In the opening scene we see a rickety eyesore running ham-fisted, in possibly wet pants. We find out in flashbacks that the effete bungler receives corporal punishments from his father. His villagers browbeat him; he kneels before their crotch in return. He gets kicked around by pampered fanatics; he leans over, offering his limp corpus for more punishment. Then, out of nowhere, he inflicts flying kicks and punches — straight out of South Indian cinema. And he shoots dead a few bad guys quite offhandedly. Thereafter, he goes through cycles of ham-fisted empowerment to relapses of a limp washout. At best there are unintentionally hilarious moments throughout this abject pseudo-intellect, though vapid like the uncouth prude at the helm. He is like those grossly ineffectual singers who turn up at auditions of reality shows for self-abasing publicity.
It's hard to understand all the attention showered upon this rickety eyesore: film snobs hail him as chic socialite, pious film critic and moral guru. It is contended, with rabid justifications, that, since he doesn't have nepotic association in the film industry, his work ought to be appreciated. Nepotism is more prevalent in Indian politics; then, as per that logic, he should be made the prime minister of India. He is positioned in the utmost echelon of film critics in India. He orates his reviews like a God-man, while his disciple-audience agree to him with unquestioning obedience. All the prolific film critics in India avoided reviewing Desh Drohi for reasons they have never explained clearly. Was it abject fear of contradicting their darling? Or did they choose to stay silent out of reverence, since they had nothing nice to say about it?
The director made some potboilers in the 1990s, so one could have expected at least that standard. But there is nothing to write home about in this toffee-nosed botchery.
So, again, what makes the Indian media and masses fawn over him? It cannot be his haughty deportment. It cannot be his caterwauling voice. It cannot be his grunt of emasculation whenever he gets bitch-slapped. Nor can it be his pantywaist tantrums. Surely it cannot be his limp physique, bandaged by gaudy clothes. It cannot be his fatuous sarcasm. It cannot be his Fascist bent of mind, though it could make him Bajrang Dal's pet. Any draconian regime would be proud of Indian media's subservience towards him.
A wise man once said that snobbery can sell anything in this country. The box-office plaudits and the television premiere in prime-time slot reaffirm the adage that snobbery sells quicker than hot cakes in India. In Hindu mythology, it is prophesied that in Kalyug (the current era, translated as 'the age of downfall'), swan will pick a grain and crow will eat a pearl. In other words, brilliance will be lampooned and idiocy will rule the roost.