Taking the Write Decisions

Actress Urvashi, during a recent roundtable hosted by film critic Baradwaj Rangan, mentioned something that is unusual for actors.  Usually, we hear actors talk about their co-stars or their directors.  It is much rarer for an actress to talk about an important but underrecognized part of a film's creative team – the writer.  Many old-timers bemoan the lack of dedicated story and dialogue writers in the present-day scenario.  Urvashi mentioned Visu as her favorite writer.  There are two other writers who are unfortunately not with us anymore.  But whose pen combined with Urvashi’s panache to result in some truly memorable films.  They are Crazy Mohan and N Prasanna Kumar.

In all likelihood, you have heard of the former but not the latter.  Crazy Mohan, the genius comedy writer, worked with Urvashi on three films – Michael Madana Kamarajan (MMKR), MagaLir Mattum and Panchathanthiram.  While her part in the last film was a minor one, the first two are widely regarded as comic classics.  Urvashi was in sublime form in those two films.  

As a lot of writers and directors like to say, “comedy is serious business.”  We tend to take comedy creators and actors for granted.  But a lot of effort goes into making the jokes work.  For instance, the “Naeka?  Noaka?  Naekum noakuma?” scene in MMKR would have fallen flat, if not for the perfect timing of the two actors.  Mohan, the master of puns, came up with one of the cutest puns on the word, "cook."  The way Urvashi bashfully says, “Graamam-um cooka? NeengaLum cook-u” (not to mention Kamal’s innocent laughter!) brought to life Mohan’s impishness.  In a TV interview, Kamal and Mohan mentioned rehearsing ahead of the shooting to make the best use of the location, its props (like the bureau) and to get the timing of the jokes right.  All those efforts clearly showed on screen, for MMKR is one of the most beloved comedy classics of thamizh cinema.

MagaLir Mattum, of course, was the best of the Mohan-Urvashi combination films.  As the gullible and bumbling member of the trio (which included Revathi and Rohini), Urvashi walked away with the film.  The extended hospital sequence is one of the film’s highlights.  The whole scene rested on the idea that the three women thought that they had accidentally poisoned and killed the Nasser character!  Revathi stating “poison overdose” and Urvashi naively responding, “naan oru spoon than potten” is an example of a seemingly simple line finding an actor who knew exactly how to deliver it to make it magically spring from paper to screen. 

You may not have heard of writer Prasanna Kumar.  But you probably know every Vivekh joke in Lingusamy’s Run.  Well, Prasanna Kumar was the dialogue writer for Vivekh in many films like Run and Manadhai Thirudivittai.  He had worked in the 1980s as a dialogue writer for Robert-Rajasekar in acclaimed films such as Paalaivana Cholai.  Subsequently, he was the dialogue writer of all of director Keyaar’s films.  Urvashi turned in stupendous performances in two of Keyaar’s films, Vanaja Girija and Irattai Roja. (I am not a fan of her work in Maya Bazaar 1995.) 

Khushboo, ever the gracious co-star, worked with Urvashi in both these films.  She mentioned in an interview that Vanaja Girija where she and Mohini played the titular roles, completely faded into the background once Urvashi entered the picture as the servant maid.  As the boisterous raconteur who can tire the listener (but certainly not the moviegoer!) into submission with her monologues, Urvashi had a whale of a time in this film.  There is a hilarious scene where Urvashi thinks that she has a great story to tell but is chided by everyone in the house.  Watch her narrate the same anecdote multiple times but with just a bit of variation, depending on the listener.  She does it in a single shot, with no let up in momentum.  It is a little gem of a performance by an actor who knew the precise modulation to even make throwaway asides work. (I have also written a piece on her performance in Irattai Roja.)

Click on 'Play' to go directly to the aforementioned scene:

Thanks to a subset of our directors (especially in Malayalam cinema) knowing the true worth of gifted writers, actors like Urvashi who always knew the importance of writers, are getting a chance to shine in significant roles. (Her performance in Christo Tomy's Ullozhuku was deeply moving.) It is a testament to Urvashi’s talent as an actor that she has worked effectively with writers across generations, knowing exactly the note to strike for every character.  As much as a director shapes an actor’s performance, it is the writer that carefully constructs the ‘audio’ part of the audiovisual medium that is cinema.  And when actors join hands with writers, it is the best possible synergy that manifests itself on screen.  Robert de Niro once said, “The talent is in the choices.”  And in choosing to work thoughtfully with writers, the monstrously talented Urvashi has certainly made the write choices!

"Why me?"

There is a poignant sequence in a recently released film (“Meiyazhagan”) where a boy and his family abruptly leave their family home, owing to a crisis.  As they are about to leave their beloved home with all the packed belongings, they realize that they have not loaded the boy’s bicycle onto the truck.  The family decides to leave without it.  Subsequently, the cycle is given to a man, not necessarily out of generosity as much as practicality.  But the impact of the cycle on the man and his family is as unexpected as it is beautiful to hear and watch, much later in the film.  When I watched this film, I was reminded of the famous Steve Jobs quote, “You have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future.”  Our lives are full of surprises, be it in terms of people or circumstances or a mixture of both.  In the movies, one tends to appreciate screenwriting where an event that happens earlier is tied in a surprising yet elegant manner to something that happens much later.  Our lives might not always have the kind of neat connection, satisfying closure or a surprising payoff.  But the seeds of goodness do germinate in unexpected ways.  Let me share four such instances from my life where the way the dots connected made sense only in hindsight.  But they surely did. 

Until I was around 10 years old, I was barely interested in the sport of cricket.  I had a friend who studied in our school for a year before moving to Dubai.  He lived in a different locality.  Owing to a logistical issue, his family moved to a home which was just a couple of streets away from mine.  So, hanging out with him was that much easier.  That was in November of 1991, when the Australian summer season of cricket had just begun.  There was a World Series tourney, a Test match series and finally, of course, the 1992 World Cup.  My friend not only taught me the basics of cricket but also had a depth of knowledge of the game and its history that was scarcely believable for a 10-year old.  The infectious enthusiasm and passion rubbed off onto me.  My love affair with cricket began that year, only to have gotten stronger with time, despite not always having the facilities to follow the game actively (when I lived abroad).  My friend moved to Dubai in the August of 1992. (I sadly lost touch with him.)  I had other friends later who equally loved the game.  But if not for my buddy’s family moving closer to my place in November 1991, I may have never loved the sport like I do now.  

As a school student, nobody except me seemed to know that I was good at Math!  I actually had a very good understanding of Math and could grasp concepts much easier than I did with any other subject.  But my grades rarely, if ever, reflected my love for the subject.  From time to time, I would completely take my family (and my teacher!) by surprise by doing extremely well in an exam.  Later, when I moved to the US along with my family for my undergrad, I had enrolled in a Math class in my first semester.  I did not know that the same course had been taught in different sections by different professors.  As I was walking into the computer science building, sensing my tentativeness, a fellow student asked me, “Are you looking for the Engineering Math class?”  I replied in the affirmative.  He said, “Come with me, I am headed there.”  I sat in that class, which was taught by a person who not only rekindled and channeled my love for Math but also went onto become one of my life’s most significant mentors- Dr. Jim Jamison.  Oh, one little detail that I failed to mention - I was actually assigned to another section!

For the entire semester, I would receive (physical) mails in my home stating that I was not attending the class!  My parents and I thought that it was sent in error because I was doing quite well in Dr Jamison’s class!  After I received a third or fourth note, just out of curiosity, I went to the administration office to show them the letter.  The secretary thankfully saw the lighter side of things and joked, “You would have gotten an F if you hadn’t shown up today!”  She ‘transferred’ me to Dr. Jamison’s class three months after I had started attending his classes!  If not for my innocent mistake, I would have never met my mentor who taught me things far beyond calculus.

After I had worked as a software engineer for five years, I had decided to switch careers.  And in order to galvanize this move, I quit my job to do a full-time MBA.  While I was interested in marketing as a function, I was not really particular about the industry that I wanted to work in.  My summer internship after the first year of my MBA was in the logistics space.  During my second year, as I was looking for full-time jobs, I would sit in on corporate presentations on campus made by prospective employers.  A free meal or a snack was always an appealing factor!  But the most impactful presentation among all the ones that I attended was made by a person who had graduated from my alma mater and was working in the healthcare space.  Her talk on healthcare and all the ways, small or big, in which one could make a difference (in a commercial function, even without a background in science) truly inspired me.  I went to her talk looking to enjoy a zero-dollar meal.  What she gave me was priceless food for thought!  Upon finishing my MBA, I did join the company that she recruited for and worked there for 12 years.  If not for that talk, I wonder if I would have applied for the job with as much earnestness or prepared for my interviews with as much raw passion as I exhibited back then.

The total number of non-fiction books that I had read prior to 2010 was a grand zero.  I had never been an avid reader.  But when I happened upon a Time magazine piece on Dr Sheena Iyengar and her book, “The Art of Choosing,” I was intrigued enough by the core topic of the book - choices - that I decided to give it a try.  The book, which examined choices from multiple perspectives such as physiological, cultural and environmental, resonated with me deeply.  During a work trip to New York, I also had the pleasure of meeting her in person and thanking her for creating an indelible impact through the book.  She gave me a copy of the latest edition of the book, autographed with a note that read, “Be choosy about choosing and you will choose well.”  I went on to realize that reading non-fiction could truly open my mind to new ways of thinking and enable me to view the world from the vantage points of the authors.  Little did I know that a Time article on a book would lead to such an enduring and meaningful change in my life.

It is human tendency to ask, “Why me?” when something untoward threatens to sink our morale.  We rarely ask the same question in the context of the dots that connect in ways that buoy us up.  If we take a step back to look at the larger picture of our life, we realize that as much as serendipity and sequence of events play a role, the 'people' involved play a much bigger role.  My sitting in the wrong section would have meant nothing if not for a professor like Dr. Jamison.  My friend moving to my locality would not have mattered had not for his infectious enthusiasm and the willingness to share his knowledge.  My sitting in a presentation, tempted by a free meal, would have just ended in an afternoon nap, not a career-altering decision, if not for the presenter.  You see the pattern here.  It is tough to force us to lift ourselves up when the weight of our life's issues threatens to fell us.  But to occasionally reflect on the ways in which the dots connected in unexpectedly pleasant ways, might be a good way to lift ourselves up, even if temporarily.  And while we are it, we may also pay it forward by being that dot in someone else’s portrait of life.  If an abandoned bicycle can change a family’s fortunes, then we, as people, might at least try to do our bit by sowing a bit of goodness in other people's lives.

Meiyazhagan: A thing of true beauty

Disclaimer: the write-up does have spoilers. You may want to read it AFTER watching the film.

Walking out of C Prem Kumar’s “Meiyazhagan”, I thought of something that is quite obvious about characters in a film.  We really don’t know them at all before a film's projection begins.  Sure, we can always guess the genre and the flavor of a film by the first look, teaser, trailer and so on.  But every creator has the task of making us care - especially in a drama - about the characters early enough in a film to be invested in them for the duration of the movie.  Let’s first look into what Prem does in the opening sequence of the film.

The prelude of “Meiyazhagan” has to establish the core character of AruL (played masterfully by Arvind Swamy; more on him later).  And what the house and the city that he grew up in, meant to him.  As if to suggest an impending ‘death’ of sorts that AruL is about to experience, the film opens with the shot of a lamp being put out.  We realize that he and his family have lost possession of the house that was, and will always be, an integral part of his identity.  A few deeply poignant moments among the family members play out.  And as they are about to leave, we see a shot where the camera is inside the dark house.  As AruL shuts the door, we, the audience, are in darkness.  The scene does not cut away immediately.  We experience that darkness, that dread for just that one extra second.  Without quite realizing it, we have already felt the pain of a character whom we did not know up until a few moments ago.

In a cute homage to his debut film, the time gap between the events described above (which happen in 19…96!) and the ‘present’ is 22 years.  The scene is now set in 2018. (We even see a poster of "96" later.)  AruL is in Chennai, happily married to Hema (Devadarshini).  He is about to head back to Thanjavur to attend the wedding of his cousin, whom he is very fond of.  We realize that he has resisted the urge to revisit the place - more accurately, his past - all these years.  But he decides to return, nevertheless.  At the wedding, he sees a character (Karthi) who showers all of the world’s affection on him.  But there is a catch.  AruL cannot, for the life of him, remember who he is.  This conceit leads to several laugh-out-loud moments, yes.  More importantly, this leads to a marvelous payoff in the concluding moments of the film.  The rest of the film is about what AruL gets to learn about this character, but more importantly what he learns about himself in the process.

We saw in “96” what Prem was capable of in terms of shaping characters and extracting nuanced performances from the entire cast.  He has taken that trait to stratospheric heights in this film.  Not everyone outside Arvind Swamy and Karthi have a lot of screen time.  But not only are they cast perfectly but also given the chance to shine.  Prem lets each of the characters breathe.  Take the example of Jayaprakash, who plays AruL’s father.  There is a scene where he speaks to Raj Kiran on the phone.  During the course of the conversation, he mists up.  But after they hang up, one would expect the focus to shift back to the wedding hall where the key characters are present.  But Prem has too much delicacy of touch to miss capturing what Jayaprakash’s character would be experiencing.  So, we see an extended shot of him tearing up uncontrollably.  Not only is the actor marvelously expressive.  But we also feel the pain caused by the separation.  That mood is built up moment by beautiful moment, by the filmmaker and his supremely talented actors.

It is not just the heavier, emotional scenes where we see the stamp of a filmmaker that knows exactly the note of performance that he needs from his cast.  We also see it in quieter moments.  Like the moment where Devadarshini switches from the speaker phone to holding her phone to her ear because she can barely contain her excitement.  Or that lovely moment where Sri Divya’s face lights up at the realization that her husband is having a genuinely nice time. 

I have always felt that what separates a lazy director from a thoughtful one is what he does with the persona of an actor.  An actor's persona is just the foundation for the performance, not the performance.  What Prem does with his actors is exactly that.  Devadarshini has a sprightly side to her.  Sri Divya has a charming innocence about her.  Karunakaran has a deadpan hilarity about him.  Raichal Rabecca (who played the kind-hearted magistrate in “Kadaisi Vivasayi”) projects an innate kindness.  These are all on-screen personae which Prem exacts maximum mileage out of by giving the actors some wonderful lines and gorgeously quiet moments to work with.  

And finally, the two lead actors who carry the film - and the trust placed by Prem - on their broad shoulders.  The two actors turn in what are arguably the best performances of their respective careers.  At the start, Arvind Swamy comes across as a crusty, cynical character.  But the moment on stage where we hear his voice quiver, as he tenderly says, “Unaku thane da,” we immediately fall for the character.  Even in scenes where Karthi is doing more of the talking, his reaction shots are precise.  He is equally adept at the conversational moments, like the crucial phone call at the end of the film, as he is at the quieter moments.  Watch him gently embrace Devadarshini from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder.  It feels so perfect for what the character has gone through in the hours leading up to that.  And Karthi is a delight.  He plays a do-gooder with the right amount of charm and seriousness.  He delivers his searing monologues beautifully, with voice modulations that we have rarely seen in modern-day actors.  The monologue on people who lost their lives in a protest is a standout.  And he is the life of many a scene, be it singing Ilayaraja songs with gay abandon or engaging in earthy banter with the folks at the wedding hall. He is a livewire yes, but with a lot of heart.  

That Prem (who started his career as a cinematographer) has immense mastery over craft is evident throughout the film, as I had mentioned in regards to the opening sequence too.  But his writing in “Meiyazhagan” is deserving of as much approbation.  The humor is so organically woven into the scenes that it feels like we are laughing at the jokes cracked by people in daily conversations.  But one must not fail to notice some of the subtle elements written into the humor.  For instance, the presence of a snake in the house.  Firstly, it leads to an uproarious moment where Arvind Swamy suddenly switches from English to Thamizh in a moment of panic.  Later we see a shot of a snake by itself, seeming totally comfortable in the surroundings.  And finally, we see Karthi waving a fearless salute at the snake while continuing a conversation.  Through these humorous moments, we also get to realize how Karthi inhabits a world where he is integrated - in all ways - into nature and its beings, in their full glory.  

Some of the social commentary that we see in the second half too, don’t feel out of place, one because of the way they are part of a vibrant dialogue between the characters.  But also because, as Arvind Swamy tells his family at the end, the Karthi character embodies the true definition of love in every facet of life.  Be it his unconditional love for his fellow human beings or his affection towards animals, the latter leading seamlessly to the discussion on what the Jallikattu ban and protests truly meant to those who took care of the bulls.  His love for his city, his ancestors, his heritage, his society are all part of who he is as a person.  And that is precisely why when we hear Arvind Swamy state that he feels ‘small’ in comparison to the Karthi character, that the line truly resonates.  

The music by Govind Vasantha and the cinematography by Mahendran Jayaraju are in perfect sync with the director’s vision.  If “Yaaro ivan yaaro” rendered soulfully by Kamal Hassan is an ode to a life that AruL craves for, the background score also accentuates the impact of several scenes.  Even for the seemingly incidental moments, the score adds immeasurable impact.  Listen to the majestic nadhaswaram that plays when the elephant strides in the temple.  The cinematography not only brings to life the magnificence of Thanjavur (the director’s hometown) but also, in its own way, envelops us in the world inhabited by Karthi. The streets, houses, temples and monuments all develop a life of their own, thanks to the brilliant work of the DOP.  

Genuine love and affection are getting scarcer by the day in this world.  During these times, it is a pleasure to watch a supremely well-made, well-written and well-acted film like this.  It is a movie that re-infuses our faith in humanity and chips away ever so slightly at the cynicism that has seeped into us as a result of all the inequity and depravity that we witness in our society.  In essence, “Meiyazhagan” is a three-hour exhibition of rays of hope that C Prem Kumar and his team have projected onto the silver screen.

The "I" word

The recent tragic death of 26-year-old Anna Sebastian Perayil has raised more questions than we will find timely answers for.  Terms such as “work pressure” and “stress” have been mentioned in multiple forums.  What truly ‘caused’ her death may, unfortunately, never be fully established in a watertight fashion.  But it does not require a scientist launching spaceships to Mars to piece together the undeniable facts of her story.  And it requires one with a heart as cold as the Arctic Ocean to not be sensitive to what she went through in the months leading to her death.  And what her parents will go through for the rest of their lives.  Amidst all the sadness and all the commentary that I have been reading, there is one word that comes to mind.  And that is impunity. 

The first time that I had truly understood the meaning of the word was when my Aunt Va. Geetha shared with me that the title of her book on sexual violence was, “Undoing Impunity.”  Even though I sort of knew the word, only when she explained to me the essence of the book did I truly understand the gravity that the word carried.  It is a word that I think of quite often when I witness or hear of a demonstration of people ‘getting away’ with things that they should not.  Some of the details that we have read regarding Anna’s work environment clearly point to people abusing the power and authority vested in them.  The people in positions of power clearly did not look at their role as one of an enabler that could shape the life and career of those under them. 

Especially early in their careers, when they are still impressionable, young minds can truly bloom or wither depending on whether they have the support and backing of those more ‘senior’ (I am using that term loosely) to them. Across industries, we have heard old-timers use terms such as “trial by fire” and how their inner core was strengthened by the tough experiences and uncharitable insults that they had endured in their early years.  Many wear it with pride as a badge of honor.  It is a dangerous idea to propagate.  A lot of times, the status quo remains as such because there is no propulsive force to dismantle it.  There is a much smaller set of people that can stomach negativity and channel that into a driving force for their lives than the number of people who crave a positive influence that would enable them to succeed and surge.  Author Daniel Pink wrote of how the primary drivers of motivation are autonomy, mastery and a sense of purpose.  Unreasonable exercise of authority is not even in the ballpark, as you can see.  

Another perilous line of thinking that has been advanced as a way out, in recent times is, “if it doesn’t work for you, quit.”  Yes, on paper, it might sound fair to urge people to place a premium on their health and leave a toxic environment.  As some perceptive people have pointed out, not everyone has the privilege - financial or otherwise - to do everything that they wish to, nor might they have the power or authority by themselves to cause sweeping changes for the better.  Systemic changes will occur only when there is a clarion call that is generated by both people in authority as well as people that are rising up the ranks.  The latter is an especially important group since they aren’t as set in their ways and haven’t accepted certain unhealthy ways of working as the norm.  

One aspect that does not get mentioned often enough in this context is fear.  It is hard to deny that there is a sense of fear and dread that people experience when they do not have the power or the environment that encourages active candor and freedom of speech.  Lack of financial security, social support and many other reasons can drive people into a shell where they silently suffer.  During these times, a support system - professional or otherwise - is a must.  The same society that turns a blind eye to the acts of impunity has absolutely no business in stigmatizing or ridiculing people who seek help for the mental - and physical, I might add - health issues that result from this impunity.  And if we can be that source of support to a sufferer, we must consider it an honor and privilege to be let into their lives.  It behooves us to extend thoughtfulness, sensitivity and empathy towards them as we assume the role of a shoulder that they can lean on.

I am writing this piece with the realization that there are no easy solutions to the issues that people like Anna face(d).  But as we have seen with so many significant movements in history, it all has to start with an honest acknowledgement of harsh realities.  Widespread acknowledgement at that.  If we continue to accept certain realities as immutable, it is akin to a team losing a game before even setting foot in the stadium.  The plea from Anna’s grieving parents should not be just seen as a note to an employer.  Instead, it should be imprinted onto our collective consciousness.  It should be a reminder that toxicity - in whatever form - when unaddressed will lead to disastrous consequences.  The only antidote for that can be a systemic change that lays the foundation for a conducive environment.  An environment where every person has the feeling that those more senior have their back but are not looking over their shoulder.  That way, future generations can subconsciously feel that they have the license to think, to act and to shape up a bright tomorrow for themselves and their microcosm of the world.  All this will eventually lead to them ‘undoing the impunity’ that pervades our society in myriad forms.

Intern-al Stability, External Impact

No sooner had “The Intern” dropped on Netflix than I started to see a series of tweets that reminded me of how much affection is associated with the film.  The 2015 film is about a ‘senior intern’ (delightfully essayed by Robert De Niro) who ends up becoming a trusted confidante and best friend to his company founder (played with supreme conviction by Anne Hathaway).  Ben Whittaker (De Niro) ends up creating an impact that extends far beyond the confines of the office space of Jules Ostin (Hathaway).  Beyond his other admirable qualities such as initiative and reliability, is his sense of calm. 

In a scene of great meaning, Jules observes, “The truth is, something about you makes me feel calm, or more centered or something.  And I could use that.”  Last year, I had recollected this line in an article titled, “Peace it together” where I wrote on the importance of internal peace and what I see as the prime contributors to that.  In this companion piece, I want to dwell more on what impact that calm could have on others.

By the end of the film, Ben has nurtured Jules through a professional dilemma and a humungous personal crisis.  Expressing her gratitude, Jules says, “It’s moments like this when you need someone that you know you can count on.”  Just pause on that line for a second.  What impact do we create on people by giving them this assurance that they can count on us? 

Although I am unable to recollect the source, I once saw this phrase, “calm begets calm.”  That line has stayed with me ever since.  I know that I am yet to always be the perfectly calm gentleman, the likes of which I admire on and off screen.  Like Arjun in “Rhythm” or De Niro here.  But I do know that when I am able to enter that zone of calm - regardless of pressures that I might be facing - that I am able to project that calm onto others.  I am expressive by nature.  I know that I can choose words precisely and thoughtfully to make someone feel better, even if momentarily.  But truth to be told, the words are only part of the story.  In fact, there is very little by way of profundities that De Niro utters in “The Intern.”  Instead, he makes people pause, breathe, and hold a figurative mirror to reflect on themselves.  He is patient and persistent, not allowing them to flinch and look away from that mirror. 

If you think about situations where you have made a positive impact on someone by exhibiting a sense of calmness, you will realize that you would have exhibited complete empathy, an unwavering focus on what ‘they’ need but would have also gently nudged and prodded them towards what might bring them enduring clarity.  Just like the way Jules is encouraged by De Niro to really assess if her company needs a new CEO.

In the instances where I have been able to make a positive impact on someone in the personal or professional setting, there is one common attribute that I have observed about myself.  And that is the ability to have a sense of detachment.  Not towards the person as much as towards the situation.  If I can take a step back to critically observe the bigger picture, then I am able to put things in perspective better for the other person.  It is, of course, easier when say, I am helping someone on an issue where I do not have direct involvement.  In that case, I can patiently hear out details and offer my perspectives.  But if I am part of a stressful situation myself, then it takes more effort to rise to the occasion, and to be the picture of calm amidst the distress. 

One tightrope walk that we absolutely need to walk as the provider of support or as an intended source of calm is to avoid trivializing a person’s issue but at the same time, give them the assurance that this too shall pass.  When I share relevant examples or insights from my own past experiences, it helps me make a connection with the concerned person.  They get to know that I am speaking from a lived-in experience, not a second hand one.  Because it is so important to ensure that the empathy intended is the same as the empathy received.

At the end of the day, we might not always be able to help people solve their problems.  Alas, some problems might not have easily acceptable solutions after all.  But to the extent to which we can, if we can project the sense of calm that Ben could to Jules, then we can absolutely make a meaningful difference.  And if we derived so much comfort from watching “The Intern”, then we, in turn, can offer the same comfort to the people who place faith in us.

An expression of faith - An essay on R Parthiban's Teenz

 The maverick is back!  A filmmaker who sees every film as an opportunity to give the audience an absolutely novel experience, has now come out with a film featuring teenagers.  The premise is straightforward.  13 teenagers go on a trip to the house of the grandparents of one of them.  En route to the place, a subset of them goes missing one by one.  What happens to them afterwards is what Radhakrishnan Parthiban’s Teenz is all about.  The premise is straightforward, yes.  But the adventure that he takes us on is anything but.  It is a fascinating cocktail of adventure, emotion and - you may not see this coming - science fiction.

The first half of the film is a deliberately paced build up to what unfurls in the second half.  Parthiban does a fantastic job of establishing the kids’ characters in an economy of scenes.  The first few scenes offer us a glimpse into their worlds, establishing their quirks and idiosyncrasies in a fun manner.  The potential issue with having a sizeable group is to make them cohere as a group yet give them individual moments that we remember.  Through little vignettes, Parthiban lays the foundation brick by brick for the second half.  Note the lovely introduction scene for Ayyankali, one of the best characters in the film.  The genuine care and affection that Sara has for him is beautifully carried through right till the end of the film.  

The film’s missteps are mostly in the first half.  There are some red herrings thrown in like a girl hanging from a tree, a police investigation, an exorcist, etc.  More time could have been spent in laying the foundation for the science fiction angle.  Given the motley crowd, it may have been interesting had one of the kids shown affinity towards science instead of the entire group looking clueless and scared.  What I did like was the casual dismissal of superstitions by the kids, and how the actual focus of the second half is an area that is rarely explored in Tamil cinema.  

The film truly kicks into top gear post intermission where the science fiction aspects come in.  One of the admirable aspects of these portions is the tightrope walk performed by Parthiban, the writer.  He knows that this is new territory for his audience.  If he exposited excessively, he would be accused of inelegant writing, doing more tell than show.  If he withheld too many details and let the audience solve the puzzle in their minds, he would be accused of being obtuse.  He strikes a fine balance, leavening his dialogues with a tinge of humor. (Given how the light humor is so organic, Yogi Babu’s cameo feels like an unnecessarily forced commercial compromise.) He also foresees certain audience questions such as how an alien typically looks (thanks to our exposure to Hollywood) and why they will be seeing something different.  His dialogue with the kids is almost a dialogue with the audience but the writing is so precise that none of it feels spoonfed.  

The kids are, without exception, wonderful.  If you notice them even in the wide shots where individually they might not have prominence, they still behave naturally in the manner of seasoned veterans.  It almost feels unfair to highlight a couple of them given how each of them shines. But three actors who impressed me the most were Deepan (as Ayyankali), Kritika Iyer (as Sara) and Vishrutha Shiv (as Apoorva).  Deepan’s eyes are powerful and he puts them to full use in the climactic portions.  Kritika has a lovely way of expressing tenderness in a quiet, unfussy, yet completely authentic manner.  And Vishrutha projects fear with the kind of control that not all adult actors are capable of.  Even though I have mentioned three of them, there is not a single false note amongst any of the other performers.  

Prior to Housefull (1999), Parthiban’s films hinged mostly on the merits of his writing and acting.  But in the past 25 years, the craft in Parthiban’s movies has been impeccable.  And Teenz has a new element too - graphics.  The graphics are top notch and always in service of the script, never appearing as standalone visual gimmicks.  The spaceship, the contraptions with the shrunk kids, the moments of shrinking and expansion are all marvelous.  Gavemic Ary’s cinematography is brilliant.  Be it the POV shots in the python sequence or the rapid shifts of focus in the shot of the rope (in the well scene) or the top angle shots of the vast open fields, Ary’s work is in perfect sync with Parthiban’s writing.  D Imman’s songs are diverse, ranging from the playful “Icky Picky” (with some cute animations to boot), the soulful “Yesuve nee pesuvey” (its juxtaposition with a Muslim boy praying, is a lovely communal message in itself), the romantic “Hey Nainika” and the irresistibly catchy “Bibili”.  

As I reflect on the unique experience of the film, it is clear that the film is yet another expression of faith from Parthiban.  Faith in the audience’s willingness to support daring ideas.  Faith in the viewer’s ability to push themselves to accept themes and grasp concepts outside of their comfort zones.  Faith in the next generation’s openness to follow him as he takes on yet another untraveled path.  For all the love that we claim to show towards the medium of cinema, it is high time that we repose the faith that he has placed in us.

Nailing the little moments – An essay on “Blue Star” and “Por Thozhil”

It had been a few months since I had caught any of the newer Tamil film releases.  I had missed watching “Blue Star” and “Por Thozhil” in the theatres.  And even when I caught them on OTT, it was later than usual for me.  But maybe because of the little lacuna in my watching new films, I watched these films with a rather fresh pair of eyes, which is not a luxury that I had when I would inundate myself with films.  “Blue Star” and “Por Thozhil”, in terms of content, are vastly different from one another.  But a common aspect of both films is their remarkable ability to generate immense power and impact – of different kinds – in the smaller moments.

Let us start with “Por Thozhil.”  It is an investigative thriller (directed by Vignesh Raja) featuring stupendous performances by the lead cast and a surprise (with the casting choice, that is) antagonist.  It is an intelligent whodunit that peels the layers of the investigation gradually, while demanding the audience’s attention and respecting their intelligence.  Sarath Kumar (who is fantastic) plays a world-weary cop with a back story that we are only given hints of.  He clearly suffered physical abuse as a child.  Usually, we get vignettes or at least a stirring monologue to capture a glimpse of the gory past.  Here, there is a superb little scene where Sarath refuses to excuse the antagonist’s actions that may have been the result of a sordid past.  The writing is so precise that we are not left to imagine much but it doesn’t spoon feed us to the point of exhaustion either.  We are expected to fill in the blanks.  The gentle romance between Ashok Selvan and Nikhila Vimal also has its moments.  Even after the former has rescued the latter, there are no dramatic gestures expressing gratitude.  Instead, a wheelchair-bound Nikhila simply cracks a joke that is a nod to the awkwardness that Ashok had confessed to earlier.  These little moments have a certain finesse that make the film international standard in terms of quality.  

“Blue Star” (directed by S Jayakumar and presented by Pa Ranjith) is a tale of a group of youngsters overcoming oppression by staying united and focused on displaying their talents, in this case, cricketing talents.  Ashok Selvan, who stars in this film too, displays a remarkable maturity in his performance.  Whether he is insulted, indignant, cared for, loved for, or feeling triumphant, there is not a single false note or overdone moment.  Shanthnu Bhagyaraj and Prithvi Rajan too, are delightfully nuanced in their performances.  There is a pair of scenes where Shanthnu visits the home of Ashok, where this understatement adds to the gloss of their performances and the filmmaking.  In the first scene, Shanthnu, who oversees loan recoveries, calls out Ashok’s mother by name, in an intentionally disrespectful manner.  The way Ashok broods over it, you can feel his anger and helplessness in equal measure.  In a later scene where Shanthnu visits them, he is a lot gentler and more respectful.  He calls Ashok’s mother, “Ma.”  He realizes that the trepidation of Ashok’s mother is a result of his rude behavior in the past and instantly comforts her without saying much.  And the casual manner of interaction suggests, without stating it loudly, that all is well between them. 

The gentle humour not feeling out of place in both these films, which are serious subjects, is also testament to the delicacy of the writing and staging.  In “Por Thozhil”, there is a scene where Ashok narrates the rather amusing origins of him becoming a policeman.  If Ashok is pitch-perfect in his narration of the funny story, Sarath is equally wonderful in his reaction shots, where he is completely in character.  During the moments where Ashok puts his bookish knowledge to good use in the investigation, watch Sarath’s reactions – the silent nods and the contained expressions are fabulous.  Having watched Sarath turn in mostly demonstrative performances, “Por Thozhil” was a pleasant surprise.  In “Blue Star”, the romance between Ashok and Keerthi Pandian features a couple of light-hearted moments where the quiet glances speak volumes.  A case in point being the scene where Keerthi plays cricket joyously. 

In “Blue Star” there are some moments where the antagonists screaming “thagudhi” and insulting Ashok and their gang feels a little loud when compared to the tone of the rest of the film.  A subtler approach actually works better in registering the oppression and inequality felt by the lead characters.  For instance, if you notice the first cricket game where Shanthnu recruits pros from a university, it is clear that they look down upon him, not joining in any of the celebrations and acting dismissively when he offers them cricketing suggestions.  These moments work better than the sniggers and louder insults.  What I admired was how the theme of unity was brought to the fore during the quieter moments.  I especially liked how Ashok and Shanthnu display solidarity with one another and their groups, once they realize that their disunity will only do them a disservice, in their quest for progress.

Overall, both “Por Thozhil” and “Blue Star” were refreshing examples of how a ‘less is more’ approach can work just as well as, if not better than, a louder style of filmmaking, ensuring that the core themes register in our minds.  The filmmakers as well as the actors in these films seemed to have come together with a shared vision of what good looks like and have executed them flawlessly.  With this resultant synergy, they have collectively ensured that I better not miss any of their future releases or even be delayed in reviewing them anymore!

Meet My CP

Dear reader, you absolutely need to know about my Chinna Paati, whom I have referred to as CP for as long as I can remember.  Before I get to the why, let’s briefly meet Sushila Paati.  She was born in 1940.  She completed a bachelor’s degree in Sanskrit – this detail would play a rather key role in my life, as you will learn!  At the age of 21, she married my maternal grandpa’s younger brother.  There is a rather adorable picture of my mother seated next to the newly married couple.  Even at 21, CP’s instinctively maternal nature leaps out of the picture.  I don’t have the picture to upload here but take my word for that.

CP & her husband- my creativity truly overflowed in my childhood, so I christened him CT, short for Chinna Thatha! – were a lovely couple.  As you entered their beautiful ranch home in T Nagar, their smiles opened the door to you even before they physically opened the gate.  Without them ever stating it, you could tell that they had much mutual respect.  He pronounced her name as though the ‘i’ was silent.  His dependence on her was as striking as it was adorable.  He depended on her but never took her for granted.  CP respected him but not in a subservient way.  They were very much equals in their relationship, which I am not sure was an assumed norm for Indian couples from that generation.  CT ensured that her responsibilities as wife and mother did not define her.  Her likes, dislikes and preferences all mattered to him.  For instance, CP’s reading habit was never a casualty amidst her household responsibilities.  CP reciprocated that respect, and how. 

All Smiles - CT, CP and their daughter, Geetha

I was always fond of CP since I was very young.  But two things – one positive and one tragic – happened in the early 1990s which cemented my bond with her indelibly.  I developed a love for cricket in the early 1990s.  CP is not just a fan of cricket; she is a knowledgeable critic of the game.  Before the 1992 world cup, I spent hours talking to CP and CT on the phone, learning about the game and developing a passion for it.  Cricket is an important part of my life.  The seeds for that were sown in the sprawling garden of their house!  

I vividly remember an incident from the 1992 world cup.  I had watched India’s final game versus South Africa at our house.  India had already been knocked out of the WC.  But when India lost the game which I felt they could have won – in retrospect, I was wrong; they never stood a chance! – I created a big ruckus in the house.  Without wasting an extra microsecond, my Mom dialled CT’s number and said, “Chithappa, speak to your grandson.  I can’t handle him!”  It took CT’s power of persuasion to calm me down!  I do not remember what CP said to me, but I am sure she consoled me with her trademark kindness sans any judgment.  That is the thing about her that I recollect with gratitude – even when I was young, she spoke with me, never talked down to me.

The second reason why my bond with her was cemented for life was that when my grandpa died, I had a week to go for my eighth standard final exam.  My parents, my grandma and my Aunt were all in a state of shock but also had to take care of a lot of rituals and procedures following Thatha’s sudden death.  It was CP that took me under her wing and ensured that my preparations for the exam were not unduly affected by the tragedy.  She would take me to a quiet corner of the house and made me focus and study, while never failing to acknowledge the gravity of the tragedy and its impact on me.  A couple of years later, when I was in serious danger of flunking my Hindi board exam, she used her proficiency in the language to help me tide over my struggles.  She did it in her usual unassuming manner.  But the phone bills from those months will narrate a story of their own!

Even after I moved to the US, I never failed to keep in touch with them.  CT’s sudden demise in 2005 had an impact on her that lasts till this day.  She is still the same kind person and over time, she has had to reconcile to the loss.  But those who know her from before know that there was never an iota of sadness in her eyes when he was alive, which you can sometimes detect now.  But the largehearted person that she is, she continues to accept all my Aunt’s (the renowned writer and activist Va Geetha, whom I have written about in my piece on CT) friends as her own, just like she accepted her husband’s brother’s grandson as her own.

As an 83-year-old, CP might not have the vim and vigor of her younger days.  Her movements might be a little more circumspect than before. (Then again, her steps have always been measured.) Her mind has not lost its unfussy sharpness.  And her heart continues to beat for her loved ones.  As someone who is grateful for all the things that I have learned from her about cricket and many things beyond, let me use this opportunity to convey my wish that CP at 83*, scores a century.

After the waterworks: A hopeful essay on grieving

Long-time readers of the blog will be familiar with my fondness for my maternal grandfather.  For those of you reading this and not as familiar, my grandpa died in a freak accident in 1994 when I was 13 years old.  I was extremely close to him.  I probably did not realize it then.  But I think I took it for granted that I would just grow up under his steadying influence.  His sudden death shocked me.  It shook me.  But not in a way that I find it easy to express.  Recently, his 30^th death anniversary just came and went.  I did not cry.  I did not dig up any photographs of his.  I did not really reminisce about him with anyone on that day.  But the realization that I got to keep a little of him whereas he took a lot of me when he went, was a palpable one.  The heaviness was akin to the blockage of a heart that needed a stent and balloon to keep it functioning.  So, what makes me retain the lightness of heart amidst the burden of his passing?

Before answering that question, I’d like to revisit the period after Thatha passed away.  After the wailing.  And after the waterworks.  It is safe to say that the period starting from a few days after an unforeseeable event like a premature death, are the hardest for the near and dear.  My grandpa was survived by my grandma, their two daughters, sons in law and an only grandchild (at the time), which was, of course, yours sorrowfully.  Regardless of his passing on, there was a routine for everyone.  My parents, Uncle and Aunt had to return to work.  I had to go back to school.  Thathama (that’s what I called my grandma) had a house to run.  But once the flood of tears subsided, the drought of emotion took over the house.  The sadness in the air was as hard to concretize as it was real.  There was a certain numbness felt by everyone.  The huge set of people who came on the day of his passing on and for a few days afterwards could, of course, not keep showing up every day to express condolences.  But there was something that I noticed about the small set of the people in the inner circle who kept showing up.

You know what they did so wonderfully well?  I just answered that.  They showed up.  My grandpa’s best friend and his family, my grandpa’s brother and his family, my grandma’s sister, her sister-in-law, a nephew of hers, a niece…the list is not that long but they played a hugely important role in our recovery.  They just came to our house consistently and spent time with us.  I honestly do not remember any pearls of wisdom that they shared about grieving or how to cope.  They just were there.  They let my grandma be.  They knew that she had to lead the rest of her life without a partner that had just been a rock-solid pillar of support for her in 40 years of marriage.  Sometimes when my grandma needed her space, they would not disturb her.  They demonstrated something that Sheryl Sandberg and Adam Grant wrote about years later.  That the platinum rule of supporting grieving people is that you treat them the way they want to be treated.

I was not that young that I did not notice all this but I was young enough to not quite comprehend everything.  And for my part, I bottled a lot of my grief within me.  I never reached out, even to my loving family or my caring extended family, for much emotional support.  I don’t even remember saying as much as, “I miss Thatha a lot.”  Not that my family ignored me.  Far from it.  They would sometimes wonder why I didn’t express myself much despite being so fond of him.  I even remember, in 1995, during my Thatha’s birth anniversary, I did not join my family on a visit to an orphanage.  When my Mom asked me whether it was not disrespecting the memory of someone whom I respected a lot, I just bumbled something along the lines of, “I have to study for tomorrow’s assignment.” (Yeah right!)  I do not have an answer to the question why I never opened up much.  But I have an answer on how I eventually did.

It was during my late teens when I started to open up about missing my grandfather a lot.  I would speak to my family as well as my friends about it.  It all started with a visit to the hospital where he died.  A friend of mine was undergoing a surgery there.  I was very hesitant to visit the same place.  But when I told my Mum about it, she responded that if at all I wanted to internalize the spirit of my grandpa, that I must visit my friend.  Thatha’s friendship of 50 years with his dearest friend, the late Mr A. Sivasailam (Sivasailam Mama, to me) was one of the things that defined his life.  That day when I visited the hospital, was a bit of an epiphany for me.  One that has helped me grieve a lot more effectively.  And fortunately or unfortunately, has helped me deal with other life-altering events like the passing on of my Aunt. 

When I lose someone, I genuinely try to remember what they stood for.  And how they wanted or rather, would want me to lead my life.  Earlier, I used to put an undue amount of pressure on myself to almost mimic them.  And I would get frustrated when I did not experience the kind of peace that I craved.  But I realized over time that I had to put my intentions through the filter of circumstance as well as the character of people that I interact with.  As a result, I have been able to almost customize certain kind of behaviours where I try to capture the spirit of the loved ones who have left me. 

But what I have learned the most from the people who supported us during trying times 30 years ago was the need to be a shoulder to the ones who truly need us during times of grieving.  Especially in the period after the initial shock.  I have realized that that is when and where the grieving ones truly need us.  The outward silence they sometimes project is a by-product of a thousand voices in their mind.  Voices that sometimes they don’t know how to respond to.  Voices that sometimes raise questions about the purpose of life, about the fond memories of the loved ones that can never be recreated or about basic things that have to be sorted out – finances, logistics, new routines, etc.  Above all, the questions around leading a life without the one who has left us prematurely.

I have seen that the most thoughtful of supporters do so by being there and by gently prodding the survivors to take steps into creating a new normal and a new purpose for their living.  When my grandma (who never got a college education) decided to take over as the proprietor of the small factory that my grandpa had built so lovingly, people such as Sivasailam Mama and his equally loving family members, ensured that she was able to execute my grandpa’s vision to the best of her abilities.  That she did so for more than 20 years after my grandpa’s passing was a testament to her willpower as well as the thoughtful support of her trusted circle. (In an unfortunate repeat of events, when my Aunt predeceased my grandma, the latter found solace in caring for her granddaughter.)  As the line in Rhythm goes, “Death is not the end.”  Especially not for the ones who have to keep going.

So, back to the question of what makes me retain the lightness of heart amidst the burden of my Thatha’s passing?  The first is, a willingness to make an invisible yet meaningful line of connection to him by striving to imbibe his spirit, in essence the ‘soul’ (pun intended) of his character.  And secondly, to reach out to people who grieve for reasons of their own.  After all, giving is one of the most sustainable forms of healing. 

All said and done, I do miss you a lot, Thatha.  I wish you hadn’t left me so early. 

Realistic Fantasy: A retro review of Shankar's Indian (1996)

As a 90s kid growing up in Chennai, it was impossible to not notice the humungous splash that Director Shankar was creating with his initial films.  Gentleman (1993) and Kadhalan (1994) were poles apart in terms of content – I dare say, quality too. (The latter is one of my least favorite films of Shankar.)  But with the level of grandeur, be it in action, song sequences or just the canvas overall, Shankar was creating a unique brand for himself.  It was in his third film where Shankar truly fired on all cylinders.  Indian, which I reckon as his best film till date, is not only a magnificent spectacle which made for a terrific theatre experience but also one of the best scripts ever written in service of commercial cinema. 

A common aspect of Gentleman and Indian was the vigilante being hunted down by a committed officer.  But where Charan Raj was a bit of a cinematic caricature, Nedumudi Venu is superb.  Aided by Nasser’s voice, Venu is dignity personified.  If you notice in lesser films, the intelligence of these officers never truly comes out.  Even in a well-made film like Ramana, the investigating officers were made to look like fools in order to make the Yugi Sethu character shine.  Whereas here, Venu’s character is the law-enforcing counterpoint to the violent brand of justice meted out by the Indian Thatha character, essayed, of course, with great style and conviction by Kamal Hassan.  Nowhere is this brought out better than the scene where Venu says that he, as a person, is an admirer of Indian Thatha but as a CBI officer, he is and will always be honesty personified.  The scenes where he goes from “meticulous” to “meticulous, old man” to “meticulous, old terrorist” are among the finest investigation scenes in Tamil cinema.  It is thanks to the sparkling intelligence of these sequences that the film acquires its seriousness amidst the commercial additions.

The key difference between his earlier films like Indian and Muthalvan versus his most recent works was that he and writer Sujatha brought a lot of painstaking detailing to what were inherently scenes straight out of a fantasy.  Take the TV station scene for instance.  How a septuagenarian could break into a TV studio, film a murder and manage to get it telecast is, if you think about it, nonsensical.  But the amount of details that are packed, the explanation given around the Philippines-based telecaster all point to one admirable trait – Shankar did not want the audience to feel that their intelligence was insulted.  It was as if he set out to demonstrate that if at all an elderly gentleman were to go about making a razor-sharp (!) statement and telecast it during Oliyum OLiyum time, this is probably how he would do it!

Of the two flashbacks in the film, the Kasthuri portions are short but impactful.  The actress too turns in a fine performance.  But it is in the freedom fighter flashback where the magical mix of great writing and top-notch production values happens.  Jeeva’s cinematography in the black and white scenes is masterful, especially the professionally shot war scene.  The sets, the costumes, the purposeful use of graphics are all epic in nature.  I love the little moment when Senapathi (a follower of Subhas Chandra Bose) shoots a puppet and later apologizes for it.  It is a character-defining moment that shines light on the depth of his patriotic fervor.  AR Rahman's "Kappal Yeri Poyaachu" in the flashback is a marvel. (The film, incidentally, also has one of his best background scores.)

Indian is not a perfect film by any means.  Shankar’s early films had some disgusting ‘male gaze’ scenes like the introduction of Manisha Koirala here.  His characterization of the women in his films have rarely left an impact.  The two heroines here are little more than eye candy.  Only Sukanya has a meaty role.  But even her character is subject to the gratuitous sensationalism in the riots scene. (Sukanya recollected in an interview that she had serious issues with how the sequence was shot.)  Shankar’s weakness in writing romantic scenes is evident here too.  He tries to obscure that weakness by making the scenes comic.  But as a result, Manisha pleading with the senior Kamal to spare his son resonates purely because of Sujatha’s great dialogue, not due to her characterization or their romance.  As an aside, that scene is one where Sujatha’s pen is sharper than Indian Thatha’s knife, especially the lines, “avanuku valika koodathu-nu meesai-ya ezhandha Senapathi inaiki avana ezhaka mudivu pannittan.  Unna vida enaku thaan ma ezhappu jaasthi.” 

Weaknesses aside, Indian remains an instance of a grand spectacle where style doesn’t trump substance.  The trailer of Indian-2 doesn’t look nearly as fresh or exciting as the original was.  But let us hope that even if the film doesn’t live up to the exalted standards of the original, that it doesn’t diminish its legacy.  Because Shankar’s films may have gotten bigger and grander in terms of visuals and graphics.  But it was in Indian where the expensive and exclusive fabric of the production was truly the by-product of a yarn that was ‘meticulously’ spun by its writing team.