing, cake hiding, torture flamenco dancing, and statue animating? I don't expect my brain to process this any time soon, so you're better off sticking with PPCC, Philip's Fil-ums, Memsaab, The Horror!?, or Bolly Bob, to name a few.
The only thing in this movie I could make any sense of whatsoever was a sneaking feeling that I recognized the Britishers' palace.
For once in my life I was correct - I always think I recognize people, and I'm wrong at least half the time - because I stayed at the Lalita Mahal Palace Hotel in 2006 and spent every waking minute wandering around wide-eyed and feeling quite like a rajkumari indeed.
It's probably a good thing I didn't know about Mard then, or I would have made all my traveling companions reenact scenes with me.
And a lot crazier after watching Mard.