In case you haven't noticed, I am a sentimentalist. And, yes, I despise that word, because in Newspeak "sentimentalist" connotes "pussy." This is not a new thing, I will concede; and I'll save my essay about how the human species is slowly evolving into beings bereft of emotion for another era; but when a film so masterfully conjures emotions of happiness and hope, you can bet that cynicism and the cold bitch of negativity is sure to follow.
Such, I fear, is the case with Slumdog Millionaire, Danny Boyle's (other*) magnificent film. Although Slumdog is much, much more than a touching love story**, the ostensible theme*** is one of hope.
What a coincidence. What irony.
Much like Kekko Kamen Royale, Slumdog Millionaire is a film about hope*****.
(Those asterisks are ninja stars, by the way.)
* Shallow Grave. Trainspotting. 28 Days Later. Millions. (Millions!) Shit, even The Beach and Sunshine are virtuoso movies directed by this generation's Spielberg**** until their screenplays shit the futon.
** Like the bacon double cheeseburger and the chicken parmasan I ate this weekend, it touched me in all the right places. Put a hex on me if I don't write a comprehensive review here in...5 months? I have a lot to say about the film, some of which you might hear me scratching the surface of if Kmart ever posts our regrettably aborted PKast from a few weeks ago. Spoiler: I was drunk. And handsome.
*** "It is written" doesn't necessarily mean destiny, does it? Scratch beneath the surface.
**** Like The Beard, Boyle hops around genres like Phil Spector has crazy hair and shoots women in the face. Granted, Boyle hasn't directed Jaws.
***** And shaving cream