Understandably, the Americans haven’t always been too pleased with the idea of having their valuable jobs being outsourced to India. But, like Todd (Josh Hamilton) in Outsourced, there was hardly much that they could do about it. Sent to India to train local call center executives, he is greeted by a sacred cow inside the office.
The hostess at the place where he’s put up watches in shock as Todd picks up his food with his left hand. The aged host gets up from his armchair, squats on the ground with a disgusted look on his face, and imitates the action of his left hand cleaning the crap off his buttocks. The film makes no mention of how left handers do these things.
It would have helped immensely had the director and his co-writer spent quality time in India doing some basic research and clearing up at least a few of the innumerous ridiculous myths that they have about this huge country and its varied peoples, customs, arts, and traditions.
The hippies of the west have always been known to have a fixation and fascination for all things exotic. Showered with various colored powders on the occasion of holi, the festival of colors, the yank experiences a kind of liberation. Very soon, the spectator gets to see another cliché: the westerner’s heart and soul yearns to be caressed by a beautiful Indian woman.
Initially, Hamilton gives you the impression of a lost and frustrated individual in an alien land. As time goes by and the dust starts settling, his facial muscles relax as he begins to feel at home. No one is particularly funny, though there are a few genuine laughs on offer. Some of the junior artistes are awful.
For that ethnic Indian feel, the cinematographer has filled his canvas with brightly colored articles. For a welcome change, gimmicky transitions have not been resorted to, as is usual in this low-budget-exotic-Indian-film-made-by-a-westerner genre. The Indian music adds greatly to the exotic feel. Despite a mediocre script with no exceptional scenes, the film still manages to possess a certain charm.
Touching on cross-cultural differences, John Jeffcoat’s depiction of life in India has its funny moments that one can easily relate to, such as buckets being used to drain rain water flooding into the office, and men in formal wear eating colored ‘ice fruits’ on the streets. Mostly, though, it’s a stereotypical westerner’s view, sometimes derogatory at times, and far, far removed from reality.
