This story broke over the past few days with the headline “Slumdog actor beaten for refusing interview.” But the real story is a bit more complex:
Azharuddin’s father Mohammed Ismial, who suffers from tuberculosis and sells cardboard to eke out a living, told the news agency, “My child was very tired and bored but I had committed to one journalist (to give him an interview).
“I felt badly when he refused him (the journalist). He is my child and I just slapped him but I feel sorry now,” Ismial said.
Azharuddin and the other child “Slumdog” actor who went to Hollywood, Rubina Ali, have shot to fame with the huge success of the film, winner of eight Oscars.
One pays a price, perhaps, for too much authenticity.¬† The film has brought awareness to Mumbai to Westerners who probably hadn’t thought twice about it. Whether that is ultimately good or bad remains to be seen. It does seem like the press it out to embarrass the filmmakers. And something tells me this is only the beginning. And of course, this is a family who is hoping for as many riches as can be gotten by their attachment to the phenomenon.
Meanwhile, Salman Rushdie, who was born in Mumbai, had some harsh words for the film:
The problems begin with the work being adapted. Swarup’s novel is a corny potboiler, with a plot that defies belief: a boy from the slums somehow manages to get on to the hit Indian version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire and answers all his questions correctly because the random accidents of his life have, in a series of outrageous coincidences, given him the information he needs, and are conveniently asked in the order that allows his flashbacks to occur in chronological sequence. This is a patently ridiculous conceit, the kind of fantasy writing that gives fantasy writing a bad name. It is a plot device faithfully preserved by the film-makers, and lies at the heart of the weirdly renamed Slumdog Millionaire. As a result the film, too, beggars belief.
