“Forget all this happened to you. We two will run off somewhere far away.”
“I cannot.”
“So it’s terrorism, then! Don’t you feel our love is more important than terrorism?”
“I’m too far gone, it’s too late.”
“I won’t let you go!”
They clutch each other. The climax follows shortly thereafter, and it’s, well, explosive.
The Bollywood movies I grew up with were so hyperbolically fantastic that to critique their lack of realism was no thoughtful critique at all. Of course they were escapist. That was the whole point, in a country where the majority is poor, and people consume movies like air. The bad guys were smugglers and murderers who embodied pure evil and laughed maniacally at the prospect of rape and pillage; they had no mothers, caste, religion, or redeeming qualities. The good guys were family-loving twins separated at birth, or best friends from different religions, Hindu, Muslim, Sikh, Christian, being the dominant choices; they sang songs about friendship and love, fought the bad guys, romanced the girls, revered their parents, and emerged from strife triumphant.
The movies were set in generic places without name, and characters spoke of “the village,” or “the city,” without anyone wondering of whereof in the hell they spoke. Comedic interludes and songs — which resembled MTV montages — leavened the fistfights and drama. Speeches about motherhood, friendship, country, and sacrifice were common, and the emotional extremes of the films made the movie-watching experience cathartic.
Today, with globalization and the elevation of consumer culture, Bollywood’s commercial success attracts respectful study in academic departments, and the films are increasingly popular worldwide. Collaborations between Bollywood and Hollywood (and other Western) talent, such as this past week’s Danny Boyle–directed Slumdog Millionaire — set in Mumbai and featuring Bollywood stars — are more common. Bollywood music is ubiquitous — even Bostonians regularly dance to its beats at the Stix Lounge. India’s rise, national pride, and rapid social change have encouraged Bollywood filmmakers to expand to new themes.
As such, writers have recently begun to experiment with realism, to introduce region and dialect into the story, to present more nuanced explanations of characters’ motives, and to dare to depict social problems like political corruption, drug trafficking, gang violence, poverty, and, yes, terrorism. These are depressing problems, so what better way to present them than with a dash of Bollywood élan? Which brings us to an unusual movie protagonist: the singing, romancing, family-loving, dancing, emotionally open . . . terrorist.
Terrorists as dancing, romancing protagonists
In Fanaa (Annihilation, 2006), the stage is set when the heroine’s mother cheerfully says to her beautiful, blind daughter, Zooni (Kajol), “Love only the man who is willing to be annihilated by your love.” With this morbid counsel in mind, Zooni goes off to Delhi to sing and dance in a Republic Day festival and fall in love with a charismatic young tour guide named Rehan (Aamir Khan).
Skipping lightly over several songs, we find Zooni’s sight restored and Rehan dead in a terrorist explosion claimed by the Independent Kashmiris Front (IKF), a fictionalized version of secessionist Kashmiri militant groups. At this point, the movie careens off into a different genre fraught with danger, violence, and dazzling (if ridiculous) plot twists. Focus turns to a young, handsome international IKF terrorist, who in one scene jumps out of a burning helicopter, lands upright on the snowboard strapped to his feet, and glides speedily away from the blazing guns of the law. He reports to his grandfather, a leader of the IKF. Soon, his and Zooni’s paths cross and more song and dance, death and drama ensue until the terrorist tires of terrorism.
