Many consider the worst movie ever made to be Ed Wood’s 1959 stinker Plan 9 From Outer Space. But whoever reckons that never saw a Bollywood movie.
India, the land of mutant births, labyrinthine slums, child gang-rapists, and squat-where-you-trot lavs (the gutter) has, according to excited proponents of multiculturalism, hit Australia’s mainstream with its movie industry. Not on our watch.
We could say that the only good thing that India gave us is curry, but that’s a western creation too. In fact, India has only ever provided us with mirth-inducing racial caricatures. Apu from The Simpsons, for instance; or hilarious Spike Milligan gags; Peter Sellers in The Party. Indeed, Indians are only ever funny when we’re laughing at them, not with them. There would be no reason for our two peoples to laugh at the same thing at the same time unless of course, they’ve learned to laugh at themselves.
Very little is funny about the massive immigration from India, or how it’s transforming our cities into sub-continental ghettos. There is nothing rib-tickling about the sound of Indian accents jabbering loudly in public places, or how every taxi you catch is driven by an Indian who arrived two days ago.
There’s nothing terribly amusing about how every security guard is either an Indian or an Arab, or how more work in our airports than are back home tending elephants. But we digress. Bollywood is like a celluloid culmination of everything that makes India and Indians ridiculous and crap. Low budget, tacky, inappropriate, hastily-cobbled-together, and without the slightest aesthetic considerations (barring the Taj Mahal, which is admittedly beaut).
A Bollywood movie often makes a ten-year-old’s first attempt at a YouTube video seem like a Stanley Kubrick masterpiece by comparison.
The plots are absurd, the characters are just one big mush of inseparable brown heads all gabbling in an excitable dialect that just makes you want to crack up either from laughter, or from the pain of it. Their costume departments are somebody’s personal wardrobe and whereas western shooting schedules might be fairly tight, curries can crank out about 17 Bollywood movies an hour. This is because their dramatic quality is that of preschoolers’ lunchtime play in the schoolyard.
Anybody who isn’t a Num Num who claims they’ve sat through a Bollywood movie and enjoyed themselves is either lying or not telling the truth. Even these fastidious apologists for multiculturalism can’t bear it but their tolerance for endurance just happens to be more highly developed in areas where cultural differences apply.
Thus, news of the Indian Film Festival running in Melbourne is met by us with a raucous cry of “Oh, the elephants!”
The Australian newspaper ran a feature about this abomination and tried to convince us that it’s a blessed thing. But we say they can take Bollywood and shove it up their Khyber Pass. They claim that Indian films are now rating in the high numbers of our top-grossing movies, but it’s this use of the determiner that bothers us.
The Australian film market should be concerned with Australian films and they’re not made by Indians. So, The Australian’s acknowledgement that the only reason this cinematic junk is being dumped on our markets is that our country is bowing under the weight of Indian immigration is the most factual thing in the piece.
Their movies are shit-as, with stupid musical overtones, for a people whose only contribution to music has been snake charming and the hippy sitar. Nobody wants to hear an Indian sing, and sure-as-hell they don’t want to watch them dance. Indians were put on earth for us to laugh at, beat-up, and push off moving walkways. They are not here to be our bosses, to act as our security, or do any type of work that places this light-fingered people in the way of committing a dishonest act.
With all that hot and spicy curry going down, all we can say is, Burn Bollywood Burn – enjoy your burning ring of fire. What runs molten hot in your sewers (gutters) one minute, ends up on your screens the next.