In a breathtaking display of bureaucratic entropy that would make Kafka blush and Monty Python snigger, the Indian Film and Television Directors' Association (IFTDA) has slapped a boycott on none other than the nation's highest-paid actor, the inscrutable and perpetually pouting Mr. Unpronounceable McSmoulder. Why? Because some British producers, presumably still nursing chips on their shoulders from the Empire's salad days, have raised a few modest concerns.
This is the kind of news that makes one choke on one's breakfast gin. It is a piece of theatre so exquisitely absurd, so meticulously nonsensical, that it must have been penned by a madman with a Ouija board and a subscription to the Ministry of Silly Walks. The IFTDA, a body that usually concerns itself with such earth-shattering issues as the correct number of backup dancers in a number, has now decided to wield its mighty gavel of justice. Their target: a man so famous his face adorns billboards, tea towels and possibly the moon itself. His crime: being vaguely associated with a project that some British importers found distasteful.
Let us dissect this glorious folly with the precision of a surgeon peeling a particularly mangled grape. The concerns, as far as anyone can tell, revolve around some long-forgotten social media posts. Or perhaps a tweet about curry. Or maybe something about the Queen. Nobody is quite sure. It doesn't matter. The IFTDA has acted. It has flexed its flabby, bureaucratic muscle and delivered a devastating verdict: Mr. McSmoulder is now officially too hot to handle. Or too cold. Or something.
What is the actual penalty? A boycott. In real terms, this means no member of the IFTDA will work with him on any future project. This is a punishment of such profound emptiness that it could have been devised by a committee of existentialist philosophers. It is a boycott that exists in a vacuum, a protest without a cause, a statement that says nothing and changes nothing. It is the bureaucratic equivalent of screaming into a pillow while wearing noise-cancelling headphones.
The British producers, meanwhile, are probably sitting in some London boardroom, sipping lukewarm tea and adjusting their monocles, marvelling at how they have accidentally triggered a subcontinental culture war. They likely expected a sternly worded email, perhaps a strongly expressed opinion piece. Instead, they have unleashed a monster. A monster made of press releases and righteous indignation. A monster that feeds on headlines and excretes confusion.
This is the state of modern celebrity. It is a world where reputations are built on sandcastles and destroyed by a stray gust of wind from the wrong direction. The movie star, our poor, anonymous Mr. McSmoulder, is now a pariah in his own industry. He will be forced to retreat to his private island, weeping into a mountain of cash, his only comfort the distant sound of the IFTDA congratulating itself on a job well done.
What of the film that sparked this outrage? It is a harmless Bollywood romance, complete with the mandatory dream sequences in Swiss mountains and a plot that requires no more brainpower than a goldfish. A film so bland it makes plain toast seem spicy. But it is now a cause celebre. A symbol of national pride or something. The producers, both Indian and British, are probably frantically rewriting the script to include a scene where the hero politely declines a cup of Earl Grey.
Here is the truth, my fellow observers of the human spectacular: this is not about a film. It is not about a star. It is about the desperate, flailing need for control in an industry that has about as much stability as a Jenga tower in an earthquake. The IFTDA is acting out of fear. Fear of irrelevance. Fear of losing their grip on the creaking machinery of Indian cinema. They have fired a warning shot across the bow of a battleship with a water pistol. And they are calling it a victory.
The star, for his part, has maintained a dignified silence. He has probably calculated that a boycott by a creaking trade union is less damaging to his career than accidentally endorsing the wrong brand of detergent. He will emerge from this unscathed, his bank account untouched, his ego temporarily bruised but not broken. The IFTDA, on the other hand, will have revealed itself for what it is: a collection of grandpas shaking fists at clouds, trying to dictate the terms of a game they no longer understand how to play.
So let us raise a glass of something potent and British. To the IFTDA, for providing us with this exquisite piece of absurdist theatre. To the British producers, for accidentally poking the sleeping tiger. And to Mr. McSmoulder, the unknowing star of this farce. May his next film involve a scene where a trade union is hilariously outwitted by a dancing monkey. It would be the most honest moment in cinema history.
