Slumdog Millionaire at Odeon, Leicester Square
James Christopher
Danny Boyle’s rags-to-riches story about an 18-year-old orphan from the slums
of Bombay is a closing-night gala that makes the heart pound. Jamal is just
one correct answer away from winning – or losing – a staggering 20 million
rupees on India’s Who Wants to be a Millionaire? We sit back
and tremble. Jamal looks like a rabbit caught in the headlamps of an
articulated lorry. The patronising host of the show, Anil Kapoor, can barely
hide his disbelief.
When the programme breaks for the night before the final question, Jamal is
bundled out of the back door of the studio, whisked to the police station
and beaten to a pulp by officers who want to know how he cheated. “What the
hell can a slum boy possibly know?” barks the local police chief, Irrfan
Khan, as an overfed minion clips a pair of electric cables to Jamal’s big
toes. “The answers,” spits out Dev Patel’s bruised but unbeaten hero. The
plucky survivor reveals how each nerdy question asked by the slimy host of
Millionaire unlocks a seminal childhood memory.
This being a Danny Boyle film, the precious answers involve frantic sprints
through Bombay’s chocker back-streets, and grisly flashbacks to the Juhu
slum where a nine-year-old Jamal and his slightly older brother, Salim,
spend most of their childhood running from sinister pimps and hungry gangs.
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The fairytale power of the film is in watching a city evolve through the eyes
of a child. The shocks unfold like dreams: the death of Jamal’s mother,
casually murdered in a riot; the excitement of meeting a Bollywood star; the
ghastly wounds inflicted on children by the local Fagins to make them better
beggars; and the mournful smiles of Freida Pinto’s shapely prostitute,
Latika, the love of Jamal’s life.
The fact that these memories stack up so neatly is a forgiveable sin. Indeed,
Slumdog Millionaire is guilty of all sorts of implausible twist,
notably the preposterous saintly romance between Patel and Pinto, which
doesn’t chime on any level. But the performances from the young cast and
cheesy villains (notably Kapoor’s marvellously condescending television
host) are terrific.
The melodrama is magnificently painted. Anthony Dod Mantle’s lush shots of
rubbish heaps, cluttered alleyways and skeletal cement tower blocks are
framed to perfection. Boyle manages to give Simon Beaufoy’s script a
terrific Bollywood twang. For all the bleak ingredients, this is not a
remotely miserable film. There’s a comic poetry about it that feels totally
in tune with its Indian setting. A festival finale that puts a spring in
your step and brings a tear to the eye.
http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/film/film_reviews/article5051092.ece
