When British photographer Zana Briski ventured to Calcutta,
her original plan was merely to document the day-to-day lives of
prostitutes working the seamy maze of back alleys scattered
around the city's red light district. But she decided to alter
her plans considerably soon after she was touched by the
unfortunate street urchins residing in the whorehouses there.
For though most of the hardened hookers had long-since lost
hope and had resigned themselves to their second-class status,
Briski was surprised to discover that the women's ostracized,
young offspring still harbored innocent dreams of one day
escaping the squalor of the slums and rising above their
inherited, lowly station. So, she summoned Ross Kauffman to
India, asking her friend to videotape the heartbreaking plight
of these underage social pariahs.
I doubt that either of the first-time filmmakers expected to
get so close to their subjects, abandoning the impersonal role
normally assumed by journalists to become emotionally-involved
as surrogate parents in an often impassioned attempt to rescue
the kids from their desperate straits. The upshot of their
rewarding work was not only the soul satisfaction of knowing
that they had made a profound difference in these children's
lives, but in professional recognition, too, as their
inspirational movie chronicling that unselfish effort won the
Academy Award for Best Documentary in 2005.
Born Into Brothels, showing at the Human Rights Watch
Festival in Manhattan on June 18th, [http://www.hrw.org/en/iff/born-brothels],
is a marvelous hybrid almost impossible to categorize. With
Briski serving primarily as cinematographer and Kauffman
alternating in front of the camera as interviewer, mentor and
social worker, the film focuses on eight waifs between the ages
of 6 and 10 who the couple appear to have virtually adopted over
the course of a three-year project which began in 2000.
Shy, sweet Kochi is interested in learning about computers
and how to speak English. Manik, who lives in a small room with
his older sister, Shanti, loves flying kites. Tapasi wants to be
a teacher when she grows up. Puja is a tomboy with pet parrots.
Her best friend, Gour is a sensitive boy who is curious about
college. Suchitra is a girl who escapes all the insanity on a
rooftop while Avijit is an amateur artist already showing much
promise.
Ordinary kids, stuck in slums teeming not only with the skin
trade, but with poverty, vermin, disease, narcotics, alcohol and
addiction. Since most can't afford to attend school, their
futures look just as bleak as their jaded, ill-fated mothers'.
Recognizing the children's potential, Briski ends-up serving as
their tireless, outspoken advocate, raising money for their
education.
Meanwhile, she equips each of her charges with a 35mm cameras
to snap some stills of their bleak surroundings. Given their
natural curiosity and easy access to areas of illegal activity,
the streets, the brothels, the drug dens, the pictures yield an
alternately enchanting and unsettling kids' eye view of
Calcutta's lowest common denominator.
Professionally-matted and framed, the photographs
subsequently find their way to a fancy Sotheby's auction a world
away. One might think that the resulting infusion of cash would
be a one-way ticket out of their godforsaken hellhole for our
rag-tag gang of amateur shutterbugs.
But not so fast, Kimosabe, because India has a
strictly-enforced caste system and money alone can't cleanse an
untouchable. And the country has create a maze of bureaucratic
red tape to negotiate, calling for birth certificates, HIV tests
and so forth. Plus, some of the prostitutes resent having their
progeny whisked away, even if it is to an upscale boarding
school.
Briski's admirable persistence pays off, though no mention is
made of the prospects for the thousands of orphans not lucky
enough to have her in their corner. Despite all of Born into
Brothels earnestness, in the end, one can't help but wonder
exactly what it was you’ve just watched. A hard-hitting expose'?
Voyeuristic slumming? A touching, true tale of triumph, against
all odds? A self-aggrandizing, vanity bio-pic? Or some new type
of reality flick, Survivor: Calcutta?