One must admire the exquisite timing of the Indian film industry. Just as the world frets over the decline of Western civilization, the Indian film union graces us with a moment of high drama: a boycott of Bollywood star Ranveer Singh, swiftly retracted, leaving the British cultural attachés in a state of relieved bewilderment. The whole affair is a masterclass in manufactured outrage, a tepid cup of chai spilt over nothing, the stain troubling no one beyond the gossip columns of Mumbai and the corners of Twitter where the perpetually offended hold court.
Let us rewind. The boycott, a gesture of protest against Mr. Singh’s involvement in a British-Indian project, smacked of the sort of petulance one associates with a Victorian parlour game. The union demanded a pause, a moment of reflection, perhaps a reconsideration of cultural loyalties. Then, as quickly as it began, the boycott was dropped. The reasons? Obscure, contradictory, and thoroughly uninteresting. The only thing that emerges with clarity is the utter inconsequence of the entire episode. UK cultural ties, it appears, are unaffected. One can almost hear the collective sigh of relief from the cultural attachés, who can now return to their real work: signing cheques for the next touring production of The Mousetrap.
This is a symptom of a larger intellectual decadence. In an age of genuine geopolitical upheaval, where the West watches its own decline with the same detachment as a fading photograph, we are asked to care about whether a Bollywood star is allowed to shake hands with a British director. It is the sort of triviality that the Romans might have enjoyed in their later years, when the barbarians were at the gates and the populace was obsessed with chariot races and bread prices. The British, of course, are no better. We cling to the remnants of cultural influence like a dowager countess clutching a teacup during a bombing raid. The film union’s brief boycott was a totem of nationalist resentment, a small gesture against the soft power of a former empire. But it revealed more about the fragility of those who wield it: the union afraid of losing relevance, the British government eager to prove its multicultural bona fides.
Mr. Singh, meanwhile, floats above it all, a symbol of a globalized celebrity that recognises no borders. His brand is secular, universal: the megawatt smile, the hint of scandal, the ability to dance without irony. The boycott was never about him. It was about the union’s fear of irrelevance, a desperate grasp at the levers of a culture that is rapidly moving beyond them. And as quickly as it flared, the protest was extinguished. Because who, really, can be bothered to boycott Bollywood? The industry is a hydra, too bloated and self-referential to care about such squabbles. The British, wisely, ignored it. The film proceeds. The teacups remain intact.
If this were a mere farce, we could laugh. But it is a symptom of something deeper: the hollowing out of national identity on both sides. India, for all its posturing, cannot afford to sever ties with the UK’s cultural market. The UK, for all its nostalgia, cannot afford to antagonize a film industry worth billions. And so we dance the same old dance, a minuet of mutual convenience, while the empire crumbles softly in the background. The only thing that would be truly shocking is if anyone actually cared.
