Mental Masturbation of a Senile Soul!

With all the colour it splashes, Navrang is a colourless affair. It tells a story, of a sort, but conveys no theme. It tries to weave a fantasy but manages only a fancy-dress show. It flirts with some vague history and turns it into farce. It toys with patriotic sentiments and reduces it to sour pantomime. It promises to tell about an inspiring poet and to provide glimpses into his inspiration and a taste of his poetry and imagery. Instead it tells about an effeminate creature who looks like a street-singer and produces relentlessly pedestrian verses that might have been written by a third-rate film lyricist’s ex-cook.