Imagine watching a slide show where the projector lingers on every slide long enough for you to completely memorize it three times over. Now imagine that the images in the slide show consist entirely of mundane scenes a small park; and empty tennis court; a piano. Now imagine that the people running the slide show are having a frustratingly slow, semi-lucid conversation about events that only occasionally relate to the slides they're showing you. Great you've just imagined the entirety of the film `India Song.'
The film is an agonizingly slow montage of images that do little except to simply scream out `Look at me! I am PROFOUND!!' with such blatant self-importance that the images themselves and the movie as a whole are rendered not merely bereft of profundity, but COMICALLY bereft of profundity. The visuals could easily have been replaced by a series of static images as described above, since it is so rare that there are actually people on screen, and even when they are, the people actually move only slightly more often than the furniture. They never speak or interact in any meaningful way they just stand there looking at each other, and occasionally crying. The most energetic moment in the entire first hour of the film is when three people walk across a parking lot in slow motion. In fact, the visuals could easily have been left out entirely, as the story is told completely through narration. The story is about a woman who hates India because it's hot, and hates people don't hate India because it's hot (this point is covered several times). It is also about a man who feels that he is entitled to sleep with the aforementioned woman, since she will sleep with anyone who asks her to, but he doesn't get to sleep with her simply because he never asks, and he's very upset about this. So he stares at her as a single tear runs profoundly down his cheek. Later on, he stares at his bicycle, as a single tear runs profoundly down his cheek. Actually, you don't get to see the single tear running profoundly down his cheek when he's staring at his bicycle, but you know it's there anyway, just because that's the sort of film this is.
At best, the narration becomes background hum, serving as a perfect compliment to the coma-inducing visuals. Simply staying conscious through the entirety of this film would require a supreme act of determination. To watch it and actually come away with a serious and meaningful idea of what it was supposed to be about would induce the same sort of migraine as trying to read lengthy technical documents in the dark. This film is perhaps the greatest monument of pseudo-artistic pretension that man will ever know.
The film is an agonizingly slow montage of images that do little except to simply scream out `Look at me! I am PROFOUND!!' with such blatant self-importance that the images themselves and the movie as a whole are rendered not merely bereft of profundity, but COMICALLY bereft of profundity. The visuals could easily have been replaced by a series of static images as described above, since it is so rare that there are actually people on screen, and even when they are, the people actually move only slightly more often than the furniture. They never speak or interact in any meaningful way they just stand there looking at each other, and occasionally crying. The most energetic moment in the entire first hour of the film is when three people walk across a parking lot in slow motion. In fact, the visuals could easily have been left out entirely, as the story is told completely through narration. The story is about a woman who hates India because it's hot, and hates people don't hate India because it's hot (this point is covered several times). It is also about a man who feels that he is entitled to sleep with the aforementioned woman, since she will sleep with anyone who asks her to, but he doesn't get to sleep with her simply because he never asks, and he's very upset about this. So he stares at her as a single tear runs profoundly down his cheek. Later on, he stares at his bicycle, as a single tear runs profoundly down his cheek. Actually, you don't get to see the single tear running profoundly down his cheek when he's staring at his bicycle, but you know it's there anyway, just because that's the sort of film this is.
At best, the narration becomes background hum, serving as a perfect compliment to the coma-inducing visuals. Simply staying conscious through the entirety of this film would require a supreme act of determination. To watch it and actually come away with a serious and meaningful idea of what it was supposed to be about would induce the same sort of migraine as trying to read lengthy technical documents in the dark. This film is perhaps the greatest monument of pseudo-artistic pretension that man will ever know.