Sylvester Stallone punching a stuntman through a drywall set in Los Angeles while an overqualified Kareena Kapoor looks mildly inconvenienced is not the weirdest thing in this movie, but it stays with you. If I'm honest, the whole enterprise feels less like a narrative feature and more like a high-end Hollywood talent agency realized they had unused frequent flyer miles to burn in Mumbai. You sit there in the dark watching Denise Richards walk through a crowded party scene with the specific glazed expression of a person who was told lunch would be served thirty minutes ago and you wonder who signed off on the logistics.

Sabir Khan directs with the visual flair of a man trying to edit a three-hour commercial on zero sleep, cutting between hyper-saturated sunset shots of Santa Monica and soundstages that clearly smell of fresh paint and stale coffee. The screenplay borrows heavily from a Hollywood rom-com that nobody remembers fondly, though it throws in extra weddings and gratuitous motorcycle chases just to make sure the running time hits the mandated threshold for Hindi films released during that summer. Characters wander into frame without narrative justification, drop a punchline that sounds like it was translated from a 1990s sitcom script via automated software, and vanish back into the smoke machines. It is a loud, messy blueprint of a motion picture that relies entirely on the star power of Akshay Kumar to keep the wheels attached to the chassis while the engine smokes visibly from underneath.

Akshay plays a stuntman named Viraj who treats his profession with the solemn gravity of a neurosurgeon, despite spending most of his screen time shirtless and shouting at women who are infinitely smarter than him. He has done this specific roguish charmer routine in dozens of other projects like Housefull, yet here he seems slightly more exhausted by the sheer volume of dialogue he has to spit out between action beats. Kareena as Simrita brings a glacial, glossy perfection to the role of a surgeon who apparently has nothing to do all day except argue about male vanity in designer kitchens. They have zero romantic chemistry, which actually fits the script quite well because the characters spend ninety percent of their time trying to humiliate each other in public settings that defy basic urban planning.

The soundtrack features Anu Malik beats that sound like they were recycled from a rejected export version of a nineties action thriller, thumped out over bass lines that rattle the teeth right out of your skull. I could have lived without hearing that one specific brass stinger every time a character turns around sharply to deliver a reaction shot, a small mechanical annoyance that repeats every four minutes until you want to claw your own ears off. The cinematography alternates between sun-drenched Los Angeles panoramas that look like stock footage bought on a discount tier and studio interiors lit by twenty different colored gels fighting for dominance over the actors' faces.

There is an entire subplot involving Kunal Kapoor and Amrita Arora that feels so aggressively bolted on to the main narrative that you half expect the actors to check their watches mid-scene. The film's themes are a muddled mess of old-fashioned misogyny wrapped up in glossy modern wardrobes, pretending to champion independent women while actually punishing them with boring marriage plots whenever they get too mouthy. It wants to be a breezy transatlantic romance, but it drags its feet through long stretches of repetitive shouting matches that test the patience of anyone over the age of twelve.

We are told constantly that these people are living glamorous, jet-setting lives, yet every single location looks like a rented corporate lounge with the company logos digitally erased. Aftab Shivdasani pops up in a supporting role that consists largely of looking confused while standing near catering tables, a mood that accurately reflects the audience's internal state about an hour into the runtime. You leave the theater with a headache caused by the sound mixing rather than any emotional resonance, clutching your ticket stub like evidence from a minor traffic accident.