By Stephanie Zacharek
By Simon Abrams
By Michelle Orange
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Nick Schager
By Amy Nicholson
By The Invisible Woman
By I Used to Be Darker
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? Well, who wouldn't in this economy, even if the currency in question is rupees and winning the loot means being pegged as a fraud, getting a firsthand education in "enhanced" interrogation methods and having to relive some of the most painful moments of your past in order to prove your innocence? Such is the fate that greets Jamal, the eighteen-year-old Mumbai street urchin turned game-show contestant at the center of Danny Boyle's Slumdog Millionaire, an almost ridiculously ebullient Bollywood-meets-Hollywood concoction — and one of the rare "feel-good" movies that actually makes you feel good as opposed to merely jerked around.
Based on a novel by former Indian diplomat Vikas Swarup, the film opens with Jamal (Dev Patel) already in police custody, accused of somehow cheating during his appearance on the local version of Millionaire — which, in a nod to globalization, is all but indistinguishable from its British and American counterparts. Given the third degree by a tough but ultimately decent police inspector (the excellent Irfan Khan) who demands to know how this lowly tea boy from the slums could possibly know enough to advance to the show's twenty-million-rupee final round, Jamal flashes back over the key events of a life that, quite literally, contains all the answers. The violent death of Jamal's mother at the hands of anti-Muslim extremists explains his familiarity with one of the Millionaire questions; a childhood infatuation with Bollywood movie star Amitabh Bachchan yet another; and so on.
The potential for a treacly Good Will Hunting of the Mumbai ghetto abounds, but Boyle and screenwriter Simon Beaufoy think more in terms of a minor-scale Dickensian epic: As Jamal journeys down memory lane, the crux of Slumdog Millionaire becomes the pull of time and tide on the relationship between Jamal, his artful-dodger brother Salim and the suitably beautiful, unattainable Latika (Freida Pinto), the lifelong object of Jamal's undying affection. It's Jamal's dream to rescue Latika from her current situation as the semi-willing concubine of a Mumbai underworld heavy — the same one, as it happens, who has Salim on his payroll.
Zigging to and fro, Slumdog Millionaire whips these familiar raw ingredients into a feverish masala, at once touristic and something deeper, that drenches the screen in the sights and sounds of modern Mumbai: Mischievous children scamper through mazes of corrugated-tin rooftops; crowds of washerwomen cleanse extravagantly colored fabrics in outdoor baths; eardrum-rattling traffic chokes the smoggy streets; trains clatter noisily into busy stations. So intent seems Boyle on cramming as much visual and sonic information as possible into each second of the movie that even the English subtitles jostle for position in the already densely packed frames. That sort of hyped-up aesthetic can quickly turn wearying, as it has in several of Boyle's less successful ventures, but here it is a fount of ever-renewable energy. "I am at the center of the center," Salim tells Jamal as they gaze out over the landscape of their former slum, now an oasis of skyward-reaching glass-and-steel towers. And watching Slumdog, you get the sense that, like Shanghai as seen in the films of Jia Zhangke, this former stretch of colonial Britain is changing before our eyes faster than even Boyle's camera can capture it.
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