It is very hard to fathom the purpose of this aimless flight. If the idea behind A Flying Jatt is to unveil a new money-spinning franchise, we don't know about the money bit but it would be a moviegoer's worst nightmare come true.
Isn't one bad enough? A few more such flicks would be cinematic hell.
Poorly mounted, abysmally acted and dreadfully tedious, A Flying Jatt, directed and co-written by choreographer Remo D'Souza, flies on empty.
Its ideas and themes are ripped off from sundry sources and cobbled together in a scrappy, sloppy comic-strip fantasy that is about as steady as an eel on a slippery slope.
A Flying Jatt is so whimsically infantile in its conception of a homegrown Superman-like crime-buster that it never gains any height.
Even for those that are suckers for superhero actioners, the film lacks the punch required to pass muster.
So where is this Jatt flying? Devoid of magic and mystery, the film takes all of two-and-a-half hours to deliver a grand anti-pollution message: everything has an alternative, but not Mother Earth.
True, there is no alternative for good sense. When will Bollywood stop foisting such glossily-packaged garbage bags upon us?
Yes, A Flying Jatt, anchored by a glassy Tiger Shroff whose acting skills are still pretty rudimentary, delivers a truckload of trash that inevitably stinks to high heaven.
Flying on a wing and a prayer, this film about a young Jatt in a rut is a yawn-inducing exercise that only gets worse with every passing frame, each as fatuous as the previous one.
It is a tree in the middle of a water body that triggers all the mayhem. It bears a divine sign on which much irrational mumbo-jumbo is centered.
An industrialist (Kay Kay Menon) desperately needs the land in order to build a bridge to serve his polluting factory by the lake.
The Patiala peg-swigging mother (Amrita Singh) of a blundering martial arts teacher Aman (Tiger Shroff), speaking for all the residents of Kartar Singh Colony, refuses to part with the patch no matter what.
The angry entrepreneur unleashes a man mountain called Raka (WWE fighter Nathan Jones) to browbeat the lady's son into submission.
To begin with, this lad is diffidence personified. He is afraid of heights, is bullied by his students, and is the butt of ridicule for his colleagues.
His mom keeps reminding him that his dear departed father was the first sardar in history to learn kung-fu at the feet of a Shaolin master.
So swift were the late patriarch's moves that the Chinese gave him the title Flying Jatt. Sounds Greek? It is.
To return to the story, in a violent confrontation, as the mamma's boy is pinned to the aforementioned tree by the murderous Raka and is on the brink of being reduced to pulp, providence intervenes.
The young man turns into an invincible force. He can now fly and beat the shit out of wrongdoers. What's more, no bullet nor dagger can harm him anymore.
Her entreaties to the Lord answered, his mother breaks into a dance of joy. "Superhero ban gaya," she chants.
She even stitches a garish costume for her son to go with his new-found saviour-of-the-meek status. The rest of the film is anything but super.
Subjected to lightning strikes, Raka ends up in a dump of toxic industrial waste. He lies there for so long that, when he emerges from the mess, he becomes the very embodiment of all that is ugly in the air that we breathe.
The mighty arch-villain's blood turns black and he spews dark fumes through his mouth and nostrils.
The lowbrow comic-strip spirit of A Flying Jatt extends to the film's rough-hewn production design. Nothing that appears on the screen, neither the houses nor the props, looks real.
The home in which the protagonist and his mom live, as well as those around it, resemble cardboard structures.
The CGI-laden office of the evil industrialist looks straight out of a futuristic fantasy.
Jacqueline Fernandez signals all that is wrong with this film. Playing Kirti, a schoolteacher who does anything but teach, she is the hero's romantic interest and song-and-dance partner.
The smitten girl act that Jacqueline is called upon to perform is hopelessly over the top, but it is well in keeping with the rest of the film, which, as it title warns, never has its feet on the ground.
In a prelude to a musical set piece, the superhero asks his besotted lady love: "Do you trust me?" She nods. And, lo and behold, he picks her up and takes her on a ride through nothingness, singing and dancing in mid-air.
Elsewhere in A Flying Jatt, the thwarted and frustrated entrepreneur demands to know from his hatchet man where he should funnel the effluents that his factory produces. "Where," he thunders, "do I dump my waste?"
Not here please, Mr. D'Souza.