Big bats, big bugs, big everything

A little after the start and the screen is alive with motion, pulsating with eye-catching colour.

And that's just the ads.

Two vertical strips of adverts flank the screen, accompanied by a super across the base that lies brazenly: "Watch the IPL ad-free in theatres". An ad break follows immediately after, to rub it in. It is a time-out, and evidently there's no escaping ads during the time-out, not even if you've paid to watch the game ad-free in a cinema.

Among the ads is one that encourages viewers to let their phones ring all they like - since it isn't a movie, see. And to come watch the IPL in theatres with friends and family - since, presumably, only that will bring in enough money to keep Preity Zinta in the style she's accustomed to. Clearly these messages have not been effective, for there are only about 25 people in the theatre on the night.

One is in a Mumbai Indians t-shirt. Some have thoughtfully brought whistles to blow at significant moments. Half-hearted chants of "Sachin" go up now and then; these will be replaced by slightly more robust ones of "Tiwary" later.

It's all quite cinematic and vast. There are epic shots of sweat on bowlers' forearms. There's a slo-mo one of Tendulkar running towards the camera, the gold trim on his uniform winking, where you half expect him to brandish a lance and yell in a suitably Latinate language. The Kotla is the Bullring. Nannes is a frowning Viking. Kieron Pollard is Wesley Snipes. In bulging chest guard and lank hair, Sourabh Tiwary is a dreadlocked Andrew Symonds circa 2007.

The sound, especially, is larger than life. The crack of bat on ball is crisp and ringing. Singles sound like they should be threes, fours boom like they ought to be sixes. There's a spongy slap-thump as the keeper falls over chasing a wide. You miss not a nuance of the simulated excitement that comes pouring out of L Siva as he informs you with conviction that "it's going to be a grrrate night".

There are also the bits you don't see at home. To everyone who wondered just what goes on between overs, it is this: batsmen gardening; fielders hustling across the park, signalling with their hands; Danny Morrison stalking the perimeter like a beast of prey; bats being changed; JP Duminy looking inscrutable in the dugout; umpires adjusting the stumps till they're just so; the bowler, any bowler, walking away chastened; the DJ hectoring the audience senseless

In terms of plot, the show may have gone south halfway, but there are consolations. There's a running gag (the ad that pops up between balls; gets you every time). There's romantic interest (cue shot of Brian Lara with female friend in the posh seats). Even a Supergirl reference (one set of cheerleaders wears fetching blue tops and red skirts made of what looks like vinyl).

Speaking of cheerleaders, there are real live ones in the foyer of the theatre. Or real live pretend ones at any rate - underage reality-show aspirants armed with pompoms, who writhe anaemically to the hits of the day on a stage set up to look like the one at the post-match, complete with sponsor logos.

A girl with a mike accosts a punter and asks him who he's supporting, whereupon he delivers a stern and well-enunciated "Obviously". A Virender Sehwag tribute? "Mumbai Indians," he finishes triumphantly. Take that, surprise-ending fans.

People are then urged to play a game where the active participant tries, blindfolded, to hit a set of stumps about 10 feet away, while he receives advice from his sighted partner. Unspeakably thrilling though it is, I tear myself away and go back into the auditorium, where things seem to be winding down.

"Bosh," the big screen in the stadium exclaims after a beamer. "Whoops," it goes after a drop. Nita Ambani looks on like a concerned schoolteacher.

The bugs are taking over the world. Armies of them are raining down against the smoggy backdrop of the stands. The Daredevils cannot resist the invasion and fold in a heap. To those watching at home, it may have looked like the Mumbai bowlers were responsible, but you had to be in the theatre to appreciate the sci-fi subplot at work.

The man in the Mumbai t-shirt walks out with eight overs left. All over bar the shouting, as they say, but considering Pommie Mbangwa is in the house, there's rather a lot of that left. In Dolby stereo. Memo to self: next time, bring earplugs.