It was dreadfully embarrassing. Aimed smack dab center between the eyes of AARP members, this was your cinematic alternative if you felt yourself too mature and tasteful to follow the masses to The Avengers. It's a gross insult to the mature and tasteful, even if they're too dull to notice it (more on that below). Talented if wizened actors, the colors of India, the deft and droll touch of British filmmaking. What could go wrong? Too, too much, that's what. This is the exact sort of thing that the British were good at, until they realized they were good at it. They ran out of E.M. Foster books to adapt and churned out market-driven garbage like this. Did you know Indian food gives you the shits? Funny stuff, right? Well, it knocked them dead at the elitist wealthy boomer-centered Bethesda cinema I visited this weekend. Me? I wanted to stand up and scream at them. Did you know that there's somewhere in the cinematic world where someone can respond to an announcment that somebody is gay with "You mean... like jolly?" and elicit audience laughter? I was outraged at them all. To the extent that the characters are drawn at all, Bill Nighy is a civil service retiree harried by his haradin wife, Judy Dench is supposed to be some sort of sheltered housewife who uses her widowhood to search for herself, and Maggie Smith (God bless her) is utterly humiliated as an openly racist middle-class hip-replacement candidate. (After refusing to be examined by a black doctor, she motions to him scrubbing up at the sink, and says, "'E can scrub all 'e wants, 'e's never gonna get that color off.") God help anybody who laughs at this. God help them when they ask themselves why the hell they laughed. But you know, they'll all redeem themselves, in the magic of In'ja. They all move there because their retirement funds dried up too much to afford retirement in Britain (but none of them because of the global recession, which might have, you know, spoke to one or two people). The country itself is portrayed sort of ridiculously, with their young hotel operator full of wacky Indian philosophy, an untouchable inexplicably allowed to handle food, and couples somehow unashamedly and openly make out in the streets. The religious culture of the place is referred to in passing, but always exists off-camera. What India is this? When our pretty packed house of fellow moviegoers clapped at the end, our jaws dropped. We briefly considered seeing if we could catch a late showing of Avengers to clear our palates. Get me Bill Nighy on line two. He and I need to have words.