Lately, my feeds have been flooded with videos from Hollywood and Bollywood celebrity events. I recognise perhaps five per cent of the people featured. I can barely tell the Met Gala apart from the Oscars, the BRIT Awards, the Grammys, Cannes, or whichever city happens to be hosting the spectacle that week. Most of these events blur into one another: the same visual grammar, the same manufactured themes, the same performative excess.
The formula is familiar. Women in deliberately outrageous outfits, escorted by men who appear either aggressively anonymous or carefully stylised into blandness. Competitive ostentation is everywhere, each appearance striving to outdo the last. At times, it is difficult to discern whether some of the most visible figures even have a substantive connection to cinema, fashion, or the arts.
Take Nita Ambani, for instance, who seems omnipresent, now often accompanied by her daughter, who’s adorned head to toe in gold and precious stones, jewels that can re-embellish the Somnath temple, but alas, it’s Nitaben’s. One is left wondering what role this spectacle plays within film or fashion culture. Even better question would be: what would they be without the excess? The proximity to global pop stars adds another layer of surrealism, with the same handful of social figures recurring endlessly, often without any clear creative contribution.
In India, particularly, a striking sameness has emerged among new entrants to the spotlight. Faces appear increasingly interchangeable, as though shaped by the same cosmetic templates: identical lips, cheeks, bodies, and noses; the same aesthetic priorities; the same stylists and make-up artists, the same “fair” complexion, often bleaching individuality into uniformity. Even clothing seems governed by a single philosophy that equates minimal fabric with maximal impact.
What is most revealing is the choreography itself. Poses are not accidental; garments adjusted to ensure exposure of flesh is precisely calibrated. I have watched this happen, where the women ensure their cleavage, and sometimes other things, is not (heaven’s forbid) “accidentally” covered. It feels curiously inverted from earlier notions of elegance or restraint, or perhaps from what these events once claimed to celebrate.
What remains is not art or glamour, but repetition: spectacle emptied of meaning, endlessly recycled for attention.
To think of it, a few years ago, when every Indian (celebrity or not) was wearing a western gown, I felt good about embracing my good old sarees. The attire stood out, until everyone chased the saree, and made it look like a saree-lookalike: a backless, waist less, armless, neckless, nauseatingly sequined cabaret outfit. Thankfully, the real saree wearers still look elegant.
I used to enjoy the awards shows, but now I cannot sit through them, as they lean heavily towards vulgarity, grand titles and self‑mythologising drama, orchestrated rather than organic.
IIFA and similar shows often trade in spectacle with exaggerated epithets as shorthand for star power rather than literal claims. SRK’s “King Khan” label is height of embarrassment. He seems to be shamelessly rejoicing in that glory, when being lowered from the sky, akin to Vishnu Avtar, amongst the sad, mere mortals, who are made to look completely hopeless and talentless in the presence of God. I find it vulgar, and hard to watch, when in company of my family, who are still not familiar with the classic Indian sycophantic mentality.
I’m not a big fan of anyone as such, but the celebrity status of Bachchan, even if really grand, was much more tolerable. There was flamboyance, but with subtlety.
Ah, those days of Bombay cinema!
… Sapna Dhandh-Sharma
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