The Dirty Picture is Adults Only, so is this review. Having sorted that out, let’s go. Ms Vidya Balan, and I say this with respect and not a hint of misogyny, has balls of steel. Not any ordinary steel balls. No. Hers are lipstick-red, clanging, solid, shiny balls, hard to dent and impossible to ignore.

It takes guts to take on a role inspired by the sleazy and tragic life of an extra whose magazine cut-outs and images were mostly conjured up in the privacy of bathrooms to assist ejaculation. Few actresses in Bollywood would have said yes to portraying Silk Smitha, the two-bit “item bomb” from south, and turned it into a career-defining concerto. And fewer still would have delivered it with the dazzling chutzpah and high jinx that the retelling of Smitha’s life demanded, and added their own generous sprinkling of sauce, salt and red pepper. Ms Balan lets it all hang out, metaphorically and literally, and deserves a loud and ecstatic standing ovation.
Barring the last 20-25 minutes, The Dirty Picture is an inspired piece of work. For producer Ekta Kapoor to zero in on Smitha (I am completely ignoring her oscillating stand on it is-it isn’t about Smitha) was obviously a commercial decision more than a feminist schema — you’ll be hard pressed to find a script on which the cliché “exposing is necessary because the script demands it” sits more happily. But to put together a team that not only tells the story with skill and cheekiness, but also comes together to create the naughty Eighties, is an act of mad genius.
We love the Eighties, more so today than we did in the Eighties. It’s part of our growing up. And The Dirty Picture gives us a full blast from that corny past. The art direction, the camera work, Vishal-Shekhar’s music, Bappi da’s crooning, the dance sequences, and Niharika Bhasin’s cheesy costumes are all superlative. Add to this the inspiration that daddy Jeetendra’s Tohfa and Himmatwalla obviously provided, and that fact that Naseeruddin Shah is in his element.
The Dirty Picture is a winner. I just wish that director Milan Luthria and Rajat Aroraa’s screenplay had not copped out in the end.

The Dirty Picture begins with a quote from Friedrich Nietzsche and no less, and then bursts into the loud Nakka Mukka song (Kadhalil Vizhunden) as the credits roll. This song comes often, to up the tempo and to ask us to gird our loins for what’s coming next.
In the first few scenes we gather adequate information about Reshma (Vidya Balan). Brought up by her father as if she were a boy, her mother disapproved of her, and she in turn disapproved of being constrained, by family, marriage and, especially, disapproval. So she ran away from home and chose to starve and struggle till she became a cine star.
Penniless and alone, Reshma talks to photographs of the reigning superstar Surya (Naseeruddin Shah), sometimes even bathing for his smiling pleasure. She is the rude, filthy coitus interruptus for the bonking couple next door and a raging bull when pathetic men offer her money for sex.
She lives life on her terms, even if it’s on a handful of sugar. When she gets rejected from a queue of hopeful extras and is given pity money for food, she spends it on cinema tickets. She knows that it’s her body that men want and, given a chance, she will use it — as an affront, a challenge and as bait. Some, like producer Selva Ganesh (Rajesh Sharma), bite, others, like director Abraham (Emraan Hashmi), spit on it.
When the stars conspire to give Reshma a shot, she grabs it, heaving lustily. Despite strong protests from Abraham, her dance sequence gets into a flop film and turns it into a hit.
Selva goes looking for her. He wants to sign the girl who is hungrily eating the food he has offered. This is Reshma, out of her depth, not really believing what he is saying. But when she catches him staring at her cleavage, she takes charge, winking and tongue sticking out. She knows this game, and can play it better than any bloody body. He christens her Silk, she calls him Keeda Das.

The Dirty Picture is narrated by Abraham who decided, at first look, that this moti deserved his joota as she alone personified all that was wrong with films. He wants awards, the approval of critics. Silk is unlettered, unfettered.
But since Abraham is Emraan Hashmi, we guess where this is going to go eventually, and, to my absolute disappointment, it does.
Anyway, Selva catapults Silk into the big league and after a few hiccups, she is on screen and in bed with Surya.
She has arrived, in the tiniest blouse possible, to put male audiences in a sexy mood. Silk acquires a crazy, hormonal fan following. Empty cinema halls fill up before her dance comes on, and are empty again when the song ends.
But Abraham still won’t have her in his films. Surya shrugs, picks Silk over him.Silk’s love for self and her ease with her body is engulfing, delightful, even infectious. She brings herself to the table, tits, thighs and all. She embraces life tightly, squeezing the air out of it. As her popularity grows, so do her roles. Her films are hits, but there are also protests.
Watching and mapping her rise is the oracular film writer Naila (Anju Mahendru). She calls Silk gandagi, but later applauds her spunk. Naila, fashioned after Devyani Chaubal, spews prophetic thoughts and comments, interjecting between us and Silk. She is annoying.
But there is enough happening to not have to focus on her. There are funny scenes where Bollywood makes fun of Bollywood, amusing sequences where Silk uses every opportunity to her full advantage, all the while spotlighting the hypocrisy of men and the film industry. Clever direction and writing add interesting twists and asides to regular scenes.
Soon there are heart breaks, affairs, including with Surya’s writer brother Ramakant (Tusshar Kapoor), public rejection and humiliation. All this makes Silk stiffen her spine. Refusing to defend herself, she’d rather slap her tits in your face. But Silk starts to believe that she has life beyond the six-minute heaving-jiggling routine. She doesn’t.
With age and newcomers catching up, Silk is like an expired aphrodisiac, fetid and foul. Desperation, frustration, drinking and the belief that the world will revolve around her if she wills it so, lead to mistakes and to the sets of a pornographic film.
Every time Silk is down, Abraham appears, in voice or person, to smirk. His obsession remains forced, suspect. So when Silk and Abraham suddenly become a cosy twosome, it is jarring, as if we’ve missed something. It gets worse when a silly song with whirling lady dervishes arrives, as if the Chopras and Johars along with Manish Malhotra have invaded the sets.
Perhaps, producer and director got scared of going straight to the dark end and needed to dilute the grimness. They give Silk a soul mate, and the film, which should have ended on a heart-rending bang, goes out whimpering. After treating us as adults, I didn’t understand what made them suddenly doubt our intelligence. Stupid.

The first half of The Dirty Picture is so fast paced, the dialogue and scenes so quick and brilliant, that you feel you’ve missed stuff, not savoured everything there is to savour. It leaves you breathless, wanting more.
Rajat Aroraa’s dialogue, loaded with corny philosophy, hyperbole and sharp double-entendres that would put Dada Kondke to shame, are whistle-worthy. Vidya, Naseeruddin and Emraan get their fair share and do justice to them. But these one-liners are also load-bearing, taking the story forward while telling us about characters. Naseeruddin delivers the corniest dialogue with such flair as if he never really swam the river in Par. It’s a pleasure to watch him.
Though north India woke up to gape at Silk Smitha in Sadma (1983), she had been around in Tamil, Telugu and Malayalam cinema for a while. Her orgasmic panting was used to sell C-grade films, and in films with established stars she was the ripe fruit (her lyrics, not my suggestion) the hero would reject to establish his moral credentials.
Though Smitha danced and acted with Rajinikanth, Kamal Hassan and Chiranjeevi among others, there was a clear class divide, because of her background and the morality of what she did. That is not explored in The Dirty Picture to my full satisfaction.
Also, while we are Reshma’s companions since childhood, and our bond with her is strong, we don’t get enough time with her when she is on her way down — to understand what she is doing and why. The nonsense romance and idiotic Sufi song could have been junked to do that.
When Silk Smitha, with her drooping lip and drunken eyes, as much as tore open a band-aid strip, the letters S, E, X jumped out and danced around you. Vidya entices, in a clever, cocky, but smart way; Smitha was always begging to be f*****. But, like Smitha, Vidya is sensuous, talks dirty, bites her lips often, and uses her cleavage and eyes to get you in the mood, as only a very good dirty girl can.