Self-consciously striving to avoid every Bollywood trope and trace of Satyajit Ray, this Indian slum fantasia owes more to American gutter-punk tradition. You could call it Last Exit to Bengal. There, in Kolkata, former video and commercials director Q frames his story in stark black-and-white. Gandu is about 20, fatherless and resentful of his mother's lover. When the latter two have sex, Gandu crawls across their bedroom floor like an insect to steal some cash. Out on the street, he throws down Bengali hip-hop rhymes ("My heart is a crematorium . . . ") and posts his graffiti tag in dilapidated alleyways.