一月份观影的一大惊喜！ 主角一脸谄媚，一张万年皮笑肉不笑的脸，内心却汹涌澎湃。这样的角色设定让我鸡皮掉一地。 从开始的纯真黑化到杀人，他归结于自己的觉醒，众人皆醉我独醒。
政治， The Great Socialist， 没出场形象就是伟光正的。多年以后男主正式与她相见，一口老黑痰吐在桌上把我恶心得够惨。 什么狗屁民主，不就是个敛财敛权的借口。
阶级矛盾，我喜欢电影提供的不同视角，主角Balram， 在美国长大的 Pinky， 中途去留学的海归 Ashok，权贵代表 Stork 与 Mongoose，政客 The Great Socialist ，住在乡下的哥哥与祖母，还有脸上带难看白斑的“房东”？。 印象深刻的Pinky， 一直鼓励男主Balram追求自己的人生，要积极向上，结果自己出事，不自首承担责任就算，逃走前与公公吵一架，觉得他对Balram不公，再逃避回去美国。 完全不觉得是自己撞死了人，让Balram顶罪，伤他最深的是Pinky自己。 对自己与对别人完全两个标准。 然而Pinky 反抗男权的戏份又尤其精彩，长相甜美，是本片最容易被Like的角色。
暴力部分类似《天注定》，无法逾越的阶级犹如《寄生虫》，寄生虫里至少还有家，这里家这个最后的港湾也不要了。与世界为敌，杀人抢钱，却毫无负罪感，而且用吹嘘的语气告诉总理，你看，我多好，还帮他们呢。 个人成长有《老无所依》的冷，宗教部份让我想起 《大佛普拉斯》，仿佛在人心背后挖开一道血淋淋的口子，真实得让人发抖。 每个角色都有Flaw，每个角色都不是好人。
沉重的主题，表现形式却娱乐性十足，不是闷骚的艺术电影。特写，Crane Shot，不断的把主角的情绪抽丝剥茧推到你眼前。 摄影 Stylish， 声音处理也很到位。 进 Climax 有点靠后，可以往前推至少十分钟。
The moment you recognize what is beautiful in this world, you stop being a slave.
It's amazing. The moment you show cash, everyone knows your language.
Go to Old Delhi,and look at the way they keep chickens there in the market. Hundred of pale hens and brightly colored roosters, stuffed tightly into wire-mesh cages. They see the organs of their brothers lying around them.They know they are next, yet they cannot rebel. They do not try to get out of the coop. The very same thing is done with humans in this country.
Me, and thousands of others in this country like me, are half-baked, because we were never allowed to complete our schooling. Open our skulls, look in with a penlight, and you'll find an odd museum of ideas: sentences of history or mathematics remembered from school textbooks (no boy remembers his schooling like the one who was taken out of school, let me assure you), sentences about politics read in a newspaper while waiting for someone to come to an office, triangles and pyramids seen on the torn pages of the old geometry textbooks which every tea shop in this country uses to wrap its snacks in, bits of All India Radio news bulletins, things that drop into your mind, like lizards from the ceiling, in the half hour before falling asleep--all these ideas, half formed and half digested and half correct, mix up with other half-cooked ideas in your head, and I guess these half-formed ideas bugger one another, and make more half-formed ideas, and this is what you act on and live with.
You ask 'Are you a man or a demon?' Neither, I say. I have woken up, and the rest of you are sleeping, and that is the only difference between us.
Iqbal, that great poet, was so right. The moment you recognize what is beautiful in this world, you stop being a slave. To hell with the Naxals and their guns shipped from China. If you taught every poor boy how to paint, that would be the end of the rich in India.
It is an ancient and venerated custom of people in my country to start a story by praying to a Higher Power.
I guess, Your Excellency, that I too should start off by kissing some god's arse.
Which god's arse, though? There are so many choices.
See, the Muslims have one god.
The Christians have three gods.
And we Hindus have 36,000,004 divine arses to choose from.
The dreams of the rich, and the dreams of the poor - they never overlap, do they?
See, the poor dream all their lives of getting enough to eat and looking like the rich. And what do the rich dream of?
Losing weight and looking like the poor.
Sometimes I wonder, Balram. I wonder what's the point of living. I really wonder...
The point of living?My heart poundedThe point of your living is that if you die, who's going to pay me three and a half thousand rupees a month?
Do we loathe our masters behind a facade of love - or do we love them behind a facade of loathing？
He read me another poem, and another one - and he explained the true history of poetry, which is a kind of secret, a magic known only to wise men. Mr. Premier, I won't be saying anything new if I say that the history of the world is the history of a ten-thousand-year war of brains between the rich and the poor. Each side is eternally trying to hoodwink the other side: and it has been this way since the start of time. The poor win a few battles (the peeing in the potted plants, the kicking of the pet dogs, etc.) but of course the rich have won the war for ten thousand years. That's why, on day, some wise men, out of compassion for the poor, left them signs and symbols in poems, which appear to be about roses and pretty girls and things like that, but when understood correctly spill out secrets that allow the poorest man on earth to conclude the ten-thousand-year-old brain-war on terms favorable to himself.
I think we can agree that America is so yesterday, Indian and China are so tomorrow.
A good servant must know his masters from end to end. From lips to anus.
Rich men are born with opportunities they can waste.
There are only two ways to get to the top, crime or politics.