For the ensemble cast of B-movie actors,
this big screen bomb provides a branding
of embarrassment their careers cant
afford. For the hopeful Tracey Jackson in
her screenwriting debut, this crass script
of racial slurs and stereotypes creates a
delusion for her ticket into Hollywood. For
paying audience members, this insult to
movie-making is a waste of our time and
money. Jimi Mistry stars as the title
character who yearns for the fame and
fortune NYC has to offer. However, in his
wayward quest for the American Dream,
the Indian immigrant does a shameful
Tom Cruise impression in his tighty
whities, befriends a brainwashed Swami
groupie (Marisa Tomei) and a hairblown
porn star (Heather Graham), and
becomes the next Deepak Chopra of sex
therapy who philosophizes that
ejaculation releases our fears so the
genitals can open the doors to our souls.
The foolish filmmakers who thought
sexual chakra mantras and a tribute to
Risky Business with an Indian
spin were good ideas need a guru of their
own, and this fused Bollywood fiasco isnt
it.