In The Guru, Delhi dance instructor Ramu Gupta leaves his job teaching sari'd middle-aged women the Macarena to go to New York where he believes his cousin lives in a penthouse and drives a Mercedes. What Ramu finds is his cousin driving a cab and sharing a fifth-floor walk-up with three other guys. Ramu, still determined to make it in showbiz, ends up accidentally auditioning for a porn director, played to greasy, matter-of-fact perfection by Michael McKean. He is impressed with Ramu's dancing and gives him a shot as a hula-skirt wearing horny native boy in the next feature at Ramrod Studios.

Enter Sharrona, played by Heather Graham, widening her porn star character oeuvre. We feel that we should let all viewers know that there is no Rollergirl action here, so, no, you will not see Heather Graham's naughty bits. Instead, Sharrona is a sweet li'l thing who offers Ramu, now dubbed "Rammy," advice to help him get over his performance anxiety, wink wink, and get back in the porn biz. And with her advice, which includes one creepy scene where she writhes on the floor singing "Don't Go Changin'," Rammy falls in lurrrrve. Cue twittering birds.

Soon Rammy is at a chi-chi Manhattan party full of people who expect a real-live guru---turban, flowers and all---to speak while they chase down their lithium with Cosmopolitans. Unfortunately, the real guru gets drunk. Ah, but Ramu is available to impersonate him, and bang: you've got your zany romantic-comedy-required mix-up. Alas, Ramu can't think of anything to speechify about except for the sexual advice he's gotten from Sharrona, so he feeds this assembled crowd her ridiculous porno platitudes. The rich dupes eat this up with a spoon. Ramu becomes a Guru of Sex. Rise to fame, romantic misunderstandings, dance numbers ensue.

Dance numbers?

One thing we particularly liked was the incorporation of the silly, snappy terpsichorean hijinks we've seen in the Bollywood musicals they show on the televisions at Delhi Dhaba while we eat our chicken tikka. Director Daisy von Scherler Mayer fits them into the movie in such a way that the audience laughs along with the ridiculousness, thus granting us permission to enjoy something this totally fruity. Lots of spinning, lots of eye rolling, lots of literal acting of song lyrics. (Think Steve Perry asserting that he'll "break those chains that bind you.") When set to poppier Indian music, or "The One that I Want" from Grease, even the staunchest anti-musical moviegoer feels persuaded to tap their foot like a repressed Southern Baptist at a hootenanny.

The goofiness of the romantic comedy is just right to support dance numbers, dumb porn movie plots, and the slickness of the Manhattan publicity machine's transformation of Ramu into the Guru of Sex. You'll leave the theater nodding your head to the music, ready to think about what you need to get at the grocery store---just the right kind of entertainment for the days of duct tape and battery-hoarding. If you're looking for something light and silly that sparkles like a mirrored scarf or a stick-on bindi, The Guru fits the bill.

The Vicar