Slumdog Millionaire
What a fun and life-affirming neo-colonial romp through third world slums… This might not be so fatuous if its trite filmmaking clichés weren’t slathered in condescending fetishization of the exotic Indian Other. Brown People! Poor Brown People!! For some unfathomable reason Danny Boyle decided to shoot this atrocity as kinetically, frantically, and brightly as possible, rendering any real emotional connection with the characters moot by making the film look like a rote and empty actioner.
Its got everything: a meet-cute, destiny-driven ending; a completely un-credible yet predictable change of heart by a bad guy, resulting in said meet-cute; a standard issue rags-to-riches plotline; a ludicrous freeze-frame shot of the final kiss that manages to not just insult 400 Blows from 50 years in the future, but also to pervert its enduring insight; then topped off with a This Is What Indian Movies Are Like wannabe-Bollywood dance number. All tied together by the protagonist’s flashback recollections of how he learned the answers to the Millionaire questions—each scenario just as preposterously aleatory as the last, made only to show off his street smarts and parade around his erstwhile status as “slumdog,” rather than offering any real character depth or insight.
The point is that this is a middling film that has nothing unique about it except that it is ostensibly about India, starring Indian people. No one should care, and the only reason they do, overlooking the absolute mediocrity of everything about it, is because it is ostensibly about India, starring Indian people. At least if it wins best picture no one can say it’s the worst winner ever. Crash still takes that cake by a mile. So it’s got that going for it, I guess.
