Queen of the Beach
A seemingly simple documentary about a child street vendor in India evolves into a fascinating rumination on the divide between West and East, storyteller and muse. Out on VOD Aug. 15.
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"Queen of the Beach" is the story of Shilpa Poojar, a poor girl who peddles her trinkets, clothes and other wares at Anjuna Beach, an out-of-the-way tourist locale on the west coast of India. The documentary follows her progress over the course of nearly a decade, starting at age 8, though she has worked there since she was 5.
There are millions of child laborers just like her. Though we talk about India as a growing economic powerhouse (or polluter), the truth is much of it still exists as a third-world country. At Shilpa's home village there is only intermittent electricity and they fetch water from the central fountain.
If Shilpa were a Golden Age Hollywood starlet, a producer would describe her as having "presence." Even meeting her as a skinny tyke, she is a bouncing ball of energy and charisma. She speaks English quite well -- along with smatterings of Russian, German, Japanese and other languages used by her customers. She has never been to school, and dreams of learning to read and write.
Over the years we watch her accomplishments and setbacks, see how she is held down by having to support her family -- even as her father and brother (the only child who was schooled) do not work. Her dream of an education seems to fly further and further away.
Though preternaturally smart, Shilpa seems destined to retain her nickname of queen of the beach, a title that is both crown and curse.
But this is also the story of writer/director/cameraman Christopher McDonell, billed as Cleetche in the credits. He happened upon Shilpa while doing a little sightseeing on a trip to India to video some of his church pastors doing missionary work, and was intrigued by her story. So he stayed behind and then came back the next year, and the next, and the next, extending his visit each time from a few days to a few weeks as he followed her around and began building a treasure of footage that would become this film.
Initially just a voice we hear asking Shilpa questions, McDonell begins addressing the camera and his role gradually grows until he is a character in her story, one virtually co-equal. He befriends her and wants to help Shilpa, and she is gladly willing to accept assistance -- though maybe not the kind he's offering.
Ostensibly the story of one destitute girl of color and the white Westerner telling her story, "Queen of the Beach" evolves into a fascinating reflection on the role of privilege, race, gender and culture in their ongoing encounter. It will make you think, and sometimes squirm.
McDonell is clearly good-hearted and just wants to help the person he's filming. But is it the role of a documentarian to get so emotionally and financially invested in the story he's telling? He can't help himself -- here is someone so in need, who has a genuine soul and kindness baked into her DNA. So he begins paying her, and later her older sister Pooja, for the privilege of being in his movie.
In subsequent visits, McDonell begins pressing the issue of school more and more, even as Shilpa and her family are more focused on quotidian needs like a roof over their heads, food, clothing, etc. Shilpa, her siblings and cohorts are sharp-minded and practiced in the art of haggling with tourists. They are not at all shy about evoking pity to get a handout. Don't judge -- it's how they live.
At one point, Shilpa and her peers are showing McDonell the nice gifts other foreign benefactors have bestowed upon them: clothes, electronics, kitchenware, etc. Pedophilia is a widespread problem in India, so the implications of these exchanges are plain to see. Pooja teases him about buying her a TV. It becomes a running joke between them... but she is serious about turning the jest into something tangible.
McDonell says "school," and Shilpa says "tiles," because her parents are pressing her to entice him to pay for new tiles for their dilapidated home. She is clearly frustrated by having to serve these two masters, caught between her dreams and duties. McDonell questions if he's doing the right thing, and stops going to see her for five years.
I was reminded of the endeavors of Nicholas Kristof, the intrepid New York Times columnist and self-appointed do-gooder who at one point bought some slaves to "save" them. It did not turn out to be the joyous story hoped for.
But McDonell returns, and Shilpa has become a glorious young woman, prosperous (by her standards) and happy. She seems receptive to renewing the idea of school, learning to read and write. It says something that when asked about her job goals, the role she most often cites is call center. Most Americans would consider that a dreary, low-end gig.
On Anjuna Beach, it is the stuff of dreams.
More challenges await. Her father has medical issues and becomes a virtual invalid. Her brother, Kiran, is still not working. The family home has literally fallen down and they're living at the bus depot. Pooja has married and her husband forbidden her to help her family -- her former family, as their culture sees it. Shilpa's fellow street vendors, jealous of her relative success and growing fame, spread rumors she is having an affair with the filmmaker. Things go from there.
"This is called life, Chris. This is India life," Shilpa says, no longer the wide-eyed naïf.
Christopher McDonell set out to tell the story of Shilpa Poojar, a delightful child street vendor, and wound up sharing a much bigger one. It's about the divide between poor and (to the poor) rich, brown and white, Easterner and Westerner, the storyteller and the muse, the hand held out in hope and the one held out in pity.
Is the filmmaker helping Shilpa? Exploiting her? Telling her story or inserting himself into it? Exhibiting virtue or manufacturing it? Maybe all of the above?
The reasons for building this bridge between two disparate people may remain a nagging mystery. But it's undeniable that the span is closed, the connection real.