Earthy but Worthy – A piece on Balakumaran’s writing in Tamil Cinema

Disclaimer – this is not meant to be an exhaustive, analytical piece on Balakumaran.  It is an attempt to capture a few facets of his writing that I have enjoyed and admired.

I may sometimes be tardy in paying our monthly gas and electricity bills. (No, it has not gotten to the point when connections have been turned off!) But part of my unerring monthly routine is watching at least a few scenes from Nayagan.  During one such recent viewing, I reduced my treadmill speed – yes, I was probably exhausted too! – to rewind a few seconds to watch a conversation again.  It is between the two kids, one played by the young Kamal Haasan.  The kid has just lost his father, avenged the latter’s death and has arrived in Bombay sans any support system.  He is sipping on hot tea while his new friend is inquiring the reason behind him escaping from Thoothukudi.  First things first – the kids in this scene are remarkable actors.  There is not an ounce of inauthenticity or cinematic precociousness.  What makes them shine even brighter in this scene are the marvelous lines rooted in the local milieu, penned by the late Balakumaran.  I especially love the colloquialism on display – “paritchai-la giritchai-la fail aaytiya?”…“panam ginam thirudiniya?”  Now, you don’t have to be ‘Senthamizhan’ Seeman to know that “giritchai” and “ginam” are not Tamil words.  But is that not how we speak.  That is the nativity and realism that Balakumaran, at his best, brought to screenwriting. 

There are filmmakers – the great Mani Ratnam included – who can sometimes get carried away by cinematic technique, to the point that the writing seems to be given short shrift.  But as Kamal once noted, Mani Ratnam was secure enough to surround himself with “strong collaborators” like Balakumaran.  Very few directors like Shankar (Gentleman, Kadhalan and Jeans), Suresh Krissna (Baasha), Durai (Mugavari) and Selvaraghavan (Pudhupettai) have utilized Balakumaran well.  But when they did, with an understanding of what truly made him tick, the results were there to see. 

To me, Balakumaran’s strengths as a screen writer were twofold – authenticity and profundity.  He was an expert at getting into the skin of the characters and explaining their motivations in a way that felt completely in sync with the character.  The motivations may not always be ‘right’ or reasonable but the way he could pen the lines, we could totally see the character speaking that way.  Take Gunaa for instance.  There is, of course, the oft-cited monologue in the doctor’s office – it is an amazing stretch of dialogue, no doubt.  One that is masterfully delivered by Kamal.  But I like Roshini’s lines in the ‘wedding’ scene equally well, if not more.  She has fallen in love with someone whom she knows is besotted with her for reasons that might go beyond the realm of normal man-woman relationships.  Yet, the purity of his emotion has consumed her.  In the scene, when Kamal states that it is not full-moon yet, she responds, “Nila agasathulia iruku?  Manasula iruku.  Manasu than nila.  Neranja naaL...manasu neranja naaL...Kattu…”  (The way Saritha, who dubbed for Roshini, modulates the delivery of these lines is quite special too.)  As poetic as the lines are, they ring very true coming from a girl who has experienced emotional fulfillment in a way that she never had previously. 

If these lines from Gunaa were gentle and poetic, the lines he penned for Radhika in Jeans were sharp and vitriolic.  In one of her great performances, the monstrously talented Radhika tore into the part with relish, delivering Balakumaran’s lines with amazing vitality, her diction being spot on.  One of the stinging lines in this segment was, “Vevaram kettavanuku pondaati-ya irukardha vida vela therinjavanuku vepaati-ya irukalam!”  There is zero political correctness in this line.  But you could totally see the Radhika character speak this way.  In fact, it seemed like the only way she would speak!

Another example of his lines shedding light on the inner workings of a character is from the famous “avana nirutha sol…naan nirutharen” scene from Nayagan.  A gangster and his peace-loving daughter are at loggerheads with one another, unable to strike any common ground.  There are two lines that especially sizzle with power.  When an irate Kamal barks at Karthika, “Engendhu vandhichu indha kai neetra pazhakkam?”, his Man Friday Janakaraj aptly responds, “Namma kitte irundhu than!”  And recollecting his violent ways, Kamal says, “Thirupi adicha than adi-lendhu thappikka mudium…katti adicha than uyirode iruka mudiyum.”  These are intense, violent thoughts but when they are uttered by a feared don, they sound just right.

The other strength he possessed was an uncanny ability to deliver profound thoughts in a very accessible manner.  Mugavari was quite an amazing film at the time of its release.  It was not the kind of mainstream entertainer that Ajith was dishing out during his wave of success post Vaali.  It was a quiet tale of struggles faced by an aspiring music director, played with utmost conviction by Ajith.  Raghuvaran’s advice to him in the terrace scene is one where Balakumaran’s lines, underscoring the importance of hard work and persistence, were crisp yet memorable.  Apart from the lovely 'Gold at 10 feet' story, I especially like this line – “Inge jeikaley-na makku-nu solluvange.  Jeychitta luck-unu solluvange!” 

As I wrote earlier, there are some filmmakers that can get obsessed with form while sacrificing content.  While it is laudable that our cinema is moving away from excessively talky dramas that lacked finesse in craft, it is equally important to do the write...err...right thing and strike a balance.  Fine writers like Balakumaran and Sujatha are no longer with us.  But as we turn to their chapters in the history of Tamil cinema, we realize that the imprints left by their pen are indelible.  May budding filmmakers who aspire to stamp their impact on the medium take a leaf out of these chapters that were penned by these immortal authors. 

Continue to rest in peace, Balakumaran...

Angel in the detail: My review of Halitha Shameem’s “Sillu Karupatti”

Halitha Shameem’s Sillu Karupatti features a tape recorder, a shampoo bottle, a ring, a box of Pringles chips, a Johnson’s baby ad, a Cornetto ice cream air balloon, a bird-shaped key fob and an Alexa virtual assistant named, “Ammu.”  You must wonder why I would start a review listing a bunch of inanimate objects.  Good question.  My answer is simple.  If you have watched the movie, you will know that all of them acquire a life of their own.  Seen one way, they are animated objects.  Animated by a sense of warmth and affection that is infused into them by the superb writing and craftsmanship displayed by the director and her team.  If that is the life that the filmmaker imbues objects with, need I really say anything about the humanness, the charm and the lovability that she adorns her actors with.  I wrote “adorn” because Sillu Karupatti features some of the most beautiful characters that I have seen on film.  Beauty, not necessarily in just the cosmetic sense of the word.  But an inner glow that radiates from within the soul of the actors that lights up the entire screen.  To borrow the late Roger Ebert’s ecstatic reaction after watching Jerry Maguire, I wanted to “hug myself with delight!”

Sillu Karupatti is an anthology of four stories.  All four of them are ‘love’ stories, loosely speaking.  But none of them are frivolous or lightweight.  The underlying sadness or seriousness of some of the tracks is leavened with some marvelously written lines that drip with wit, understated humor and intelligence.  The bevy of actors, both the lead ones and the smaller characters, are all pitch-perfect.  There is not a false note in one of the performances, irrespective of length of the role. (Among the actors in minor roles, the misty-eyed nurse who holds a “Hope” sign was especially unforgettable.)

Among the actresses, Sunaina and Nivedhithaa Sathish come up trumps.  As I had written in my review of Marriage Story, implosion is much more difficult to portray than explosion.  Sunaina’s implosion of emotion in the verbal duel with Samudrakani is arguably her best work till date.  Her satisfied sigh in front of the mirror and her little “thank you” speech to “Ammu” in the final sequence are as incandescent as the candles in the scene.  Nivedhithaa brings an impishness and perkiness that, unlike the typical masala film heroine, is also balanced by common sense and street smarts.  Her affectionate hug of Manikandan in the terrace and her loving glances of him in the hospital bed are instances where the character sparkles, as does the actress.

Of the actors, Manikandan and Samudrakani are especially magnificent.  After Raghuvaran, Samudrakani has probably been my favorite character actor.  An advice-spouting do-gooder is how we have mostly seen him.  But in this film, he brings a disarming casualness to his performance.  I have never seen him exhibit shyness or childlike qualities as he does in such a winsome manner in Sillu Karupatti.  And Manikandan, who held his own in Kaala against the mighty Rajnikanth, turns in the most nuanced performance of this film.  His expressions alone are worth the ticket of this film.  Be it when he is writhing in pain, the befuddled look when a politician asks him to create a meme (pronounced, “mee-mee!”), the surprise he exhibits when he is compared to Charlie Chaplin, the delight having swallowed a piece of a tasty kulfi, the wistful look in the mirror as he strokes his hair, the joyous smile (and the way he says, “Nalla Sagunam”) while entering the hospital – these are all imprints on screen left by a consummate actor who is completely in sync with his director’s vision. 

If I were to pick the best of the four stories, it would probably be the Manikandan – Nivedhithaa one, owing to its incredibly sensitive handling of some very delicate topics without posturing or sermons.  On the other hand, I found the Leela Samson – Sree Ram track to be the least effective.  It is because I felt that this was one story that couldn’t attain the level of depth it needed in the amount of time that it had.  The thawing and growing affection in the relationship felt rushed to me.  I kept thinking that this story, to work effectively, deserved a movie of its own like the art house classic, Anthimanthaarai.

The cinematography and music are unobtrusively effective.  The background score (by Pradeep Kumar) is especially impactful in the kids segment where the tenderness of the longing glances is matched by the gentle score.  I especially enjoyed the photography (by Yamini Yagnamurthy) of the final segment.  In the scene featuring an inebriated Samudrakani, we first see him from a tipsy angle.  It is only then revealed that he is sitting in a merry-go-round in a playground!

As I reflect on the immense joy and satisfaction I derived from this film, I just wish that more actors and producers (like Suriya has with this film) support such efforts where the richness comes not from extravagant set pieces or exotic foreign locales and instead, comes from detailing, nuance and delicacy of the writing and film making.  It is films of this ilk that will not only endear themselves but also endure.  

The King's Beats

En route to work on a bone-crunchingly cold morning, I wanted a jolt on top of what my chai would give me.  So, I turned the volume up to a level just below one that would attract nasty glances from fellow drivers.   Also, I wanted my eardrums to be functional enough to accommodate hi-hats and drums.  As I flipped through my collection, I had a very, very serious choice to make.  Was it going to be the Mozart of Madras or the King of Pannaipuram?  (Please don’t get all serious on me and tell me helpfully that this little panchayat town in Theni never had a royal family.)  I decided to have the aroma of my chai blend in with a whiff of nostalgia.  I chose to go with the King.  And before I could think too much, I came up with a list of percussion-heavy numbers where the king made his loyal vassals tap their feet even if they had three left-feet!

Here is a list of 10 of my picks in no particular order.  I will keep my descriptions to a minimum since words aren’t the point of this piece!

Kombula Poova Suthi  from Virumandi

One of the liveliest songs in a Jallikattu setting, this fast-paced number has some scintillating beats.  Kamal’s spirited rendition is the moar molaga on the koozhu! (Icing on the cake just felt wrong, sorry!)

Aiyya Oodu from Kaathaluku Mariyadhai

Manivannan was such a popular artiste in 1997 that he got an ‘introduction song’ in a film where the hero didn’t have one!  Ilayaraja’s joyous singing leavens some of the heavy-duty philosophical lines. (“Kannukettum thooram thooram…manusanathan kaanum kaanum” is my favorite of Pazhani Bharathi’s lines.)

The title song of Vikram

The film released 34 years ago when computers and synthesizers in Tamil film music were as rare as realistic make-up.  The typewriter keys clacking and seguing seamlessly into the beats is an absolutely magical start to this irresistibly catchy number.

Podhuvaga En Manasu from Murattu KaaLai

It is widely agreed that Murattu KaaLai was the film that heralded superstardom for Rajnikanth even though he had been christened “Super Star” two years before this movie (in “Bairavi”).  This song, rendered with incredible vitality by Malaysia Vasudevan, is a fitting anthem signaling the birth of the super star.

Ooru vittu ooru vandhu… from Karagattakaran

Comedian Coundamani and company have a ball, thanks to Ilayaraja!  It is rather amusing to see the comedians dance while the hero – that master thespian and costume connoisseur Ramarajan – walks beside them!

Raja Rajathi Rajan Indha Raja… from Agni Natchathiram

Need I add anything to the first words of this song!

Das Das Chinapadas… from Kadalora KavithaigaL

The Ilayaraja – Bharathiraja combination resulted in many unforgettable chartbusters.  This film was the last of their collaborations before their split. (They would reunite 4 years later for En uyir thozhan.)  This song, set in a seaside milieu, features some rather modern beats that somehow don’t feel out of place. 

Poo malarndhida… from Tik Tik Tik

The mirudangam is one of my favorite percussion instruments.  My bias comes from the fact that I tried my hand at it for several years.  It took me a decade to realize two things – 1. music was the only part of my life where I was a good listener. (I actually feel bad for my family and friends, truly, deeply, sincerely!) 2. The sounds of mirudangam that I heard when others played seemed like noise when I did.  And when I listen to this marvelous fusion piece, I realize that I am better off listening a little more…at least in but not restricted to music!

Nenachu Nenachu… from Sethu

This is not a full-fledged song.  But this minute-long snippet is a mesmerizing expression of ecstasy.  (The visceral impact of the violent act at the end of this song has the same gut-wrenching impact now as it had on me 20 years ago when the film was released.)

Stereophonic Sannata… from Shamitabh

Aasaiya kaathula... from 1980 getting a facelift in a Hindi film in 2015 where Amitabh Bachchan was the ‘voice’ of Dhanush.  Can improbability be taken to a higher level?  Yes.  The song turned out to be a terrific, foot-tapping number!

Marriage Story: A door closes, a window opens

When reading a bit about Noah Baumbach’s Marriage Story, I happened upon this headline from The Telegraph – “Marriage Story should be compulsory viewing for any parent heading for divorce.”  While I don’t disagree with the title, I also think it does scarce justice to the film.  If you think that is hyperbole, then let me place for your consideration the scene of this year, the performance of 2019 and the most ‘real’ line ever written about a crumbling relationship.  It is Scarlett Johansson and her controlled implosion at the office of her lawyer (Laura Dern, in a scene-stealing turn herself).  Towards the end of her harangue, Johansson observes wistfully, “He didn’t see me as something separate from himself.”  The amount of truth, pain and sting in that line is symptomatic of this film. 

The singular, stellar achievement of the writer-director is that he doesn’t vilify either of the leads or just take one person’s point of view as the two (Adam Driver plays the male lead) go through the last stages of their marriage.  It is an incredibly tough task to pull us towards two characters who are gradually distancing themselves from one another.  Our loyalties are with both as we get enough glimpses into their strengths, foibles and weaknesses.  The fact that the couple doesn’t let their divorce proceedings eclipse their humanity is one of the poignant elements of the film – watch Johansson’s response to Dern shifting a 50-50 arrangement to a 55-45 one (in her favor).  That the film offers pregnant pauses while zooming in on these moments instead of rushing through them speaks to the trust that the filmmaker places in the audience.

The scenes with the lawyers (Dern, Ray Liotta and Alan Alda) are fascinating and scary in equal measure.  The brute force of some of the arguments, the casual throwaway lines and the lawyer-client dynamics offer a very compelling counterpoint to some of the simplicity, genuineness and empathy that the couple try to retain in their household amidst some tough decisions.  While Dern has the juiciest lines, Alda’s world-weariness and avuncular attitude are endearing to watch. 

But at the end of the day, this film is about its leads.  The director paints them both in a light enough shade of gray to not make them unlikable yet three-dimensional enough to make their interactions immensely relatable.  The film’s most striking visual involves the two of them closing a wheeled gate together, while standing on either side of it.  The glances they exchange towards each other while shutting the door, so to say, gently but definitely on one another, are moving.  

The film may be about two people – or rather three, counting their kid – going through a period of closing a door to one another.  But while doing so with a sureness of foot and delicacy of emotion, the movie affords us a chance to open a window into our own soul.  To assess and reassess our own choices in the relationships that mean something to us.  And to make sure that we ask ourselves tough questions in a timely manner.  As Johansson’s misty-eyed reaction to a key decision of Driver’s in one of the concluding scenes suggests, it is our timely choices that make us who we are.  And to the extent to which we factor in the self and our loved ones without too much of a skew in either direction, the more satisfying those choices will be.  In essence, the film’s finale is really a starting point.  A starting point not just for parents heading for a divorce but also for couples wanting to take their relationships to greater heights while plumbing the emotional depths of one another.  In short, it is “compulsory viewing” for all adults in search of meaning in relationships.

Different Folks, Same Strokes

Let us start with three completely unconnected conversations that span fictional and real spaces.

The first happens in a rather touching sequence in the episode of the Amazon series Modern Love, starring Catherine Keener and Andy Garcia.  They are former lovers in their forties, married – not to one another – who bump into each other.  When recollecting their doomed, “untested” romance, Keener observes, “The idea of you just got me through a lot in life.”  And later adds, “It’s the purest, most concentrated stuff.” 

The second is a father-son chat that happens in the Samudrakani drama, Appa.  A 10^th grader confides in his father the rather puzzling imbalance he experiences whenever he sees a female classmate.  The Dad smiles and asks him to invite the girl to their place.  He offers a cup of coffee to each of them and urges them to converse in a civil, mature manner.  Having sowed the seeds of a genuine friendship, the Dad urges the son to never accumulate any ‘toxins’ in his body.  That a friendship that has its roots in thoughtful conversation and deep understanding, has the power to ‘purify’ our system. 

The third is a conversation that didn’t happen on screen.  It was a chat with a friend about visiting a distant relative who is undergoing treatment for cancer.  A few disclaimers - I had not accompanied my relative for her treatment.  I had not cooked her a meal.  I had not taken care of any chores while she was in the hospital.  I enumerate these because I know of people that touch her life in these very definite, selfless ways.  What I did was nothing special or particularly tangible, I confess.  During a recent trip to my hometown, I had just visited her, spent some quality time with her and shared several moments of mirth.  She has a stupendous fighting spirit.  So, it’s not even as though I lifted the morale of a morose person.  But the positive vibe of that meeting has lasted with me for the two weeks that have elapsed since the meetup happened.  Her smiling face has meant something to me.  And the hopeful visage of her caregivers refuses to leave my mind as well.  In these past two weeks, when I have started to complain or get crabby about things that are far less daunting than being the recipient of oncologic treatments, memories of that visit seem to tap me on my head as if to exclaim, “Really, are you this full of yourself?!” 

You must be wondering if there is even a tenuous link that connects these three disparate conversations.  To me, it is the notion of purity.  It is the idea that there invariably exists something – be it an ideal love, a fulfilling friendship or a human connection – in our lives that can bring or restore a sense of equanimity and equipoise to our minds.  We just have to discover it for ourselves, for it sometimes is hidden in plain sight.  At times, we wrap ourselves in a blanket of meaningless mundanity when we should be discovering beauty in the big picture that astonishingly steely human beings draw right in front of our eyes.  A case in point are the survivor and her supporters that I mentioned above.  The truth is that the ‘big’ picture is comprised of smaller strokes of meaningful minutiae sketched out jointly by people and their loved ones.  As seen above, this could be a true friend, a love interest, a caring relative.  In each instance, there is something very pristine, giving and outward that in turn combine to give inner peace. 

As somebody that has rarely been able to find an internal anchor in an invisible supreme power, I feel an urge to depend on abiding bonds with people to keep myself grounded and centered.  Through blood relationships or otherwise, I have certainly been blessed with the presence of several people who, through just being themselves, give me an anchor of purity.  That, as Catherine Keener acutely observed, can get us through life in a way that feels not just good but also right. 

Politically Incorrect: Reflections on RK Selvamani’s Makkal Aatchi

The politics genre in Tamil cinema boasts of some true gems amidst a slew of wannabes.  I have lost count of the number of films that take cheap shots of contemporary issues without wit, depth or meaning. To do satire well, you have to have a grasp of the source material that extends beyond mere surface-level detail.  Manivannan was a master at this.  He was a well-read, societally conscious filmmaker who, at his best, carried a pen that was much sharper than the Hattori Hanzo sword in Kill Bill!  There is a reason why his Amaidhi Padai is still hailed as the best political film in Tamil cinema.  For instance, he understood the futility of caste-based violence so well that he skewered it mercilessly in the film.  Not far behind is his erstwhile assistant RK Selvamani.  It pains me to note that there is not much literature (even online) on his 1995 film Makkal Aatchi, which I reckon, is the best film of Selvamani’s checkered career. 

Makkal Aatchi is the story of a petty thief (Mammootty) who, through a mix of a huge slice of luck and dollops of street-smart intelligence of his confidante and advisor (R. Sundararajan), becomes the chief minister of the state.  He is a bumbling crook who can’t believe his luck, not a cunning politician covetous of power.  Roja plays his love interest.  Mammootty steps into the parlous world of politics without quite knowing what’s in store with his fellow politicians.  Anandaraj, Radharavi, Livingston and Mansoor Ali Khan are all embodiments of realpolitik, not averse to double-crossing and shifting allegiance to suit their needs.  All is fine and dandy for Mammootty as long as he is corrupt.  But when he decides overnight to turn a new leaf – and the reason packs tremendous punch – his life becomes miserable. (The twist around his wife is also superbly written.  It blindsides us but is convincing nevertheless.)

What sets Makkal Aatchi apart from many other political films are the many subtexts that Selvamani and his writers embed into the film.  Small time crooks and rowdies are jailed, yet scores of blatantly corrupt politicians get away with murder (literally so).  Big money and dirty politics get intertwined so much that to escape from that stifling net becomes an impossibility once you are caught in it – to hell with noble intentions!  A woman’s infidelity and a man’s lust setting a series of heinous activities in motion speaks volumes to the base instincts that shake the core foundations of humans.  A man’s drinking habit, which on the surface seems an acceptable foible, ends up assuming gargantuan proportions.  It is a testament to the intelligence of the story author (P Kalaimani), the felicity of the dialogue writer (Liyakath Ali Khan) and the vision of the director that all these themes are part of a cogent plot, not a series of disparate elements.  

A word about the written word.  Liyakath Ali Khan’s pen must have the same ink as that of Manivannan’s!  The dialogues are spectacular.  This is a talky film.  But you never get overwhelmed by the verbosity because the zingers keep coming at a fast clip.  The Anandaraj-Radha Ravi confrontation is especially memorable.  The way Anandaraj threatens Livingston (“Nee paadai-la yeranuma illa maedai-la yeranuma nu mudivu panniko!”) and the manner in which the latter kowtows to him are as scary as they are sharply delivered.  But the dialogues sparkle the brightest in the sequence where Mammootty decides to mend his ways.  The genuineness of emotion displayed by the actor is supported in no small measure by the potency of the lines he delivers.  The traffic signal comment hits a raw nerve, especially because so many of us have lived through it. 

Selvamani also gets the casting just right.  Every actor in this film inhabits their part with much assurance.  Mammootty is charmingly casual in the first half and delivers a knockout performance in the aforementioned reformation scene.  Roja lights up the screen not just with her dancing in the irresistible “Melooru Maman” song but also in the late-night scene where she makes dinner for Mammootty.  He is the man of her life, whom she hastily got married to the wrong person for what she thought was the right reason.  It is not only a deeply poignant scene but one that has complex emotions associated with it. (I wish Selvamani had dwelled a little more on this fascinating relationship.)  Among the antagonists, Anandaraj walks away with the acting honors.  He makes a menacing presence and displays controlled aggression throughout. 

Selvamani’s films boasted of superlative technical values and here too, his sense of grandeur is seen throughout the film.  MV Panneerselvam is a sadly underrated cinematographer who has done some fine work in films like this one and R Parthiban’s Housefull.  The tracking shots and the top-angle shot (from the tree) make even a slum look appealing in the “Melooru Maaman” song.  The shots in the climax where the camera follows a raging crowd from the sidelines are brilliantly executed.  Ilayaraja’s background score is magnificent in places.  My favorite piece is the one that marks the end of the titles (6:52-min point in the video above).  The beats of the percussion instruments are epic in nature but the score ends with a violin piece that evokes the eventual sad fate of the well-meaning protagonist.  It takes a music director of his stature to come up with such a short piece that is in line with the arc of the lead character. 

Makkal Aatchi was received well commercially and critically upon its release.  But the film and its politics, which are (sadly) relevant even today, deserves more recognition and shelf life.  Despite being Manivannan’s assistant, Selvamani branched out to be very much an original filmmaker.  With Makkal Aatchi, he created what deserves to be regarded as a well-deserving companion piece to his guru’s finest film in the same genre.  The two great minds executed differently but certainly thought alike! 

Oththa Seruppu Size 7: A one-derful cinematic experience

Oththa Seruppu Size 7 features Parthiban’s finest acting moment till date.  In a journey that began in 1989, he has lit up the screen on several occasions.  The falling-at-his-wife’s-feet scene in Pudhiya Paadhai, the emotionally wrenching harangue in Devyani’s house in Swarnamukhi, the arms-widely-spread posture in Housefull when he sees his beloved theater, come to mind in a flash.  But he eclipses them all in this film in the small, quiet moment with his psychologist.  She has surprised him, in their first meeting, by referring to his “beautiful wife.”  With barely a hint of a smile, a little hesitation while saying “ava…”, a light shrug of his shoulder, he takes us right into the soul of the character.  It is such a gorgeously acted moment that spans a matter of seconds.  Blink or squint too hard, you are bound to miss the delicacy of the nuance.  But observe it, you will savor it and remember it.  For me certainly, that moment is not fading out of mind anytime soon.  Neither that moment nor this movie, I must add. 

Charitable critics of Parthiban have, in the past, praised his ‘different’ attempts while griping that save some disparate sparks of brilliance, that his films did not entertain them or hold their attention for the entire duration.  Of course, tastes vary.  But I dare anyone to an academic argument about the coherence and cohesion of Oththa Seruppu Size 7.  The different cinematic elements like sight and sound all come together in a never-before-seen manner.  This is a very complete picture, one that features Parthiban the actor, writer and director at the peak of his talents. 

The plot of this film is a seemingly simple one – a man who is accused of murder is interrogated by the police.  The film, except for a few stray shots of a room outside where his son is waiting for him, never leaves the scene of the investigation.  And as you may already know from the promos, Parthiban is the only one who is seen on screen.  One of the elements that aids Parthiban, the director, tremendously is his use of props.  Through years of watching Tamil cinema, we have come to associate certain objects with the police station.  Glass cups, lathis, walkie talkies, photos of Gandhi.  Parthiban deftly utilizes all these in his inimitably ingenious manner – the photograph of Gandhi even has an arc with a touching closure.  Ramji’s cinematography is stupendous.  And it is not just the more showy shots like the sun-bathed protagonist or the view through the glasses.  If you observe closely in the first scene with the psychologist, the camera’s gaze follows Parthiban’s lips and eyes.  The invisible craftmanship gets a superb payoff in a later scene when Parthiban thanks the psychologist for observing his eyes and trusting him.  Resul Pookutty’s sound design is another pillar that this film rests on.  Be it the sounds of a wedding or a dying man wailing, the sound design blends seamlessly into the narrative. 

While it is true that Ramji and Resul are pillars that the director rests his film on, the foundation is pure Parthiban.  What brings his singular vision to life are his dialogues.  It is not easy to write lines for a character who has the bulk of the responsibility to move the plot ahead without losing the core emotion.  The lines at times sizzle with wit, drip with humor and at other times, brim with poignancy.  The detailing is astounding.  A seemingly innocuous “PerumaL Thunai” on a piece of paper acquires meaning later on.  Note the way he requests the police to not use a rusty pin to open his son’s eye drops.  In a move that betrays his yearning for a more ideal marital life, he urges the policeman to not take his wife’s affection for granted.  Above all, the vivid imagery evoked by the sounds is matched by his lines.  Take the vaazhapoo vadai scene, for instance.  The description of his romance with his wife in the kitchen is as tasteful as the aroma and flavor of the vadai that he evokes – incidentally, we don’t see these lentil cakes at all!  He just trusts the audience to complete the audiovisual experience in their minds. (Even the two scenes in Kandukonden… that featured these vadais didn’t have such an impact on our taste buds!)

Did I mention earlier that the picture of Mahatma Gandhi gets a moving closure?  That is quite a bit of an understatement if you have watched the climax.  No sooner had Parthiban uttered, “Gandhi ode siripula arthame maariruku” than I felt a lump in my throat.  It takes a supremely thoughtful filmmaker to resist the temptation to milk sadness and instead, project goodness.  In doing so, Parthiban commands our attention, drives our emotion for two hours all by himself.  In essence, he does not just stand alone.  He stands apart.