One novel and two movies, but the BBC cheekily claims that this three-part series was inspired by Deborah Moggach’s 2004 novel These Foolish Things, and the pair of films The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel – but not related. How did the programme-makers come up with this, and keep a straight face?
We have here a contrived documentary, taking eight sexagenerians and septuagenerians, from the delightful and diminutive character ballet dancer Wayne Sleep and the horizontally challenged, formidably intelligent actress Miriam Margolyes, to the singer Patti Boulaye and newscaster Jan Leeming to Jaipur, to stay for three weeks in a central Haveli, to see if retirement on the subcontinent appeals. The voice-over, impeccably spoken by Tom Hollander, had a script which left no commonplace unspoken: India, we were told, was a country bursting with colour and beauty, not to mention year-round warm weather and a low cost of living. Got that?
It was understandably decided to go for staff
We met our cast at Heathrow, with the above joined by the darts champion Bobby George, one-time Dr Who Sylvester McCoy, the chef Rosemary Schrager, and Roy Walker, once a game show host. For one, not all these careers are totally in the past, and we were also given no indication (as we were in the material that inspired but, ahem, is not related to this trilogy, any resemblance to which we must assume purely co-incidental) as to family and economic circumstances.
Why would any of these people consider retiring to India, although the viewer can understand the pleasures of a three-week jaunt to Jaipur, capital of Rajasthan, a noted tourist destination, complete with its own Maharajah, fort, palace and ceremonial elephants. Nor did we discover whether any of our chirpy group had visited the East before: except for that Marigold inspiration, the same kind of contrivance could certainly have been applied, let us say, to Thailand, a country which provides equal advantages of climate, inexpensive staff, and indeed superlative medical services for westerners (or those who can pay).
The pink city of Jaipur has a population of 3.5 million, and millennia of history; our happy troupe has three weeks to get to grips not only with the city, but with India too. Their home away from home, the Khatu Haveli, in central Jaipur, is a three-storey house with an internal courtyard, and in the same family – the Singhs – for 160 years; the matriarch introduced them to the house which needed eight staff a day to function effectively, and told them about the food market. Whereupon our intrepid group decided to try going it alone – for a day, which involved not only shopping for food and cooking but an all-too-intimate acquaintance with a live chicken, killed before their eyes, for their dinner. It was understandably decided to go for staff – defeated not so much by the cooking, but certainly by the heat. It was £20 a week each to have the full complement of staff, £20 a night for en-suite living – not to mention the use of the spacious mansion.
We were informed, however, that three days into India the visitors still had a lot more to learn about what made the country tick. To this end, they began to delve into hundreds of years of history. A young English-speaking guide, Ravi, took them not only through the magnificent 500-year-old Amer fort, but to the Galtaji temple complete with clever monkey families who stole the group’s plastic bags full of snacks (pictured above: Sylvester McCoy, Jan Leeming, Roy Walker with temple offerings).
Ravi also told the visitors that he was from a low caste, as our group began to be aware of the hereditary and potentially crippling Indian caste system. He took them all to his own home to meet the family of which he was the only financial support: mother, sister and several nephews and nieces, as well as some goats and a milk-giving buffalo. The family was charming, hospitable, welcoming, and the home certainly humble. His surname evidently made his caste recognisable, so that in spite of his enterprise, intelligence and talent, he did not have access to promotion. Next up, off they go to be entertained to tea by the Maharajah of Jaipur, his Marharanee, and a friend or two, at the Rambagh Palace, now a very grand hotel (with 200 staff) as the kingdoms were nationalised after independence (the Jaipurs have a home in the vast grounds).
We were shown that every home has its shrine or space for worship; Wayne visited a local Hindu shrine, with its Indian guru, and announced that he was on a quest to seek spiritual teaching. Our chef, Rosemary, self-confessedly stressed, visited a guru originally from Europe, now teaching at his own Om Ashram, 20 minutes away from the Haveli: she had a crash course in meditation and claimed almost instant benefit. At the end of the first week they gave a party for the neighbours, getting to know the natives; entertainment included Patti singing and Wayne tap-dancing.
Each of the group in their own way suggested they were falling in love with India, wanted to know more of the culture etc, and were puzzled by the contrast between what they saw as the life, vitality and warmth of the culture and the extremes of poverty they were beginning to glimpse. “I love this place”, they severally declared. What their decisions might be – to retire here or no – will duly be revealed. Meanwhile this curious programme managed to be both patronising to its disparate group from England, several of whom have had glittering careers, and the complex culture and history of Rajasthan.
Even the Indian Tourist Board may not benefit. The programme’s energetically superficial tone of voice underlined the rather maddening pointlessness of making a mockumentary faction out of the fictional Marigold Hotel – even when the only relationship that was claimed was inspirational. Tell me another.