A biopic where the actor becomes the character

While mainstream Bollywood is usually proactive, ripping off from Hollywood, there is one very popular Oscar-favoured genre that it is loathe to touch: Biopics. Given that our culture is obsessed with public personalities and the minutiae of their private lives, it is somewhat surprising that there are so few movies that satisfy our collective desire for voyeurism. The real reason is not far to seek.

Given our national proclivity for the ‘my-sentiments-are-hurt’ outrage, something that manifests itself in bans, dharnas, court-cases and sometimes outright violence, it is natural that filmmakers would hesitate to make complete-with-warts tell-alls of celebrities who still have active fan bases. Which is why, despite the profusion of colourful personalities we have, the rare biopic that sees the light of day turns out to be a hagiography, and the slightest dab of grey requires names to be changed for plausible deniability (Guru).

There are two exceptions: One is if the character lived hundreds of years ago and, more importantly, is not a religious or regional hero. Like Asoka or Akbar, who do not have extant fan clubs, at least not large enough to raise a stink. The other is if the character is interesting but insignificant, where one does not have to worry about any kind of backlash if the portrayal is deemed disrespectful.

The Dirty Picture, ostensibly the biopic of Silk Smitha and one of last year’s surprise hits, falls in this category. Normally biopics play around a bit with the truth, but The Dirty Picture just runs roughshod over it, never letting what really happened get in the way of a good story. While its adherence to the real Silk Smitha story may be questioned, where The Dirty Picture gets it spot-perfect is the tongue-in-cheek accuracy with which it captures the madness of the ’80s, becoming, in essence, more a biopic of a decade than of a person.

In The Dirty Picture, the character of Silk is the archetype of the pulpy ‘80s Joan Collins-Hollywood Wives female protagonist, the small-town girl who makes it big by dint of her sexuality in the big bad world of men, and then spectacularly self-destructs. As a matter of fact, everything in the movie screams the ’80s — from the clothes, hairstyles and the paunchy pounds to the double entendres, the endearing outrageousness of lemons avalanching down the hill-side (old ’80s hands will recognise the hat-tip to the song ‘Choli tere tan par kasi kasi’ from Hoshiyaar and several other in-references to similar classics), the very period ‘Oooh la la’, complete with Bappi-da’s crooning, and of course the Boney M-inspired ‘Honeymoon ki raat’. Barring a few anachronistic minutes, everything in The Dirty Picture hits the right kitschy notes.

For biopics to work artistically, the lead actor needs to get under the skin of the protagonist. Vidya Balan gets under the fat. It is a spectacular performance, one in which the actor becomes the character, rather than what usually happens in Bollywood.

Nowhere is this more evident than in Asoka, where one of the greatest figures of Indian history becomes yet another surrogate for Shah Rukh Khan to execute his ‘Rahul’ romantic hero stereotype, in the process turning an epic tale of sin and redemption into a Kuch Kuch Hota Hai set in Mauryan times.
Given Bollywood’s rather sorry history of badly-acted and executed biopics, The Dirty Picture is thus quite an achievement.
Now if only the industry can take off its kid-gloves and make more biopics — God knows we have a wealth of modern-day personalities who would make great subjects — we could have something other than the tiresomely derivative monstrosities that assail us every Friday.