SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE
It’s 15 years since SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE collected 8 Academy Awards and nearly as many BAFTAs and made a movie star (kinda…) of Dev Patel (now, imo, one of our most promising filmmakers having written and directed MONKEY, influenced in pace and style by none other than Danny Boyle, possibly?). It is a wonderful film, but not everyone saw its multiple awards-gathering future entirely clearly: Warner Bros had no idea what to do with it and off-loaded it to Fox Searchlight, missing out on all that sought-after silverware.
One of those Oscars went to Simon Beaufoy for his script, deservedly so, and Simon was the guest of honour at a screening and Q and A last night. I first met Simon when I organised a reunion event of THE FULL MONTY about ten years ago and he has become a great and generous friend (not just generous in the “I’ll get this…” way after a nice lunch, but generous in the “I’ll write this…” way when you’re an unknown, unsuccessful producer with a decent idea for a film and absolutely no development funding…). He was, as ever, delightful and self-deprecating, wondering aloud if SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE is really any better than other films with no awards recognition whatsoever. For some reason, the stars aligned for this particular film at that particular time and while Simon may be mystified, he is grateful.
Maybe SLUMDOG’s success was fate? Maybe it was meant to be, just like in the film: it is written. My rational mind wants to reject anything other than free will, but I think it is part of the human condition to try to find order in the chaos, leaning into a greater power than ourselves. We want to think our future is written in the stars. Or written in our DNA. My DNA is hella faulty and I have given lots of thought to whether or not I have cheated fate just by being alive: if there was one thing I was meant to do in this life, it was to die of ovarian cancer around now, just as my mother did before me. But I’m doing pretty well, all things considered, and am faced with a blank page for my future. I can regard that blank page with excitement, or abject fear, or complete paralysis. Those who cheat death don’t traditionally get off lightly: think of Sisyphus and that huge rock he is perpetually pushing up that humungous hill (and I don’t even carry my own bag when I travel, so…. 🤷🏻♀️).
Last week, Cambridge Dictionary announced its Word of the Year for 2024: manifest. Used (and misused) mostly by very, very annoying people who tend to get what they want, regardless, the definition of the verb ‘to manifest’ has evolved in common parlance and become something more along the lines of ‘to create from nothing’ or ‘to materialise’. To manifest one’s life is to take control of the blank page and intentionally start to fill it, harnessing the power of the mind, visualisation and positive thinking to achieve one’s dreams. Manifesting seems to be kind of the opposite of fate, a way of wresting one’s destiny away from the gods and cultivating a future of one’s own grand design.
On Sunday morning, my daughter told me she wants to go to Japan in March, to which I responded entirely as expected from a grown woman who has never been to Japan and always wanted to go: jealousy and rage; desperately begging to come; emotional blackmail etc. But, here’s the thing, by 9 pm on the same day I had an invitation for a trip to Japan for my friend’s big birthday… in March! And as their guest! Now, did I manifest that? Or… is it fate? Perhaps, as Simon says in SLUMDOG, “It is written.” I have no fucking idea, but I’d like more days to pan out like Sunday, please, world. Arigatou. 🙏