The word is flimsy. Sunhil Sippy has turned out such a weightless, feeble Bollywood adaptation of Saba Imtiaz’s novel Karachi, You’re Killing Me!—with Mumbai taking the place of that Pakistani city and Sonakshi Sinha leading the charge—that it seems very much at risk of catching in the breeze and blowing away (oh, that it would). Of course, the problem with the new Noor isn’t so much that it’s too silly—genuine silliness can be a lot fun, and if anything, the film could’ve used more silliness—but that it’s just so darned clueless about its own limitations, despite putting on such smug, self-aware airs. Rather than sticking to its few strengths, Noor aims for far too much heft than it is equipped to carry, expectedly letting it all drop soon enough and making for a largely frustrating, and occasionally cringesome, two-hour watch. 

We make the acquaintance of Noor Roy Chowdhury (Sinha), a twenty-something journalist living in Mumbai, who is presently stuck in a rut of sorts. Not only does she hate her job—though she’s keen on doing more substantial, “issue-based” stories for the online media company she works for, editor Shekhar (Manish Chaudhari) will only assign her the fluffiest of fluff pieces—but she’s also suffering a bit of a romantic drought, not for lack of trying. Not to mention, the water heater in the apartment she shares with her widowed father (M K Raina) has long been out of service but the maid keeps forgetting to get it fixed, forcing Noor to resort to freezing cold showers. BFFs Zara (Shibani Dandekar) and Saad (Kanan Gill) are about the only people who can cheer her up marginally, but even their company can have a price—usually in the form of terrific hangovers the next day.

Look, I know it all sounds a bit daft, and very much in the spirit of the many Hollywoodian (and increasingly, Bollywoodian) depictions of the existential crises of narcissistic, entitled middle-class Millennials—Noor might whine about being too broke to afford smokes, or pay the installments on her car, but she still wears all the cute clothes, uses a nice computer and doesn’t appear to have to worry about paying rent. But even if you can’t fully relate to her woes and might shake your head at such blatant self-absorption, there’s still potential here for some entertainment. Indeed, the early scenes have a playful, breezy vibe about them—while not entirely convincing, it is reasonably enjoyable to watch our klutzy protagonist fret endlessly and uselessly about work and weight and men in a manner very much reminiscent of that rom-com Hall-of-Famer, airhead extraordinaire, Bridget Jones. 

Until the film suddenly veers off course in a misguided reach for more depth, bringing down the whole house in the process.

The latter two-thirds of Noor exasperate in a number of ways, not least the flippancy with which it treats a serious subject. Our young journalist finally happens upon a real story—one that offers the possibility of actually making a difference in the lives of people other than herself, you know, exactly like she wanted—and, for all her non-stop complaining about having her “groundwork and research” dismissed by her higher-ups and generally being underestimated, she screws it up monumentally. No wonder she wasn’t trusted with important stories before this. 

Had the film been smart enough to acknowledge this glaring fact—that Noor is just plain terrible at her job—and turned the whole story into a viable examination of citizen journalism in the age of social media, its virtues, its dangers, things could’ve possibly still been salvaged. Instead, however, we get to see Noor being handed redemption on a silver platter, practically rewarded for her incompetency, simply because, well, her heart’s in the right place? She can spit out a mean monologue? Is that really enough?

This is just a part, in fact, of the broader problem of the film’s rather dubious, and over-simplified-to-the-point-of-absurdity understanding of journalism: it sermonizes loudly and with embarrassing earnestness on the most clichéd of ethical questions, and then neatly resolves them in the most black-and-white manner you could imagine, with zero nuance or subtlety. Not to say that these are not legitimate issues, but Noor’s approach to unpacking them is as naïve, and tediously homily-ridden, as they come, making it impossible to take any of it seriously—particularly in that ridiculous climax. You’ll see what I mean.

Even as the film crumbles around her, however, Sinha hangs on admirably, determined to see it to the end. And though not her best work by a long shot—there’s frequently a forced quality to the childish, cutesy goofiness she tries to pull off here that gets on one’s nerves—it’s many a notch over those thankless roles opposite Akshay Kumar that she appears to take up on an annual basis where she is little more than scenery. There’s a definite ease about her interactions, however limited, with Dandekar and Gill, as well as with Chaudari. And a special mention is warranted by Smita Tambe, who makes such poignant impact in what little time she has on screen: scenes with her can feel like they’re taken from a whole other, far better movie.   

Reliable performances, then, aren’t enough to rescue Noor. If only it hadn’t overstretched itself quite so and been happy instead to explore possibilities within rom-com territory. As glad as I am to see more women-led films coming out of late, there needs to be an effort to write more diverse, more complex, and certainly more interesting lead characters than we have here—we could start with shelving the “spunky female-journalist” archetype, for one; I confess I’m rather sick of it at this point. I haven’t read Imtiaz’s book, so I can’t really speak for how the film compares to its source material, but I also can’t say I’m particularly excited to pick up the volume and check for myself—I think I’ll pass on this one. Too bad it’s too late to do the same with the film.