I should have known the moment Nandita Das crossed a temple courtyard to tie a prayer flag around a tree: this movie would turn out like Bore.

Ramchand Pakistani is not a movie in the sense that most of us understand the term, images and ideas which expose us to new experiences. It is, instead, a shared, ritual cliché, like the abecedarian series which so delight toddlers. Everything in this tale about father-and-son villagers apprehended when they stray across the border into India is angled to please your inner jholiwala. Save for sultry, tart-tongued Maria Wasti as a constable who educates young Ramchand while mouthing the dialogues to Chandni, there’s not a fresh thought in its noggin.

The movie so sanitizes the story, the Indian jail which holds our heroes is more pleasant than the average East Village bedsit. At one point Das faces the camera and utters an elemental cry of anguish. Watching a fellow human’s breakdown can be so painful that we ask that films earn the right to show that image. Mother India earned it; Ramchand never comes close. Das’ wail reflects the inner lament of the filmgoer. Movies this trite should come with a warning label.

The trailer:

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