Review
James Ivory's *Shakespeare Wallah* is a film of rare delicacy, one that understands the melancholy of obsolescence without ever becoming maudlin about it. The Buckingham family—those peripatetic British theatre folk performing Shakespeare to indifferent Indian audiences—are not tragic figures but quietly heroic ones, sustained by a love for their art that transcends commerce or comfort. Ivory captures this with genuine affection, allowing the film to breathe in the spaces between performances, in the worn fabric of their costumes and the fading grandeur of colonial-era theatres. Felicity Kendal's Lizzie is the emotional anchor here—not a tragic heroine but a young woman learning that integrity has its own currency, one that outlasts infatuation.
What makes the film work is its refusal to sentimentalize either world. Bollywood is not presented as vulgar or inferior, merely different—Madhur Jaffrey's Manjula is neither villain nor fool, but a woman shrewdly navigating the demands of stardom. Sanju's weakness is rendered with such nuance by Shashi Kapoor that we understand him even as we recognize his failures. The real conflict isn't between cinema and theatre, but between the courage to remain authentic and the easier path of compromise. Ivory directs with remarkable restraint; there's a scene where Lizzie simply walks away from Sanju, and the director trusts us to feel the weight of that choice without underlining it.
The film's only occasional softness comes in its middle
Storyline
A ragtag family of British theatre folk traverses post-colonial India with nothing but Shakespeare in their hearts and worn-out costumes in their trunks, performing for sparse audiences who'd rather catch a Bollywood flick. Tony and Carla Buckingham have kept this traveling theatre alive through sheer stubbornness and love, but it's their spirited daughter Lizzie who becomes the real star—not on stage, but in the eyes of Sanju, a charming rich playboy who can't decide between her earnest charm and the glittering allure of Bollywood starlet Manjula. The clash between old colonial theatre and new post-independence cinema feels both personal and political, making this romance anything but simple.
Jealousy and class anxiety tear at the fabric of their world as Sanju finds himself caught between two worlds—the fading gentility of English theatre and the glamorous, modern Bollywood machine. Manjula, sensing a threat in Lizzie's genuine affection, uses her star power and influence to poison Sanju against the girl, while the theatre company watches their best hope for survival slip away. It's a battle between authenticity and ambition, between love and convenience, and nobody knows who's really winning.
But here's where it gets beautiful—Lizzie chooses theatre, chooses her family's art, chooses authenticity over a wealthy man's half-hearted love. She walks away from Sanju and the promise of a comfortable life, recommitting herself to the travelling show and her parents' impossible dream. It's not a conventional happy ending, but it's the truest one—she finds her own power not through winning a man, but through claiming her identity and her art!