PK starts off with a nude, 200% human-like alien (Aamir Khan) alighting from a flying saucer spaceship into the Rajasthan desert and wearing a shining, round green pendant around his neck.
Once the nude alien loses his green pendant (actually a remote control to hail back the spaceship) to a thief, transfers the two-in-one transistor/cassette player covering his private parts to his hands and starts wearing clothes, the film quickly derails into an unending series of absurdities that get more painful to endure as time passes.
By the time, the alien turns into PK, learns to speak Bhojpuri (by plugging his hands like a USB drive into a hooker’s hands and backing up her language into his mind) and starts yodelling about Wrong Number connections to God, the movie has become another examplar of the mindless Bollywood balderdash that halfwit producers like Vidhu Vinod Chopra revel in dishing out every Friday to a nation of billion plus lobotomized Hanumans.
Since most Indians are the archetypal earthling Chutiyas depicted in the movie, doubtless they’ll smack their lips, wet their trousers and swoon over the baloney PK abounds in.
I bet countless yokels in Mumbai, Dilli, Patiala, Patna and Hyderabad are already wah-wah-wah-ing on Twitter and FB about the ‘astounding’ job Aamir Khan did in the film when truth be said all the clown did for the entirety of this ridiculous farce was roll his eyes left, right, top and down or open them insanely wide.
If what midget Khan does is acting, color me confused.
The message of this treacly nonsense is that Pakistanis are not bad people, Muslim boys do not betray Hindu girls after bedding them, Earthlings are lying sick fucks who say one thing and mean another and aliens are nice nudists brimming with love and understanding.
I’m no expert on Pakistani people or Muslim boys. And I’m not too happy with Earthlings myself.
But I’m certain of one thing – Vidhu Vinod Chopra and Rajkumar Hirani (director) are 420s (Indianese for charlatans and crooks) who betray us repeatedly with contrived scripts and cartoons of movies.
Since unimaginative Bollywood morons can’t think of a movie without an improbable European setting, we have an Indian girl Jaggu in Belgium.
Jaggu is played by Anushka Sharma adhering diligently to her de rigueur wardrobe of less (clothes) is more (flesh). The gal is studying TV production and after some unrequited ass-kissing of Amitabh Bachchan in the film by Vidhu Vinod Chopra and Raju Hirani (wonder what’s behind this Bachchan brand-building exercise) she meets a Pakistani boy Sarfaraz (Sushant Singh Rajput).
In 10-minutes, Jaggu and Sarfaraz hurriedly fall in love, sing one or two songs, live together and to prove a Delhi Swamiji wrong (he predicts betrayal of Indian girls by lusty Pakistani Muslims) the duo set out to get married.
Jilted at the altar by the Pakistani groom in Belgium and disowned by her Indian father in Delhi, the girl is now a TV reporter yakking away about suicides by Dilli dogs before encountering PK on a local train.
The rest of this distressing embarrassment is a patience-testing, unconvincing ordeal of PK searching for the thief who stole his pendant, beseeching “God” for help, getting confused by different Gods, falling in love with Jaggu, inveighing against ‘Wrong Number’ calls to God, preaching the virtues of a single God who loves all people, resolving the misunderstanding between Sarfaraz and Jaggu on a TV show, getting the pendant back from Swamiji and returning to his galaxy four billion miles away with two trunks of cassette tapes filled with Jaggu’s voice.
Saurabh Shukla as the Swamiji and Boman Irani as the TV channel producer Cherry are wasted in silly caricatures, lost amidst PK’s countless zany antics.
Anushka Sharma displays more than just flesh. Virat Kohli’s bed-warmer shows far more acting talent than Aamir Khan.
PK’s music is not made of stuff that lingers in the mind.
All in all, PK is the kind of bizarre garbage that keeps Bollywood’s box office ringing non-stop.
Poor me, all I gathered from PK was that aliens in distant galaxies look exactly, and behave similarly, like the kind of crazy pimps I used to encounter after getting off the train in Byculla every day.