CITY OF JOY
A film review by Jyothi Rengarajan
Copyright 1992 Jyothi Rengarajan
I sat through Roland Joffe's CITY OF JOY at Pittsburgh and felt anger and irritation among other things. It is, not surprisingly, a condescending, patronising and self-important depiction, loosely based on Lapiere's novel of the same name.
The film was made with a glaring lack of sensitivity and understanding of India. It is sad that even after 500 years of contact with our civilization, the western psyche cannot come to terms with an iota of what makes up our subcontinent. Joffe has made the not uncommon blunder of earnestly believing that he understands poverty and suffering, that he can feel the pulse of the "real" India, that he can discern the hope and love and the human bonding that triumphs through the murkiness of the, I quote from the film, "cesspool of a country." He proceeds to tell his tale of love and woe through terrible stereotypes, cliches and nauseating moralizing. He romanticises poverty and gives us a glimpse of the "purity" and "uplifting" qualities it fosters. The fact the the film appeared to have been shot largely in the studio did not help in establishing credibility.
Swayze as the young, dis-spirited American doctor who finds a reason to live from experiencing life on the edge at the city of joy is hopelessly miscast. Collins, as the wonder-woman, dedicated to uplifting the destitute and downtrodden, determined to change centuries of tradition and superstition with amazing zeal is simply not believable. Her dialogues are ridden with cliches and dripping sentiments. Together, they help save the "passive" inhabitants of the slum from the clutches of the evil godfather, played by Art Malik, who goes around cutting up women's faces with a blade for fun. And of course there were the usual sub-plots about dowry and saving up every possible paisa for the sweet beti.
Personally, I was surprised that Swayze was passable. However, he cannot help that he looks ridiculous in a "serious" role. From his recent interviews it is obvious that he considers himself to be quite a hero to have survived India and the much publicised bomb-attack during the protests in Calcutta. The only real acting was displayed by the various Indians of the cast. Om Puri and Shabana Azmi maintained their good standards.
The film has all the ingredients of a good masala movie except that it tries to make a *point*, you see. About India, about Poverty, about Love, Salvation, Hope, Inner Strength, about Adversity; about Good and Evil, the former of course triumphing over the latter. Hurrah for the poor rickshaw puller Hasari and his brave little family! Hurrah for the lepers! Hurrah for dear Joan and a BIG Hurrah for our dashing, hot-blooded doctor who finds the meaning of life through all of the above. How deep, how profound. We, as Indians should all be grateful to Joffe for teaching us these important lessons about our country.
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