What we're seeing in Bollywood is facial communism. And we're all paying to keep it that way, we're complicit in turning cinema into an exhibition. Any complaints must come with a sense of our patience with a variation of the same in no more than detail, our failure to tire of these tired acts. No one ever goes to see a film that happens to have Aishwarya Rai in it; we sit and open another Aishwarya Rai album. Or we sit to look for no more than some new twist to someone else's presentation of choreographed hips between a script that recycled itself into exhaustion long back. Every ticket bought to watch all this more of the same is reason for national worry. This is the great mug show, and we are the bigger mugs for watching it.
No, we can't fault the interchangeable plurality of these women without faulting ourselves. And it is the women more than the men. The male species has produced an Om Puri and a Naseeruddin Shah. Elsewhere there is Meryl Streep and more. But in Bollywood, excellence is possible for some men, and not for a single woman; it has not one actress, only a few female stars. What does it say when the immensely more promising route to female stardom is not an acting school but a Miss World contest?