This duplicitous move cost the film nothing in terms of box office numbers Western audiences ate it up like so many Indians apparently chow down monkey brains. Instead of fixing or even toning down the more insulting aspects of the story, the production simply shifted to Sri Lanka. It should be noted that the Indian government raised their concerns over the script, deeming it “offensive”. “There needs to be better education about the harmful racist tropes that have contributed significantly to Hollywood’s long-standing Hinduphobic rhetoric.”Įven more offensive than the racially-charged aspects of Temple of Doom, however, is the general disregard for cultural accuracy. This entire sequence speaks to the film’s insularity towards Indian culture cherry picking the myths that cultivate the most dangerous and savage image possible for the sake of furthering its messy narrative. Later in the film, the leader of the Thuggee cult, Mola Ram, performs human sacrifice (as in, ripping out a man’s heart with his bare hands) for the Hindu god of death.
The film mobilises its Indian characters with childlike irresponsibility, caricaturing both cultural and religious beliefs for cheap laughs. The trio make their way into the Pankot Palace, where they are served live baby snakes, beetles and eyeball soup, followed by chilled monkey brains for dessert (served straight from the animals’ decapitated heads, no less).
#Kalima indiana jones movie#
This overarching theme of white saviourism – which is an issue in and of itself– is quickly eclipsed by the flagrant racism in perhaps the worst dinner scene in movie history. The trouble begins when Indy, Shorty and Willie Scott find themselves in an impoverished Indian village, conveniently in dire need of a saviour to retrieve their sacred stone. This was disheartening to say the least.įrom its very beginning, it is apparent that Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom is a film made by people who know very little about the culture they are depicting. But it took me a while to realise that the second film in the original trilogy cared more to insult than entice me.
My childhood was peppered with Indiana Jones marathons: pure, unadulterated, whip-cracking fun. I cover my eyes every time there’s a snake on screen and I laugh at all the right moments, even if I don’t understand the jokes. It’s a muggy afternoon in 2009 and I’m sprawled out on my couch rewatching Raiders of the Lost Ark with my dad.
0 kommentar(er)
