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When I first heard all the hoopla about Slumdog Millionaire some months ago, I smelled “poverty porn:” the kind epic tale of vagabonds, religious/social misfits or retards triumphing over poverty and misfortune that appease middle-class guilt. Pippin, Fiddler on the Roof, Les Miserables, and now Slumdog, which looks from the curb kind of like an Indian Annie: a hard-knock-off of Bollywood seasoned by the British fetish for great stories borne of great failure. As many of my cinema-heads begged me to go see it, I would not taste the curry: nay, I would not sip the chai.

Even now, on the other side of all the awards and hoorah! I am not the least bit interested in seeing Slumdog, because I fear I have seen it before. What is the appeal of a movie when you walk in knowing the ending? What revelation could the British director/screenwriter bring to light? I am always suspicious of filmmakers who want to excavate misery for art-house consumption. Because after all the bottles are popped and speeches are given, there are still people left behind, those “slumdogs” who have to live their lives in a movie set, illuminated and pre-packaged for the enjoyment of box wine-drinkers around the world.

These people, these slumdogs, after all is said and done, need dignity, above all else.

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