Slumdog Millionaire and Collective Apoplexy

I often like to think that I'm not an ideologically or ethically arrogant person. Or at least I try not to be. Pluralism's a product of democracy, and that's a good thing, right? No one likes dictatorships. People should be free to follow their own beliefs, sometimes even regardless of factual or logical accuracy, as long as they don't affect the well being of others - yeah? Well, at least this is what things that I've read and discussed and thought over the last few years have led me to believe. And I still do like to believe this. But sometimes I think I've been misguided. Sometimes I think this might all be some kind of easy-way-out, philosophical spin-doctoring; a cover-all response to keep my head above water in any tricky argument. Anyway, the basis for what I think is based around this:

The enormous failures of the last century's major progressive movements (fascism, communism, free-market capitalism, technology - the list goes on) have made me feel that one should not be too fervent about one's beliefs, as there is a distinct chance one could be wrong, or at least mistaken, about them. Hitler, Stalin, Mao: none of these are people I particularly wish to emulate. Nietzsche's concept of eternal recurrence and Kundera's associative theory expounded in The Unbearable Lightness of Being - that the inability to replay any event in one's life makes all decisions uncertain and renders all acts insignificant, causing us much existential angst whilst simultaneously and paradoxically leaving us care-free - always struck a chord with me. We do not have the ability to replay our actions, can never be absolutely sure as to what outcomes will arise and only have history and culture from which to take any pointers or suggestions for making our decisions. But history, culture and the collective consciousness, I've frequently found, are often wrong. Or conflicting. Or contrary to what we feel deep down in the pit of our right/wrong stomach. This is why I've always struggled with history, politics and economics; basically because I can never have all the information, be sure of the facts and come to an irrefutable conclusion. As Kierkegaard said, 'I am brought to a standstill by my powers of reflection.'

So, with this in mind, I try to accept that I don't know better than everyone else; that the consensual majority, the status quo, is probably fairly right. Or, at least, that there is very little point in trying to do anything serious about it, as any effort I could make would have no universally beneficial outcome and would simply be an attempt to raise myself above others - the futility and hypocrisy of which I feel I would easily see through. But this mentality is something of a double-edged sword. As someone who refuses to ally himself to any particular cause or ideology I shouldn't get up in arms when something happens that I don't particularly like (an axiom that quite a few Mail contributors could probably do with taking on board).

There are times, however, when I feel I have to throw all these ideas out of the window; when I feel I have to get up on my high horse; when taking it lying down is simply not an option. Occasionally the general public commit mass acts of collective insanity, a crowd mentality takes over and mob rule becomes the norm. In these situations one has to take the bull by the horns and slay it with a well-structured argument.

Such an instance has recently occurred with the reception of Danny Boyle's new feel-good, coming-of-age, you'd-better-believe-it success-story, Slumdog Millionaire. Having attended the premiere on the closing night of the London Film Festival - and having found the film as charming and interesting as my last bowel movement - I was looking forward (as I often do with films of this calibre) to chuckling during my subsequent lunch-breaks at the imaginatively-penned vitriol used to rip the film apart in the critical pages. To my absolute and abject horror however, the film has generated nothing but reviews Orson Welles would have been proud of and press coverage usually reserved for Middle Eastern Conflicts and Celebrity Big Brother. Average ratings seem to be around the 90% mark and even my most critical and suspicious friends appear to be interested in seeing it.

The rationale for such praise has generally boiled down to one point: that it is incredibly hackneyed, but so well written, acted, shot and directed that one can forgive it all its faults, lie back and enjoy the ride. Unfortunately this is complete guff. The entire premise of the film is so utterly absurd that from the start my brow had furrowed into a relief map of incomprehension. What possible reason could the police have for beating up a contestant on Who Wants to be a Millionaire? Do they suspect him of being a terrorist? Has he stolen documents pertaining to national security to get on to the show? No, they just think that he's 'cheating'. Reason enough to beat someone to a pulp in a prison cell, of course. Duh.

After having Jamal's status as an underdog beaten into us more violently than his own rough treatment we get into the story proper. This is formed by a plot device more suited to Hollyoaks in its contrivance than a serious feature film: every question asked during the gameshow can be answered due to a certain moment in Jamal's life. Luckily, the order of questions corresponds exactly to the chronology of his life and conforms to tried and tested cinematic conventions: protagonist with heart of gold forgives transgressive brother/friend for misdemeanours over and over again and at last said friend comes through for them in hour of need; protagonist fails to secure love interest until he achieves social success, which culminates in teary train station rendez-vous, accompanied by string orchestra and nonsensical mutterings about 'destiny'.

Such points can, I suppose, be overlooked when the rest of the film is eloquently and deftly put together. This is what reading Peter Bradshaw's review in this week's Guardian -praising the 'instantly graspable storyline' and Anthony Dod Mantle's 'tremendous' cinematography - would have one believe. Unfortunately it seems as though Bradshaw has confused his cinematic terminology, mistaking 'instantly graspable' for 'cringingly trite' and 'utterly implausible' and 'tremendous' cinematography for 'shooting everything on a 30 degree angle'. He also seems to have confused the film's desire to not 'encumber itself with character complexity' as a positive, rather than the more obvious sign that no sentient being had any part in writing the script. To make matters worse he has also forgotten to comment on the film's rising young star, Dev Patel, whose impression of a dim-witted guppy fish reminded me of a kid I went to school with who always had one nostril blocked up with snot. And if that weren't enough it ends with a choreographed dance routine, even though the cast have less moves than Stephen Hawking (sorry).

When defined as commercial, quasi-Bollywood fare, trying to tap into the Anglo-Indian market, the film was irritating but acceptable - I don't mind mindless commercialism when it knows this is what it is. When lauded as 'this year's must-see film' and presented with more awards than many superior films get screenings, Slumdog Millionaire's reception stretches the boundaries of acceptable taste, reason and (yeah, I'm going to say it) decency. January 2009 will surely go down in history as the month that the whole world finally succumbed to the credit crunch and lost their collective marbles. If there are any among you (although it's not like anyone's reading this so I suppose it's sort of a rhetorical call to arms) who want to stand up and be counted in the name of HAVING ANY KIND OF CULTURAL NOUS OR EVEN SOME SIGN OF A FUCKING BRAIN then please make yourselves heard. We can't let the idiots win; intelligence must survive.