Six of a kind

“It is harder to be kind than clever.” 

Of all the quotable quotes that I have read in the past decade or so since I started reading non-fiction, this has to be near the top.  I think it is especially pertinent in the modern era of active social media platforms.  The comforts of online anonymity have increasingly given people the (wrongful) license to be snarky, hurtful and sometimes, downright nasty.  Of course, even outside of online interactions, we have all been at the receiving end or sometimes, the giving end of unkind words or behaviors.  But as I see and observe those increasingly rare acts of kindness, small or large, I do feel compelled to shine some spotlight on acts and words that have made a tremendous impact on me.  In some instances, I have not been part of the interaction but I may have seen or heard about it.  I have also tried to stay out of some deeply personal stuff because…well it’s too personal, you see!  With those disclaimers out of the way, here are six acts of thoughtfulness, in no particular order.

         -- My grandfather worked for a bank for close to 40 years.  His job paid him decent, if unspectacular money.  My Mom was his first child.  When my Aunt was born 11 years later, my grandpa’s best friend visited his house to see the baby.  But before he left, he offered some advice to my grandpa - that to raise two daughters, he would be able to do so more comfortably if he had some supplemental income.  He urged my grandfather to invest some of his savings to start a small-scale industry. (My grandpa heeded his advice.)  What I thought was incredibly touching was how my grandpa’s friend not only wanted to partake in his friend’s happiness but also took the time to think through a future for him and his family.  That he went beyond surface-level affection was what the depth of their relationship was all about. 

     -- My fifth standard Maths teacher Ms. Sundaravalli Subramaniam was not amused when I started sobbing.  I had scored 55/100 in my half-yearly exam in a subject that I loved dearly.  I couldn’t believe that I had made a royal mess of the paper.  In my school (in India), one had to score at or above 60% in every test and exam during a year to get what was called the “Merit Card.”  By ‘virtue’ of my score, I had lost my chance for that year.  She did not console me with any sweet words.  Rather she admonished me for being playful and not focusing enough.  She added that just because I ‘lost’ the merit card should not detract attention from my efforts for the annual exam.  During the next three months, she took extra care to ensure that I was well-prepared for the final exam.  At times, I was reminded in a ‘friendly’ (!) manner that I shouldn’t be letting Maths…err…history repeat itself!  So, I had written the (final) Maths exam.  A few days later, when I was in the exam hall for another exam, she dropped in and casually asked the invigilator, “Where is Ram Murali?”  In front of the entire class, she said, “You have done beautifully well in your Maths exam.”  What it did to my morale – do I need to tell you?!

      -- A few years ago, during a health crisis, I had to take a few days off work without any notice.  I had sent the briefest of e-mails to my manager about this unplanned break.  Within minutes, she wrote back to me, asking me to not worry about work.  That was nice.  But what, to me, was even more special was when she promptly sent a note to the rest of my team as well as the internal stakeholders of our group to not send me any e-mails until she said otherwise.  That all requests intended for me had to be routed to her until further notice.  I came back to work to a rather surprisingly sparse inbox.  She had essentially backed up her words with swift, concrete action.  Her brand of empathy-dipped sweetness is something that I humbly salute, especially for how rare it is.

   -- My mother had lost her only sibling, my Aunt Shoba, in October 2016.  She had come back from India (she lives in the US) after arguably her most painful trip – my Dad was still back in India.  Upon my Mom’s arrival, one of her close friends hugged her and said, “Please consider me your sister.”  This may sound dramatic or cinematic to you – it sounded like soothing music to my Mom’s ears.  She had been feeling completely distraught and bereft post the untimely death of her kid sister.  And for a friend to assure her that while her loss was irreplaceable that she was going to help her fight the vacuum, was love of the deepest kind – of the giving sort.  My Mom's friend realized that the magnitude of the void left by the departed is at its maximum immediately afterwards.  And by giving her the gift of time, she did her part to fill that lacuna at least partially.  It was not mere words – to this day, my Mother’s friend has stuck to the spirit of the promise she made in 2016.

   -- In the Hindu tradition, it is custom to not celebrate festivals for a year following the passing on of a loved one.  Amidst all the fireworks during Diwali of 2016, my grandma’s house was dark in more ways than one.  I had texted our family friend Director Vasanth to call on my grandmother since my parents and I had returned to US by then and she was by herself.  A few minutes later, he responded – “I already did.”  Even before my request, he had gone to her place.  My grandma was visibly touched by his words to her– “I can understand how you must be feeling.  Of course, you would not feel like celebrating.  But please prepare a dish that Shoba liked to eat.”  Not only did he give her a way of concretizing her grief but he understood that age-old traditions could sometimes come in the way of engaging in meaningful ways of coping.

      -- I sincerely believe that meaningful friendships with people of the opposite gender can go a long way towards helping us refine ourselves and make us more well-rounded as a person.  There are needs, concerns, perspectives, vulnerabilities, strengths that a friend of the opposite gender can open our eyes to, if we are willing to look.  I have known this particular friend since my undergrad years in Memphis.  We have seen each other through highs, lows, immense joy, intense grief.  Over the years, she has given me a lot of well-meaning advice that fell into the 'she didn't have to but she did' category.  On one of my trips to Memphis, during a chat over coffee, she looked at me intently for a few seconds.  She said, "I am so glad that you look healthy now.  The last time I saw you, you looked so gaunt that I was worried that you were going through a health issue."  I was so touched by her almost-maternal attitude as a friend.  I have received my share of mean-spirited comments on my looks, girth, etc. as a youngster.  So, for someone to focus on my health as opposed to cosmetic stuff was very poignant.  She, as with my grandpa's friend and my Mom's buddy, continues to show me that deeper the emotional foundation, the stronger the bond. 

I could go on to write about many more people who have touched me and my near and dear with their genuineness and depth of character.  For now, I will simply say that I am blessed.  Truly blessed.

***

PS: The "kind than clever" quote is attributed to Jeff Bezos.  I didn’t mention his name at the outset given the mess that he has created for himself in recent times - I thought it would be distracting to put his name at the start of the article!  Well, the words still ring true even if the person behind them has done quite a bit to discredit himself.

The river continues to flow: Reflections on "Mahanadhi" 25 years after its release

It was 25 Januaries ago that one of the most important films in my life hit the theaters.  Matters of taste are extremely subjective.  But let me just say that if I were to pick five movies that made me cherish good cinema, appreciate understated acting and applaud perceptive writing, on top of that list would be Mahanadhi.  It is a film that chalked its place in my subconscious over the years and has stayed there.  And at the risk of engaging in hyperbole, I will say that this movie helped me find and refine the film fanatic in me. 

Reams of film essays have focused on various aspects of the film.  Such is the density of thought and the delicacy of expression.  There are several emotionally devastating moments that make this movie a rather tough experience.  But it is a testament to the institution that is Kamal Haasan that I make myself go through this experience time and again, only to be awestruck at the impact that a fictional tale can make.  I think that the reason is that Kamal Haasan, as a writer, usually transports the viewer to the worlds he creates – Devar Magan, Kuruthi Punal, Hey Ram, Virumaandi, Anbe Sivam all feature milieus and situations that are not exactly familiar to the lay person.  But aided by his carefully sculpted scripts, Kamal the actor made you invest in the extraordinary situations that the protagonists found themselves in.  But the reason Mahanadhi is in a different league altogether when it comes to emotional resonance is because Kamal does not take the viewer to his world; he brings his world to the viewer. 

By making the protagonist a very unheroic character - in the cinematic sense of the word - and by writing situations that are rooted in realism, even if of the gut-wrenching kind, and above all, adopting an acting style that is an exercise in understatement, Kamal ‘brings’ the characters right next to us.  He gives us the feeling that we are watching the proceedings as a helpless, invisible observer.  Nowhere else have I felt a two-dimensional screen project the happenings in a film to me as Mahanadi did…and still does.  Without wearing any weird glasses, I have experienced the most fulfilling three-dimensional experience every time I revisit this film!

When people talk about Mahanadhi, they invariably refer to the sadness.  But look closer, you will realize that there is a lot of goodness in the movie too.  Kamal’s life is made miserable by a slew of detestable antisocial elements.  But at the same time, he is surrounded by a worldly-wise mother-in-law (SN Lakshmi), a caring jail warden (Rajesh), a woman that loves him deeply (Sukanya), to name a few.  Of the lot, the late SN Lakshmi stands tall.  There is no artifice in her performance.  For a veteran artiste who had acted in much more melodramatic fare in the 60s and 70s, she is remarkably restrained.  She sells every moment that she is on screen, especially the lovely early morning scene where she offers Kamal some sage advice in the most loving manner possible.    

Click on Play to go to the SN Lakshmi scene:

Even as the movie descends into one emotional abyss after another, it is continually peppered with moments of pure, humane goodness.  When Kamal is beaten black and blue by the constables, the kind-hearted Rajesh gifts him a book of Bharathiyar poems.  And the stirring lines which end with "...naan veezhven endru ninaithayo" do more justice to this scene than any dialogue could possibly have. (Bharathiyar's inspirational poetic verses feature in the climax too.)  And as harrowing as the sequence in the prostitution house is, what stands out is the innocence of the daughter (of one of the prostitutes) who applies sindoor on the forehead of Kamal’s daughter once she is rescued.  Kamal’s reaction here is one of the most priceless images ever committed to film.

Light at the end of the tunnel:

MS Prabhu’s cinematography brings to mind Mani Ratnam’s words about the craft behind a movie – “It is okay if viewers don’t recognize something as long as they sense it.”  His work is especially stellar in the prison sequences.  His close-ups of Kamal’s face in the hauntingly bittersweet scene with his daughter is a case in point.  Kamal’s instinctive reaction when his daughter falls at his feet is a brilliant piece of emoting, one that is captured in an unobtrusive manner by Prabhu’s camera.  His camerawork in the brothel is astounding – note the overhead shots through the narrow lanes.  It brings a sense of claustrophobia and heightened anxiety as Kamal searches for his daughter.

"Kaveri enga?":

Ilayaraja, as is his wont, comes up with a magnificent background score for the emotionally charged scenes.  My favorite piece of his actually plays during the action sequence in the prison.  The violin piece, even as Kamal beats Shankar to a pulp, is a wail that perfectly describes the mindset of the Kamal character – he is not resorting to violence out of rage; the blows are a byproduct of immense pain.  It takes a perceptive genius to understand the nuances of Kamal’s writing and as always, Ilayaraja rises to the occasion. 

Raja's use of violin in a stunt sequence:

Finally, a word about Kamal’s dialogues, which he co-wrote with Ra. Ki. Rangarajan.  Kamal’s penchant for weaving in his personal views into his writing is well-known.  Here too, indignation that is vented out in tirades against societal evils, rationalistic thoughts, a mention of Mahatma Gandhi are all there.  But there is not a single place where any of these lines or thoughts stick out like a sore thumb.  Every discourse about the ills pervading the society flows organically from a situation faced by the character.  While the conversation that Rajesh, Poornam Vishwanathan and Kamal have in Rajesh’s house features several sharp lines, it is the late-night outburst of Kamal that seamlessly blends searing intensity and emotional poignancy.  

"Nallavanuku kedaika vendiya ella mariyadhaiyum...":

It has been 25 years since Mahanadhi hit the screens.  Many of the themes are undeniably – even unfortunately - relevant in this day and age.  The movie, named after a river, not only continues to lead us to a stream of tears but also makes us marvel at its oceanic depths.  The experience might make us feel drowned in a whirlpool of sorrow but thanks to several standout moments of goodness, it buoys us to the surface too.  That a creator can command such attention and involvement is a tribute to not just the filmmaker but also to cinema itself. 

Year-Round Lights

It is that time of the year.  The holiday lights gradually get turned off.  Work kicks off in top gear.  Plus, I am not a fan of the winter.  I don’t especially care for shoveling snow or wearing so many layers of clothing that I sometimes feel like even a sweaty Spiderman suit will not be a much worse option.  I can’t complain about the weather this season - it has been quite bearable.  But as I look back at 2018, I am happy that it’s over.  My grandma’s massive heart attack exactly a year ago – yes, 24 hours into 2018, we were already dealing with a crisis – and her subsequent passing on in May cast a rather long shadow on the rest of the year.  Her passing on reinforced one of my beliefs about my kind of grieving– that as time progresses, the pain of separation from the departed increases rather than dwindling.

“I am sure that the path that lies before you will have moments of joy and this pain will slowly be pushed away by time."  These were the first words of an e-mail that my mentor had sent me at the time of a personal tragedy several years ago.  I derived great comfort out of that line at the time.  But as you can see, it is quite the opposite of how I feel about the departed.  Whenever I think of people that have left me, I think of how I have several decades ahead without their sunny, comforting presence.  Yes, I do realize that elders, as much as I hate it, have to go sometime.  I realize that it is one of the most certain of certainties.  And in the case of my grandma, I did get comfort out of the fact that she had lived a long life, been part of all of my life’s highs and lows until her clock decided to stop ticking.  Add to that the fact that she had suffered quite a bit in the last couple of years of her life physically and mentally (her daughter predeceased her in 2016) meant that her death felt like deliverance from pain.

But let’s go back to my mentor’s words for a moment.  It is the very process of going through the pain that has helped me realize that regardless of when or whether any pain gets truly “pushed away by time” it is a set of meaningful relationships that is the primary source of the “moments of joy” that he mentioned.  It is true that I get immense happiness from things like a well-made movie, a thought provoking book or a project well-executed at work.  Not all of my happiness is dependent on people around me.  But I realized that be it with my near and dear, extended family or friends, having heart-to-heart conversations, sharing moments of vulnerability, receiving authentic affection, getting thoughtful advice were all gifts that I received in abundance this year. 

The true magic of connection happens when a bond is established at a significantly deep part of the mind.  It is a lot more reliable and enduring than surface-level frivolity.  This is not to say that life is all about meditative stuff – boy, that would be the real-life equivalent of a badly made art film!  I am just saying that where there is true depth of emotion, the moments of fun get amplified.  In such cases, the scents of memories grow increasingly fragrant with time.  Else, the fun is akin to the fragrance of a perfume – pleasant but transient.  And I am fortunate that in 2018, I have had the fortune of spending quality time with people that have lent my year immense meaning.  As much as I realize that inner strength is what truly endures, they have been external forces that have given me strength when I needed it the most.  Some through words, some through gestures, some by virtue of just being there - sometimes that’s all it takes.  Of course, I always hope that I reciprocate all of that.  But this is about them, not me. 

I realize that I have not gone into any specifics about the kind of impact that people have made on me.  I have not mentioned names or identified people by relationships.  If you will, excuse me this one time for being more general than specific.  In this write-up, I really wanted to capture the vibe that 2018 leaves me with – amidst waves of despair and suffering that fate can sometimes hurl at us, meaningful relationships are a bulwark that we can rely on.  That is the brightness that lights up dark days.  That is the incandescence that makes us see and sense inner glow all year round, not just during the holiday season.    

Happy 2019, folks!

***

10,000 words

For your reading...err...viewing pleasure, here are ten images from thamizh cinema that refuse to leave me.

Every additional word is superfluous - so, I have restricted each description to 10 words or less.

Note: Not every image is a 'haunting' one - humorous moments are memorable too, right!

Parthiban fiddles with a beedi as a slum burns

Naekka? Noakka? Naekum Noakuma?  Adorable Innocence meets Spontaneous Charm

96 - an 'incomplete' gesture stands in the way of closure

A divorce notice on a birthday?  Potential melodrama, Exquisite underplay.

Sridevi passed on in 2018.  Achieved immortality in 1980. 

PC Sreeram teaches us framing while Sivaji Ganesan teaches acting!

Something tragic about idealism falling prey to power and greed

Filial responsibility expressed in exquisite fashion.  Thank you, director Vasanth.

Kamal becomes Velu Nayakar, Mani Ratnam a legend, Nayagan a benchmark.

Movies may come, movies may go, Mahanadhi will stay forever...

***

Youtube links that 'contain' the images:

https://youtu.be/0L5ituC4YGQ?t=158

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cffOXu4CX68&t=173s
https://youtu.be/cVVObtdQ5fs?t=3437 
https://youtu.be/P2Bjt0XrXCw?t=229 
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WO2C3s5QnDM
https://youtu.be/J4J63Yb0KCc?t=2702
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DJoKoqP7E2o 
https://youtu.be/daqXIUQYWQs?t=7209
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TJQGK5ANA8A
https://youtu.be/I7vfPI3WU1A?t=8426

Free Speech is Costly

A few years ago, I was an active commenter on a blog.  For a while, it was a terrific place for me to frequent.  I admired the author’s writings a lot.  There were several commenters whom I enjoyed interacting with.  But something happened over time.  I started witnessing several negative, hurtful, sometimes distasteful comments.  There were a handful of people who abused the comforts that anonymity afforded them.  A subset of these comments was directed at me – I had clearly set up myself for this.  In my comments, I would come across as righteous, indignant and, worst of all, sensitive.  I thought that I was doing the right thing in standing up for fellow commenters, spouting philosophies on what I believed the rules of the online universe must be.  After a while, I decided that I would not be part of that blog anymore.  And I signed off with a rather dramatic, longwinded comment.  My experience on that blog was an unforgettable one.  And as is the case with key experiences in life, the exam came first, the lessons later. 

I thought of my experiences on that blog and what happened later while reading Mark Manson’s rather deceptively titled book, “The subtle art of not giving a f*ck.”  The book is a lot more profound than the seemingly flippant title suggests.  And one of the most thought provoking lines in the book flips the famous Spidey line.  Before I get to that, let’s start with the Spidey line – “With great power comes great responsibility.”  If my memory serves me right, I actually quoted Spidey in one of the several holier-than-thou comments that I had posted on that blog!  But let me hasten to add that I do not regret the fact that I said that.  Far from it.  I am glad that I voiced my opinion that the internet affords people the kind of freedom and liberation that can easily be misused.  People can be brutally honest, hurtfully blunt or tastelessly vulgar all without a care in the world.  Well, maybe not completely.  Cyber crime is serious business and people do get caught for serious crimes.  But what about the comments that are not a crime in the legal sense of the word?  Nobody is going to be charged with “verbal assault aided and abetted by sarcasm!”  I digress.  My comments on that blog were many a time a plea for decorum and civility.  The responses that I got were varied.

A number of people could sense that the pain I expressed was genuine – some of them are my great friends today.  Others – including the author of the blog – displayed tough love by saying that I was doing myself a disservice by coming across as touchy.  That I had to accept the fact that the online sphere was going to always have people that would misuse the freedom and prey on folks that are openly expressing the remnant scars left by prickly words - well-meaning advice for sure.  A small set of people gleefully enjoyed the anonymity and subject me to verbal volleys which now seem funny when I think of them but no, I wasn’t laughing then!  After a while, as I said earlier, I quit.  I was steadfast in my refusal to veer away from my beliefs.  In the past 2 ½ years, I have been writing a lot more regularly for my own blog than was the case before.  I still do follow the author’s writings but of course, have not left a single comment on his blog, the comments section of which, I am happy to say, has become a lot more civil over time.  So yes, all is well now.

But at the time I ‘quit’ the blog, I definitely felt hurt and downbeat.  I had done one thing that Manson wrote about in his book even before I read it.  But I wish I had done one other thing that he so passionately describes in his book.  The thing that I did followed one of Manson’s deeply affecting lines – “Negative emotions are a call to action.”  Very soon after my rather dramatic final comment on that blog, I decided that I would revitalize my own blog and use it as an avenue of honest expression, be it on films or people that have made a difference in my life.  That part worked out well.  So, what did I not do?

What I didn’t do is summarized by a sentiment expressed in Manson's book in lines of differing lengths but of similar depth.  One is the aforementioned flipping of the Spidey line.  Manson writes, “With great responsibility, comes great power.”  The other line that expresses a similar sentiment is, “We get to control what our problems mean based on how we choose to think about them, the standard by which we choose to measure them.”  While I was a part of that blog, I didn’t exert full control of myself.  While I was responsible as a commenter, I was not taking responsibility for my reactions towards the reactions that resulted from my actions.  I depended on people’s good graces and expected people to interpret my words with the intent that was behind them.  I did not say to myself, “Okay, if I sound earnest and directly, even if civilly, call people out, some are bound to retaliate.”  I worried as much about people’s perceptions of me as I did of what I wanted to express honestly.  In Manson’s words, I did not have the “control” to define what the problem meant to me.  I have made this mistake in some relationships too, not being content with my authentic expressions of affection but also in craving relevance in the way I define it.  There, right there, I lose “control” when I shift my gaze away from an inward focus.  But owing to thoughtful well-wishers and insightful books, I sincerely feel like I know what I must continue to work on, in order to silently experience the power and lightness that comes from taking full ownership of actions and a level-headed awareness of varied reactions that can result. 

In the recent past, I witnessed two unrelated instances - actor Prasanna and singer and MeToo activist Chinmayi – of celebrities being subject to vile comments on Twitter.  Both responded with guts, gumption and grace.  Instead of stooping to the lows plumbed by the originator of the abhorrent comments, they displayed the kind of “control” that Manson describes.  Of course, the comments would have caused them pain.  But their responses showed that they were willing to face the unfortunate realities of the online world.  I can only hope that the voices, also anonymous in their own way, that came out in support of them must have warmed their hearts at least a little. 

Until the day comes when people realize that abusing free speech is bound to have costly implications for others, I can only hope that we all empower ourselves with the priceless riches of self-control, self-preservation, an unwavering focus on our own values and genuine ways of expressing those values.  That way, even if we don’t ace every one of life’s exams, we can at least be well-prepared to get through them relatively unscathed! 

‘Men’mai – Thoughts on the portrayal of men in Tamil Cinema

“How far do Tamil films accurately portray men as well-rounded personalities with real challenges, goals or needs other than getting laid?”  This was a question posed on Twitter by Iswarya V, one of the most outspoken activists on the perils of stalking and its glorification in Tamil cinema.  It’s a very loaded, thought provoking question.  Loaded, because the question I also pose to myself while watching films is, a particular character might be truly representative of some of the realities of our society.  But is it necessary to show everything as is?  Sure, a filmmaker might consider his primary responsibility to bring a story authentically to screen and not always have societal consciousness as his primary goal.  But isn’t it also the case that in a film culture like the one in Tamil Nadu where heroes and heroines are adored, worshiped and imitated, that at the very least a filmmaker should not come across as blithely irresponsible?  Having grown up in an urban milieu, I might not be able to instantly relate to characters from say, a slum or a rural setting.  But it is a filmmaker’s conviction and his ability to use all the tools at his disposal to tell a story, that could transport me to a setting, a way of life and understand why the characters do what they do. 

Back to Iswarya’s question – Tamil films in the last few years have gotten truly diverse in terms of content, quality and taste.  This heterogeneity extends to the representation of male characters.  On the one hand, we have filmmakers like Hari, Lingusamy and their ilk make commercial cinema with larger-than-life heroes projected in scarcely believable scenarios.  The men sometimes get well-written characters (I liked Madhavan in “Vaettai” a lot) but for the most part, their job is to vanquish a cartoonish villain, be adored by a clueless heroine to whom they would invariably direct casually misogynistic remarks while simultaneously extolling the virtues of womanhood!  Since the masala template is set up for these men to emerge victorious on every front, there is not much of an opportunity for nuance of any kind. 

The other prototype of a male character that became hugely famous in the wake of Ameer’s spectacular debut “Paruthiveeran” was the uncouth aggressor.  While these characters are not the kind that I might encounter in my everyday life – I thank the heavens, stars and every surface in space for that! – they certainly are more multi-dimensional than the types you see in masala films.  The most famous of these characters, of course, is Parthiban’s unforgettable character in his debut feature, “Pudhiya Paadhai.”  In choosing to focus an entire half of his movie to the detestable sides of the lead character, Parthiban took a mighty gamble.  But to me, the redemption in the second half is what makes the movie shine brightly to this day, nearly thirty years after its release.  Whether a rapist deserves such benevolence is a moot point.  Whether “Pudhiya Paadhai” is a socially responsible film can be debated for hours.  But to me, this film is powerful in a number of ways.  Firstly, the protagonist realizes that he has been an incorrigible beast to a very undeserving, innocent woman.  Even though his orphan status is mentioned repeatedly as a reason why he turned out the way he did, it is not brushed aside as an excuse.  The character is made to realize the error of his ways and genuinely turns over a new leaf in the second half.  The arc of this character is complete in a touching scene where he falls at the feet of his wife who reformed him.  Many films have followed the style of characterizations written by the likes of Parthiban, Bala and Ameer.  But to their detriment, many fail to realize that the humanization of a flawed character is a tightrope walk that requires tremendous thought to be put into the writing. 



By the end of a film, if we the viewer do not sense a certain level of respect afforded to the women characters, then these male characters are going to unfortunately leave a negative impression on viewers, especially young minds.  If we walk away with the sense that the negative sides of a character are portrayed in an exploitative manner, then that is going to overshadow any attempts – sincere or otherwise – at showcasing the positive facets of the character.  This is especially true in films about youth or adolescent characters.  “Boys” didn’t work at all because Shankar’s camera seemed to gleefully focus on the escapades of the irresponsible youth while the attempts at realization and repentance in the second half barely registered.  There was no conviction in the scenes where the Siddharth character pays for his past mistakes.  The ‘playful’ scene outside the court was just about the worst possible finish to an already wobbly script.  On the other end of responsibility spectrum are the films of writer-directors like Cheran and Samudrakani - well-intentioned but preachy.  Their intentions and sincerity of purpose are laudable.  But the male protagonists invariably come across as mouthpieces for the directors than flesh-and-blood human beings.  Somewhere in the middle is a film like “7/G rainbow colony” – it does have scenes where the son calls his father names, in a drunken state.  It does have scenes of the hero stalking and harassing the heroine.  But there is something matter-of-fact in the sure handed writing and film making of Selvaraghavan that suggests that what is onscreen is life as is.  The director shows, but doesn’t celebrate or even condone the negative sides of the rudderless youth.  The couple's exchange after the lovemaking scene and the conversation the next morning just didn’t work for me.  The lines came across as completely phony.  But I could at least sense that the director was striving to have the audience understand his male lead, who was making a transition from boy to man in the most painful manner possible- painful for him and for those around him. 

The kind of writing though that appeals instantly to me is one that attempts to portray the male protagonist as inherently responsible, warts and all.  These men are not angels.  They make mistakes, take missteps and don’t always ‘get’ the people around them.  But they want to do right by the people around them, especially the women.  They rightfully treat their women as their equals or, in some cases, put them on a pedestal that they deserve.  Filmmakers like Mani Ratnam (Alai Paayuthey), Vasanth (Keladi Kanmani, Rhythm), Gowtham Menon (Yennai Arindhal), Radha Mohan (Mozhi), Karthik Subburaj (Iraivi) and most recently C Prem Kumar (’96) have created fascinating, well-rounded, urban - and in some cases, urbane - characters that have made an abiding impact on me.  

I smiled at the way Madhavan barked at Shalini in a heated argument about visiting her ailing Dad (who had previously slapped him in public) only to tell her first thing next morning that they should call on him.  I like the way Vasanth’s male characters, even the younger ones like Ramesh Aravind in “Rhythm”, usually address women as “neenga.”  I find it incredibly poignant that in "Keladi Kanmani," SPB refers to Radhika's parents as "...enakum avanga thaan Appa Amma."  I applaud the way in "Mozhi," Prithviraj says that he wants to “share his life” with the mute, hearing-impaired Jyothika and is not “granting” her a life.  I find it sweet that in ’96, the only time Vijay Sethupathi touches Trisha in the entire movie is when he stops her from hurting herself in the bathroom.  I teared up in the scene where Ajith refers to Trisha’s daughter (in “Yennai Arindhal”) as “unakulla irundhu vandhava.”  Even in an intensely disturbing movie like “Iraivi” – that polarized public opinion greatly – the SJ Suryah character delivers several unforgettable lines in the climax on the innate weaknesses of men.  Regardless of whether the writing truly worked in these movies, it is heartening to me to see the male protagonists treat women with empathy and respect without having any inflated opinions about themselves.  Isn’t genuine menmai the mark of a true man than superficial notions of aaNmai?  Isn’t everyday heroism, the heroism of the deepest kind?  I only wish that more writers and directors follow the path of these trailblazers.  That way, we have films that appeal to and resonate with a wide audience, regardless of gender.  That way, Iswarya will happily admit that her question to me has become completely redundant!

A memory to remember - My review of '96 [Bonus - Ravishanker's 96 cartoon]

Kamal Haasan once presided over a debate where the topic was, art house pictures vs. commercial cinema.  His verdict was, “Artistically made commercial cinema is what will endure.”  His judgment could be summed up in one number – 96!  ‘96 takes place during the course of a night, focusing on a man (Vijay Sethupathi) and woman (Trisha Krishnan) who, partly owing to choices and largely due to destiny, took different paths in life and are meeting after two decades at a high-school reunion.  What happens during the course of that one night is the crux of this tale, lovingly brought to screen - and to life - by writer and director Prem Kumar.

                                                                                                       
For a first-time director, Prem Kumar comes across as a filmmaker completely assured of himself and his command over the medium.  This is a beautifully photographed movie - the unobtrusively lovely work is by Mahendran Jayaraju and Shanmuga Sundaram.  Simple shots like the school kid driving a cycle across a puddle of water are aesthetically done.  And the close-ups of the lead pair capture every minute change in expression.  Every choice of lighting is tasteful yet purposeful – a case in point, the use of the flashlight in the power cut sequence.  The tools that the director utilizes to bring the 90s to life too, are not flashy, yet make us smile– a floppy disk in the hands of a Computer Science student, a student singing a snatch of “Thendral Vandhu Theendum…”  Govind Vasantha's exquisite score ("Kathale Kathale..." is a haunting melody) too fits the mood of several scenes in an undemonstrative yet impactful manner.

In addition to being an aesthete, Prem Kumar is also a masterful storyteller.  He knows exactly when to cut away to the school portions.  Every flashback reveals a little facet of a character or chips away at a plot point.  He has a couple of recurring elements such as the hands-on-the-chest gesture or the craving for the “Yamunai Aatrile…” song that have sweet, little arcs of their own.  But to me, the pinnacle of his writing skill is the college sequence, which plays in two versions.  It is so splendidly written that it leaves a lump in the throat by the end of the second version.  There are subtle touches (like the way a young Vijay Sethupathi asks the name of a supporting character) that make the two versions distinct.  The two versions say pretty much what needs to be said about fate and how seemingly little choices seem monumental in hindsight. 

If the cinematography of the movie is the eye and the writing the brain, the actors are the heart and soul of ‘96.  Vijay Sethupathi and Trisha, individually and as a pair, well and truly make the movie.  This role is a breeze for the former, who uses his casual body language and undemonstrative dialogue delivery to full effect to bring to life a man who is stuck in a time warp.  This is Trisha’s finest work yet.  She imbues her character with immense warmth.  Of course, the writing plays a part in shaping her performance. (Chinmayi’s voice work is pitch-perfect too.)  But the actress is wonderful here – be it sobbing her heart out in the bathroom or smiling impishly while asking if Vijay is a virgin, she is as ‘alive’ as I have ever seen her.  She also does something nuanced – she underplays the parts where she playfully lords it over Vijay Sethupathi.  There is a refreshing casualness in the way, for instance, she squats on the floor and asks him to sit closer.  Or the way she insists on a clean-shaven appearance.  This dynamic does wonders for their chemistry.  The duo goes into top gear in the concluding portions, working perfectly with one another, knowing exactly when to cede the spotlight to the other.  If Trisha sparkles in the restaurant scene, Vijay Sethupathi is brilliant with the monologue that he delivers about attending a wedding.  Devadarshini and Bagavathi PerumaL have delightful cameos.  But the movie, especially the second half, belongs really to the lead pair and they lift it to great heights.

It is very rare that acting, writing and filmmaking all cohere as well as they do in ‘96.  It is a testament to Prem Kumar’s thoughtfulness and taste that ‘96 comes across as a film that is not only pleasing to the eye but also tugs at our heartstrings, lingering long after the end credits roll.  This is the type of cinema that endures.  This is the kind of cinema that a certain Mr. Kamal Haasan will especially be proud of!

Ravishanker's terrific cartoon of 96:

His website - with numerous nifty sketches and witty writings - is:
https://thezolazone.wordpress.com/