Thanks to reader Fer for pointing us to this slamdunk response and perspective from Nick Hornby on Slumdog Millionaire, the intent of its filmmakers, and its odd position of now being on top:
There’s a lot packed in here: the snobbery, the smug and unexamined assumptions, the writer’s apparent pride in his utter ignorance of the independent film-making process, the nonsensical contradictions (can something be both “garish” and “gaggingly photogenic”?) It’s perfectly possible not to enjoy Slumdog Millionaire, of course – nothing appeals to everybody, and I didn’t have enough invested in the love story for the film to lift me as much as it seems to have lifted others. But typically, when the success of a book or a film or a piece of music baffles the liberal intelligentsia, then that success will usually be put down to the cynicism of the makers, or the depressing ignorance of the consumers. (Sometimes, when these critics are trying to be nice, they make a plea for better arts education. “It’s not the public’s fault that they enjoy the paintings of Jack Vettriano. They just don’t know any better.”) This letter is a prime example of that attitude: you loved Slumdog? You’re a moron.
Absolutely worth a read. This is probably one of the best defenses of the film yet. And this is something we should all remember, no matter where in the beast we reside:
Every time there’s a left-field, one-off, totally unpredictable hit like ‘Slumdog Millionaire’, or ‘Juno’, or ‘The Curious Incident Of The Dog In The Night-time’, or ‘Stalingrad’, we should all give thanks to our gods, because they are what keeps the wheels of the whole commercial arts machine turning; without them, we’re doomed. They encourage risk – editors and commissioners can look at a script or a draft of a book and think, well, with a fair wind and a lot of luck, this might find its audience Рand without risk, every new book and film and album would of necessity have to be part of a franchise.
