Right from the build-up, featuring what is meant to be a thrilling boat ride and a fight with a fake-looking crocodile, all the better to show off Hrithik’s rippling chest and ripping valour, Mohenjo Daro is a plod, and a heavily borrowed one to boot: the entry into a forbidden town ( which strongly reminds us of Baahubali) , the romance with a pretty stranger, the rivalry with a muscle-bound fellow, the unravelling of dark secrets, the saving of a town from a beastly ruler—we’ve seen so many versions of it before.
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It beats me how so much time and effort can be spent on creating something meant to be jaw-dropping, but which leaves you sighing at the sheer waste of it all. Just when you think the plot is shifting just a fraction, out pops yet another item number, complete with whirling dervishes ( remember Jodhaa Akbar? ) and belly dancers: how can you have a Hrithik film without getting him on the floor, even if it is daubed in mud?
