With intoxicating visuals, winsome child protagonists, and an exotic locale—hello, Taj Mahal—Slumdog Millionaire has so much going for it. It’s almost a shame to spoil the party, but with all the attention Trainspotting director Danny Boyle’s latest film is getting, it’s worth paying attention to some of its flaws in order to understand how storytelling can go wrong.
Slumdog Millionaire is not without its charms. Scripted by Simon Beaufoy (The Full Monty) from a novel by Vikas Swarup, Slumdog follows Jamal Malik, a poor orphan who fought his way out of Mumbai to win India’s version of “Who Wants to be a Millionaire?” Young Jamal, played by an adorably scrappy Ayush Mahesh Khedekar, and his older brother Salim, pick pockets, scam tourists, and otherwise wreak havoc until they land in the not-so-tender care of Maman (Ankur Vikal), who has nefarious plans for Jamal.
As the boys grow up, Jamal aims at the straight and narrow, while Salim scrambles for power. Fueling Jamal’s quest for betterment is his yearning for Latika. She was just a girl when he fell in love with her, but is now a young woman with no legitimate prospects. The core of Slumdog Millionaire is a love story that should be maudlin, but the strength of Khedekar’s performance in setting up Jamal’s early infatuation with Latika elevates the sentimental storyline into the realm of pure romance.
Would that the rest of the film lived up to Khedekar’s performance. The core premise of the film is that Jamal, played as an adult by Dev Patel, has gotten all the answers right on “Who Wants to be a Millionaire?” and is now in police custody, suspected of cheating. By way of proving that he did not cheat, Jamal tells his life story to the Inspector (Irrfan Khan of The Namesake), because by pure coincidence, each answer has a personal connection to Jamal.
Here’s where the trouble starts. While this concept may work in a novel, where the author has the room to luxuriate in minutiae and character development, on film it’s a little tedious. It’s impossible to lose yourself in Jamal’s story when you know that each vignette is one of a fixed number. Boyle and Beaufoy attempt to manufacture some drama in the second half of the film, but it feels forced.
The trouble is that Boyle clings too closely to today’s, too-persistent narrative ideal of realism as a visual style. Some of the early scenes in the Mumbai slums call to mind Fernando Meirelles and Kátia Lund’s City of God, only without that film’s social commentary. Boyle gives us nothing of Indian culture beyond the surface, relying instead on some collective understanding of what it means to be poor in the subcontinent.
Realism is nothing without The Real, and Slumdog Millionaire is pure artifice. If only Boyle would’ve embraced the fantastic, instead of trying to convince the audience that Jamal’s story was plausible. Boyle closes the film with a Bollywood-style dance number featuring Jamal and Latika, which serves as a sharp reminder of what the film could—and should—have been.
Why not embrace the fantasy? Heighten the emotions, play with the drama. Don’t make the audience buy the story. Sell us on the dream that everything happens for a reason, that all of our personal pain and the sum of history’s events happen so that we can find a love that lasts. A story doesn’t have to be real to be Real. If ever a movie begged for musical treatment, it’s Slumdog Millionaire.
The supporting characters belie the thesis that Boyle is aiming for realism. Apart from Jamal, none of the characters have much depth. Latika fares the worst, stuck with the task of embodying Jamal’s romantic ideal, but that’s to be expected in a story about puppy love.
It’s Salim who deserves better. Once the two brothers grow past childhood, actor Madhur Mittal has to put Salim through dramatic paces that grow increasingly melodramatic. The opening scenes create such a great tension between the brothers that it’s disappointing to see it dissipated by a scattered screenplay.
Slumdog Millionaire’s conclusion has the potential to leave audiences in a puddle on the floor, but the early stabs at social realism and the awkwardness of the script dilute the power of the ending. Danny Boyle’s superlative visual style may cover over a multitude of sins, but the reality is that doesn’t make it to the top.Slumdog Millionaire
Annie Frisbie is a Writers Guild of America Award-nominated screenwriter, film critic, and adjunct instructor of creative writing at Bethel University’s New York Center for Art and Media Studies.
