A distinctly Western drama/rom-com, Karan Johar’s Student of the Year is a bright and breezy affair, lacking in story and innovation, but brimming with colour, humour and brilliant performances from it’s young cast. Overlong, and at times predictable, Student of the Year is nevertheless a fun way to spend a few hours, whether you’ve ever seen a Bollywood film before or not.
The Zefron is a bit of a dark horse these days; after seeming set for lifelong underage vaginal domination around 2006, when that guiltiest of guilty pleasures came out, High School Musical, he just didn’t take off from Disney quite as drastically as anyone expected. There was a time when he would have been anyone’s first bet for the male leads in things like Avatar – instead, he seems perpetually dissatisfied and cannot decide what he wants. We at BFF do like a mysterious one, so let’s have a wee look.
Something drugged up this way comes…
So you’re drunk. You had one too many at Pizza Express or wherever, and now you’re in the cinema, and you are drunk. And you have FEELINGS. About this film. That you are watching. You may or may not swear at the screen, but whatever you say (you don’t remember in the morning) it is loud. You are swiftly removed from the cinema, and never permitted to return. Dark times. Enter Movie Interruption Screenings.
God, things are sexy, aren’t they? So many things that there are, and all of them sexy. Baths, cooking, pithy conversations in a descending elevator – all you need is Anne Hathaway, some improbably witty back and forth with a chiselled titaniMAN, and boom – fruitful flesh-grappling is in the air. Except, of course, that it never is. Not really.
Maria Maggenti fast-tracked by Lionsgate for Dirty Dancing writer off the back of roaring success of Monte Carlo
Because there’s nothing less attractive to a wet-lipped young maiden than a tattooed, pierced, bad-ass motorcycle demon with a past so tortured he like, can’t even talk about it (until he does). I always wondered what Beauty and the Beast would be like if, instead of good, it was like, really, really awful. Now I know.
Big Momma is back for a third joyless excursion into ‘let’s-all-laugh-at-the-silly-black-woman-because-it-doesn’t-count-as-racism’ territory, which now features a second ridiculous fat-suited goon – now with extra rapping!. I hope Martin Lawrence spends his evenings thinking about how he’d be more use to humanity as fertiliser, sobbing onto his immorally inflated bank statements.