Salman Rushdie has it right about “Slumdog,” which he says “piles impossibility on impossibility,” among other ridiculosities placing characters at the Taj Mahal, 1,000 miles from the previous scene.
Well it is an adventure story, light on probability but heavy with shock effect. When has that not been a winning formula?
But I missed the Taj Mahal scene, partly because I had enough of the impossibilities, partly because the sound effects (at Oak Park’s Lake Theatre, packed for the occasion) were deafening, and partly because the subject matter constituted an emotional beating-up that I was not in the mood for and trust I never will be.
Indeed, my life partner and I split somewhat after the blinding-with-acid scene, which was not my idea of fun, though hundreds on the scene disagreed, remaining in their seats.
Neither did Rushdie like the cinema-adapted “The Reader” and “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button,” telling an Atlanta audience they suffered the fate of movie adaptation that does no justice to the book.
The first he called a “leaden, lifeless movie killed by respectability.” The second “doesn’t finally have anything to say,” he said.
He’s probably right, but he might also have noted the orgy of self-congratulation nicely noted by a Detroit News man:
The tearful moments and peer hugging reeked of over-indulgent self-congratulation and carried all the sincerity of a corporate love-in. After each award, the stage looked like a crowded bus stop for famous people.
It’s a problem with industry and professional groups. The Chicago Newspaper Guild did a lot of that in years gone by, when winners sometimes took a long time telling why they won, careless about the chances of breaking one’s arm while patting oneself on the back.
Blithe Spirit 