Everyone knows that winning Best Picture doesn’t guarantee that a film is any good. In the past few years alone, duds like Spotlight (2015) and Green Book (2019) have snatched the prize, so you don’t need to think very far back for evidence that the Academy isn’t always clear-eyed. But there’s one disaster of a movie that in my opinion tops them all for taking the honor without merit.
That film is Slumdog Millionaire (2008), directed by Danny Boyle. You’ve probably seen it or at least remember hearing a lot about it, since it was a sleeper hit at the time of its release and was the subject of numerous parodies and pop culture references in the ensuing years. Its badness is multifaceted enough to sustain an entire essay, which I’m happy to write. Then, I’ll try to draw some conclusions from its award success.
Slumdog Millionaire follows Jamal Malik (Dev Patel), an Indian teenager on the brink of winning “Who Wants to be a Millionaire?” Unfortunately for him, the show’s host believes that he’s a fraud and alerts the police of his presumed cheating. He must then explain to the police, who endeavor to torture him, how he has correctly answered every question in the trivia game show thus far despite his humble origins in the slums.
This premise is already irredeemably ridiculous. Why, exactly, is host Prem Kumar (Anil Kapoor) so upset about this situation? He appears to believe that he’s being upstaged, fuming, “it’s my fucking show!”—but in real life, undoubtedly a game show host would delight in participating in the dramatic story of a modest, likable underdog beating the odds. Instead, Jamal, who has generated the very human interest that the show is designed for, is…electrocuted? And…beaten to a pulp?
Neither does the police’s logic behind the suspicion of Jamal make any sense whatsoever. The officer in charge of the interrogation sputters that “doctors, lawyers” struggle with the show’s questions, whereas Jamal, a “slumdog,” impossibly answers them correctly. But as Jamal himself accurately protests, “You don’t have to be a genius” to answer these questions, as they’re all related to culture or pop culture. What do the contestants’ occupations have to do with whether they can answer these random trivia? I see no connection, but apparently the other characters have decided that the relationship is so ironclad that Jamal needs to be treated like a POW.
As an aside, I’ve noticed that when various media try to parody Slumdog Millionaire, they inevitably run into problems with this particular flaw, because it prevents the parody from distinguishing itself from the actual plot of the movie. For example, a spoof character is shown being interrogated and having to explain how he “knows the answers” due to comically improbable events that have occurred recently or during his life. But no matter how improbable and silly these parody events are, the parody invariably isn’t very funny, because Jamal also encounters the answers to the game show’s questions at extremely improbable moments—equally improbable, to be sure, as in the parody. Thus, the parody can only replicate the original, not subvert it with commonplaces. The plot device of Slumdog Millionaire, sneakily, is already commonplace: don’t we all learn the answers to potential trivia questions at very random moments during our lives?
Another important moment occurs when Kumar attempts to feed Jamal an incorrect answer. Kumar interprets Jamal’s disregarding of the lie as proof of cheating—but this is never even referenced by the interrogating officer, perhaps because it doesn’t prove anything at all. Maybe Jamal didn’t see the letter written on the mirror; or maybe he knew the answer already and only used the 50:50 lifeline to be sure; or maybe, as is actually the case, he simply doesn’t trust Kumar (for good reason). Yet another head-scratcher of a plot point.
But enough with the plot for now. Even more important to this film’s unsavoriness is the filmmaking itself.
I’ve never been to India, but on first viewing, I nevertheless sensed something false in the way the setting in this movie was treated. On repeat viewing, the issue is clear: Boyle, a white director, is only interested in the Indian slums for shock value, and his scenes accordingly employ the slums as a spectacle, even a gag at times—never as a complex world of fully realized, struggling characters. Of course, from our American perspective, the lack of resources in this environment is shocking. But focusing solely on this aspect poisons the relevant scenes with unreality; it prevents us from feeling as though we’re seeing the whole story. Boyle, by staging scenes like Jamal’s fall in the outhouse, is being greedy, sifting through the slums for their most alarming images. And it’s all for the titillation of American viewers.
At his best moments, Boyle gestures toward a kind of Indian Oliver Twist, with angry, heartless grownups and scared, meager children. But whereas Dickens and his true successors stare unflinchingly at poverty, painting the world of the poor with the authenticity of experience, Boyle, a stranger to the setting, is too astounded at what he sees to be true to us. He’s repulsed by the slums, and, scene after scene, it shows.
I leave it up to others with more relevant expertise to comment on the morality of what Boyle is doing here, and a quick Google search reveals that plenty have indeed done so. But there’s no question that from an artistic perspective, it’s malpractice. The setting of a film can’t be cheapened like this. Whereas Boyle could have cast an insightful lens on overlooked terrain, he instead leaves us with the impression of the slums as a zany launching pad for the two leads, a madhouse unworthy of their admirable personal qualities. There’s a Disney-esque aspect to this attitude, actually; I suspect Aladdin (1992) as one of Boyle’s subconscious influences.
A similar laziness applies to the relationship between the two leads. Jamal is our protagonist, and his goal is to save and marry Latika, the love of his life. Latika, who starts out with him in the slums but later winds up trapped in the world of a cruel crime lord, is very much the “damsel in distress” cliche. Now, I grant that this archetype can bear an interesting story if the characters are treated with nuance. But Latika barely receives any characterization at all throughout the film: she’s extremely bland, having no discernible personal qualities as an adult. She’s “tough,” I suppose, because she endures the slums and gets scarred with a knife (but it turns out looking kind of sexy, phew); still, rom-coms have better leads. Heck, Princess Peach has more personality.
Again, I leave it to others to argue about whether portrayals like these are socially damaging, but there’s no doubt that artistically, they don’t work. The characters of a film need to be true to life, and entirely bland people like Latika don’t exist, so when they appear on the screen, the film becomes merely abstract entertainment and loses its power to move us.
Let’s skip ahead to the monumentally absurd climax, where Jamal uses his “phone a friend” lifeline during a live broadcast of the show. It’s beyond obvious that this wouldn’t be allowed, since the person receiving the call could easily be cheating by looking up the answer. What’s more, the show’s producers don’t seem to know what phone number Jamal is dialing, which is also not how the show works, since he could theoretically be calling an expert on the subject whom he’s never met. This contrived situation leads to Latika picking up the phone even though she isn’t the intended recipient of the call, another irregularity that threatens the integrity of the show.
I’ll take a second to rewind here, because, as I recall, everybody seemed quite concerned about Jamal cheating when there was literally no evidence to suggest it. But here, they casually allow him to phone an unknown individual who, honestly, would be stupid not to be cheating, given the clear opportunity to do so unchecked. If only Jamal before the second broadcast had told someone, anyone, to be near a computer, look up the answer, and wait for his call…
Well, screw it, Jamal wins the grand prize anyway (if you didn’t predict that from the movie title), randomly guessing the answer out of the four choices. After he reunites with Latika and kisses her new (aesthetically pleasing) scar, the movie ends, and we get a dance number.
Now, I apologize to all the die-hard Bollywood fans out there—but come on. Liam Neeson doesn’t break out in a tap dance at the end of Schindler’s List. Let’s remember that this, um, wasn’t exactly a merry movie, featuring at one point, for example, the intentional blinding of children to maximize their utility as beggars. But that doesn’t matter, apparently; only the two main characters do, and they’re fine. So cue this tone-deaf final note.
In summary, my dislike of this movie spans virtually every aspect of production. The film features an implausible story; shallow, functional characters even in lead roles; a phony, sensationalist portrayal of an important setting; and inconsistent tone and message. Each of these flaws on its own should be sufficient to disqualify a film from Best Picture contention. This film boasts them all.
Sadly, though, not only did these attributes not disqualify Slumdog Millionaire from contention, but instead, they likely fueled its success. That’s because all of us, even experienced critics, are liable to be fooled into accepting the semblances of profoundness and depth without thinking twice about whether we’re been tricked. We’re liable to be caught up in ghastly images of the slums and believe we’re seeing the brutal truth, when we’re actually being fed a caricature for shock value. We’re liable to pull for Jamal as he pursues the woman of his dreams without wondering ourselves why, exactly, Jamal even likes her in the first place given her disconcerting lack of personality traits.
There’s a word for this dynamic: sentimentality. We’re conditioned to feel emotion when it’s conjured up, even when it’s not earned. And because of that, directors like Boyle will always be around, cynically offering us a feel-good high without any substance behind it. The films of these directors, of course, will eventually be relegated to obscurity, forgotten as Slumdog Millionaire nearly is despite winning only a decade ago—but by taking advantage of their viewers’ hunger for positive emotion and catharsis, and the consequent leniency those viewers give to films with a rough start and a happy ending, they can achieve both financial and critical success in the short term. Ignore these charlatans, and focus on the films that put in the effort to do things right—even if the Academy often doesn’t.
–Jim Andersen
For more criticism of Best Picture winners, check out my review of Forrest Gump.
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