Sapta Sagaradache Ello - My reflections on the two films (Side A and Side B)

I have been a movie buff for a long time.  And I have a pretty good memory of the initial impressions that films created on me when I was young.  And how over time, the same films spoke differently to me.  Even with classics, it would be the same product, of course.  Still the same motion picture of stunning beauty.  Just that the beholder changed, with age, maturity (I can only hope!) and experiences.  Not that good films become bad or vice versa.  They just seem different.  My critical style has evolved too, I feel.  I am not a film critic who looks at a film with a pure, non-judgemental eye, just looking to evaluate the worth of the craft and judge the film solely on the basis of whether the film did justice to the chosen content.  I am just an aspiring writer who likes to write with honesty about what a film did to me, be it making me smile, laugh, cry or just making me ponder.  As I think of Hemanth Rao’s two-film series, “Sapta Sagaradache Ello,” I have a plethora of thoughts and emotions.

First things first.  The films are supremely well-made.  Hemanth Rao’s handling of the actors and his staging of scenes, be it the dreamy moments at the beach, the raging conflicts (both physical and otherwise) or the tender moments, are all reflective of a director who is absolutely surefooted.  The trio of lead actors - Rakshit Shetty, Rukmini Vasanth and Chaithra Achar - all have moments where they bring their characters to life, tearing asunder the screen and leaping into our subconscious.  The three of them have mobile faces that revel in the minutiae of expression.  It would be unfair to pick a favorite, for the three of them are very different as actors.  Rakshit is endowed with a pair of eyes that allow him to convey pain without a single word uttered.  Rukmini is fantastic during the quieter moments where she has to project the character’s quiet strength, yet leave us with no doubt on how she feels about life forcing her to satisfice.  Chaithra is fantastic at delivering her lines, packing them with searing emotion. (There is a scene where she burns down something precious to the Rakshit character.  The way Chaithra expresses her anger, anguish and helplessness all at once, is brilliant.)  

Side A, as a film, worked better for me than did Side B.  The best kind of dramas are the ones where you get the feeling that the film just wrote itself.  The character’s actions just drive the plot with inexorable momentum.  In Manu (Rakshit) and Priya (Rukmini), we have a pair of lovers whom we root for from the get go.  Every act of betrayal by the people they trust almost hurt us on a visceral level.  We go from a light sense of unease to absolute desperation by the end, hoping for them to reunite.  Even as the conclusion of Side A left us stunned speechless, we still anticipated Side B to see what kind of redemption, if there was one, was in store for them.  Even if they did not marry each other, could they somehow find peace with their new normal, after Manu steps out of prison?

Side B is as well acted as Side A, if not better.  Chaithra Achar as Surabhi, has the best of the roles and she turns in an incredibly honest performance as someone who lets the beats of her heart drown out all the rational words that her mind is trying to speak.  To its credit, the film does full justice to the Surabhi character.  And it shows how brutally unfair Manu is to her.  Surabhi’s piercing lines, as she tries to guess Manu’s true motivations and her indignant tirade are all delivered with fiery passion.  In doing so, the director ensures that not for a moment do we even remotely excuse Manu’s behavior towards her.  

But that sense of a character’s actions feeling authentic to them, felt missing in the way Manu tries to create an impact on Priya’s life, but without being transparent about it.  As this part of the plot of Side B unfolded, I felt a bit distant.  Instead of being willingly sucked into - like I was in Side A - Manu’s chosen path to redemption and peace, I found myself observing from an arm’s length, the path he took.  I am not a fan of characters following others without their knowledge, under the pretense of doing them good.  Even the word “pretense” feels unfair because all Manu is trying to do is to somehow regain for Priya and for himself all that he lost in his years in prison.  Even aside my prejudice and bias, just given how familiar we became with Manu in Side A, the road that he takes does not seem like a completely natural extension of the character.  The invisible writing of Side A seemed missing here.  The plot points and twists now seemed a little less organic and more deliberate.    

The climax of Side B though feels just right on many levels.  The desperation, as Manu searches for Surabhi, ensures that the acts of violence do not come across as gratuitous.  The action sequence is tense because we feel like no one is invincible and the stakes are incredibly high.  For the scene to shift from raw action to tender poetry is not a transition that is easy to pull off.  But director Hemanth manages it supremely well.  And by the time the film ended, I felt nearly as drained as I was at the end of Side A. 

In Side B, I may not have felt as swept away by the wave of emotion as I did in Side A.  But as a two-film series, "Sapta Sagaradache Ello" is akin to a ship that takes you through incredibly choppy waters, creating a purposefully intense experience.  You might not always be aligned with the path that it takes.  But it is also a journey that you willingly undertake since you know that the captain and his crew know exactly how to navigate through the storms and bring you safely home.

Peace it Together

“The truth is, something about you makes me feel calm, or more centered or something.  And I could use that.”

These lines were uttered by Anne Hathaway to Robert de Niro in the delightful movie, “The Intern.”  The scene in which this exchange takes place is actually a rather casual one where Hathaway acknowledges the steadying influence of her “intern.”  But revisiting this scene recently made me pause and reflect on the significance and relevance of the sentiment expressed.  

I am 42 years old.  If I were to create a word cloud on what I sought as, say a 22-year old, words such as ‘excitement’ and ‘happiness’ would probably appear in font size 72.  The rush of adrenaline felt when I sped away in my first car, only to receive a traffic ticket from a genial cop, was probably symptomatic of the rush of blood of youth in general.  We all needed someone to slow us down!  When we would talk about someone we had a crush on, we would use terms like, “oh, my heart skips a beat.”  Poor thing that little heart, we taxed it to…our heart’s content!  I was, by and large, responsible. (Those who have known me for a long time - please note, as you snicker, that I wrote, “by and large”!) So, I really do not have any regrets about that phase of life.  But things change.

Flash forward to the present, I know that as I go through the ups and downs of adulthood, the quest is more for peace, inwardly felt, outwardly expressed.  I have realized that I can have more control over peace than I can about happiness.  But at least for me, I have to work towards it.  As a non-believer, I am reliant on what is within and around me for that peace.  Upon introspection, I could narrow down two things that can make or break that inner balance that I seek.  The first is, giving ourselves the time and space to travel inward.  And the second is, carefully choosing, thoughtfully nurturing and fiercely protecting our circle of trust.  These two elements are not mutually exclusive.  But they are distinctive enough to warrant separate mention.

I firmly believe that it is vitally important to invest in our physical and mental health.  As we grow older, as responsibilities increase, we need to be able to be in a physical shape and mental state to weather more storms than we did during the relatively shielded existence of our younger days.  In order for us to be able to fulfill our responsibilities, be it personally or professionally, we truly need to be able to have strength of the mind and of the body.  To do so, it is imperative that we focus on the things that keep our physical and mental health in check.  This may vary from working out in the gym to going on a long drive, listening to melodious music.  The means don't matter, the end does.  Because if we let our mind atrophy and our shoulders droop, how can we be a shoulder for someone to lean on?  Many a time, our self-preservation becomes a casualty in our desire to keep checking the never-ending to-do lists of our life.  If this doesn’t get checked off, neither can other items be.

And the second contributor to our peace is a carefully chosen circle of trust.  As we grow older, we must ask ourselves the tough question whether we are spending time with and on the ones who have a positive or at least a neutral impact on our level of peace.  If that is not the case, it is best to shield ourselves from the people who have a negative impact on us.  The boundaries of our circle of trust cannot be so rigid that that immutability paralyzes us psychologically.  We will, over time, have to be keenly aware of whom we trust our emotions with and who has stopped earning that trust.  We need to be aware that the ones within our circle are the ones that may not necessarily make us skip a beat.  Instead, they do the far more difficult job of actually ensuring that our hearts beat at a steady cadence.  We must identify these people, treasure them, make them feel our gratitude and pay their generosity forward.  

At the same time, we have to force ourselves to have a very detached view towards anyone outside of that circle.  That detachment helps in cases where a certain amount of exposure to them is unavoidable due to societal or professional obligations. In order to safeguard ourselves, we have to be doubly careful to not let anyone outside of our coveted circle feel like they have the privilege to hurt us.  I remember telling a former colleague about creating a mock ballot for kids at the time of elections, to teach them the concept of voting.  He wrote to them, “Choose wisely, kids.”  That advice extends to adults too.  If we don’t choose, we lose.

Now, at 42, I know exactly the words that will be conspicuous in that word cloud that describes what I seek. It may not be as exciting or adventurous as the one from 20 years ago.  But the knowledge that I can, through my actions, have more control over it than the things that I sought in my younger days, is an immensely comforting, calming thought.  And just like Anne Hathaway in “The Intern”, I could use that!

Hearing the unspoken word

It was heartbreaking to watch director Vikraman’s interview today.  The filmmaker who once churned out blockbusters on a yearly basis, spoke with great pain - and one must say, with immense grace - about the plight of his wife.  A dancer, she has been bedridden for five years.  As a result, Vikraman took the decision to stay away from films or film union activities to be by his wife’s side.  What was especially poignant was how he spoke about the distress with such equanimity.  As was the case with his films, his words were filled with hope for a better tomorrow.  But amidst this deeply moving conversation, one set of questions and Vikraman’s answers made me pause.  It was the portion on the Tamil film fraternity.

When the anchor asked him if people in the film world had reached out to him to offer support, he mentioned a few names.  But you could see that the majority of the actors that he had worked with have not made him feel supported.  Vikraman tried his best to be tactful and sensitive.  But if you observe closely, you could feel his pain.  He did not complain or sound resentful.  It was just impossible though, to look past the apparent lack of care and concern from an industry that he had been such an important part of.  Again, my intention is to not berate anyone in particular.  I shall not engage in an exercise to take names.  Because my intent is to go beyond the actual stars and directors to talk about something deeper.  And that is the notion of reaching out.

The busyness of our lives is the reason that we mostly cite for not reaching out.  But I am firmly convinced that we can make time for the things that we want.  We make the mistake of assuming that the depth and meaning of every conversation are directly proportional to the time that it will take out of our schedule.  Nothing could be farther from the truth.  We only have to revisit in our mind those brief exchanges, on Whatsapp or the phone, to realize how someone’s words or gestures gave us a respite from our woes.  

The other reason (excuse?) that I often hear is, “I wasn’t sure if you would be okay if I inquired about you.”  If we break it down, there are just three scenarios here.  One is, we had no idea that someone is going through a tough phase.  Two is, we are not sure.  And three, we know with absolute certainty that they are beset by some issue, personal or professional.  The three scenarios have something in common.  None of these scenarios prevents us from asking a simple question, “Are you doing okay?”  Worst case, the other person might not be ready to open up.  And that is fine.  In the deeply thought-provoking book, “Option B”, authors Sheryl Sandberg and Adam Grant make a distinction between the golden rule of relationships and the platinum rule of grief.  The golden rule is, treat others how you want to be treated.  The platinum rule is, when someone is going through trying times, treat others how they want to be treated.  So, if someone is not reciprocating your gesture of extending a hand to them, let them be.  The knowledge that you care will, in most cases, make them open up to you eventually.  But in my book, to not ask is to not care.

I have been the recipient of great generosity and deep thoughtfulness from people in my little world who give me the impression that I matter.  It is not something that I take for granted.  For I have had relationships where I thought that I ceased to matter.  I may be right.  I may be wrong.  But a sustained feeling of my unspoken words not being heard made me feel like the pain in my spoken words would not matter either.  But that is okay.  As we grow older, we learn.  We get better at spotting who ignores, who hears, who listens with their ears and who cares with their heart.  And it is so vitally important that we look inward to ensure that we can do our bit to make someone’s day brighter, smile wider and their burdens lighter.  That is exactly what I hope the film fraternity does for Vikraman and his family.  That is what I hope all of us do for one another.  That is when the positivity and goodness of Vikraman’s films will be recreated in the real world.

The heartbreak of 1996

 We just refused to believe that it could go any other way.  You really have to blame Sachin Tendulkar.  We genuinely believed that through his individual brilliance, India could win the 1996 cricket world cup.  He never said so.  He just made us believe so.  With him, he carried the hopes of a billion fans.  Even before he had taken the world by (sand)storm in 1998, he still made us think that one individual alone could take the team to victory.  Not that we had a dearth of talent really.  Be it dependable batters like Mohammad Azharuddin and Navjot Sidhu, clean strikers of the ball like Ajay Jadeja and star bowlers like Anil Kumble and Javagal Srinath, the team was no slouch.  But back then, two things were scarce in that team.  It was not talent, it was self-belief.  And it was leadership.  Sure, there was a piece of batting or bowling magic here or there.  But when it truly mattered, few rose to the challenge like the way Sachin did.  That it was entirely unfair to him was something that we fans realized only when he had others like Virender Sehwag and Rahul Dravid lessen his burden in the second half of his career.  But let’s stay in 1996.

The teams were divided into two groups of six each.  India were in a group with Sri Lanka, Australia, West Indies, Zimbabwe and Kenya.  The warning signs were there in the group stage itself.  We lost to Sri Lanka and Australia in a manner that exposed the team’s shortcomings brutally.  Mind you, Sachin scored an incandescent century against the Lankans and a brilliant 90 against the Aussies.  But the bowlers were leaking runs like cracked buckets.  The batsmen were all looking patchy.  As scores of anecdotes from players over the years confirm that in Azhar, we had a captain whose strategic abilities, enterprise and leadership were things that existed solely in our imagination.  Azhar was struggling for runs himself.  And just seemed incapable of trying anything out-of-the-box or even a tad different. (I am not counting the lame attempt to bowl Anil Kumble in the first 15 overs.) 

I might sound harsh when talking about Azhar.  But you only have to observe the power of the leaders in previous cups, especially Imran Khan.  He had led the Pakistan team from out of nowhere to lift the cup in 1992.  A consummate leader is an inspiration, a strategist, a tactician and someone who leads the way.  Azhar in 1996 was none of this.  But similar to 1992, we all saw a glimpse of what could happen when we cohered as a team, in the match against Pakistan.  Unlike 1992, Sachin did not even make a significant contribution. (A scratchy 31 off 59.) But it all came together for a magical day.  Sidhu’s anchor, Jadeja’s spark, Venkatesh Prasad’s gall.  It was all heady (but as we were to discover later, transient).  It was always a wonder to me why this team only rarely came together this powerfully and confidently.  We won a high-octane quarter-final versus Pakistan with Sachin hardly contributing anything.  Why was this an exception?  Why did we fans have to resign to the capriciousness of this team?  I have only questions, no easy answers.

The highlight:

I remember the heartbreak of the semi-final like it is happening in front of my eyes now!  People mention Aravinda de Silva’s dazzling counterattack.  Sure, it left us stunned.  But when he was dismissed, SL was only 85/4.  We just watched in silent horror as their middle-order calmly and coolly took them to 251.  Did we try anything different?  Couldn’t Srinath have been brought back for a quick burst instead of Jadeja bowling 5 expensive overs? (Srinath only completed 7 of his 10 overs.) Why the conservatism in going with an Ashish Kapoor who was tidy but rarely penetrative instead of Venkatapathi Raju who was a more attacking option?  Sure, the SL side had plenty of left-handers but Raju was no slouch versus southpaws. (Remember him tying Brian Lara in knots in 1994?)  And the batting that fell like a stack of dominoes after Sachin got out was, in retrospect, no big surprise.  How often in the 1990s did we really win when he did not take us all the way?  All of these painful recollections make Virat Kohli’s words post the 2011 win even sweeter - “He has lifted the burden of the nation for 21 years.  It is time we carried him on our shoulders.”  

The heartbreak:

As we go back in time, sure, many world cup wins have been on the back of glittering individual performances.  But if you observe keenly, the team coming together was what well and truly took the teams over the finish line.  Sure, Wasim Akram’s magic deliveries swung the match Pakistan’s way in 1992.  But what would he have had to bowl with if not for Imran Khan, Javed Miandad and Inzamam ul Haq, not to mention his own batting.  In the 1996 final, Aravinda de Silva turned in an all-round performance for the ages.  But remember that they were led by a man - Arjuna Ranatunga -  who was willing to go any lengths to defend his bowler who had been accused of throwing.  How can we measure the impact that such leadership has on a team’s spirit?  In that final, remember that with Ranatunga expertly marshaling them, the other spinners choked the Aussies too.  Remember that Asanka Gurusinha played a superb supporting knock of 65 to help Aravinda stabilize the innings.  Many of us recollect Sanath Jayasurya and Romesh Kaluwitharana’s pyrotechnics in the 1996 world cup.  But remember that both of them failed with the bat in the semi-final and final.  And yet SL won.  

As I think about my own journey as an Indian cricket fan, I am filled with gratitude for a leader like MS Dhoni, batsmen like Yuvraj Singh and bowlers like Zaheer Khan who, through their sustained individual brilliance, also coalesced as a team, to win the world cup that Sachin wanted so badly.  You might wonder why is it that for all my talk about the team being of paramount importance that my happiness of 2011 is associated with Sachin, when there were so many other heroes.  It is because it was Sachin who made us hope against hope in the 1990s that India would win as long as he was there.  It is because we 90s cricket fans fell in love with Sachin before we fell in love with India as a team.  We knew but just didn’t realize that cricket is a sport of 11 players a side, not one champion and ten others.  That for a team to practically rest on one shoulder was grave injustice to the man carrying the burden.  That is why we see the 2011 world cup win as a sort of tribute to Sachin.  But as I reflect on 1996 now, with the benefit of time and maturity, I can be a bit gracious and admit that the best team, not the best individual, won the 1996 world cup.  And that team was Sri Lanka.  It could not have gone any other way.

"Whatever it is you wish for": A tribute to Padma Athai (1961-2023)

‘Bommathai’ - that is what I apparently used to call my Aunt Padma when I was a toddler.  I honestly don’t remember much of that phase.  But if I were to take a guess, Padma Athai probably relished the mispronunciation of her name as much as she enjoyed our interactions when I spoke to her as an adult in well-enunciated thamizh.  The guess would not be too inaccurate, for Athai always believed in letting people be, as long as they were within the bounds of honesty and propriety.  As I replay the vignettes of my shared moments with her through the years, the thing that strikes me is how she was, at every stage of my life, genuinely interested in learning about what made me happy in that phase.  And how she was ever so gentle in expressing love, care and concern.

Rewind to June 1994.  She was living in the US and was visiting India with her family. (A loving husband and two adorable kids.  The kids were adorable and affectionate back then.  They are adorable, affectionate and responsible role models now.)  I lived in Chennai with my parents at that time.  I was eagerly looking forward to spending time with them, especially my little cousins.  And during that trip, while I bonded fabulously with her son, the younger one refused to come anywhere near me!  What was worse for me was that the little one was extremely fond of our neighbors!  I was genuinely upset about it.  Padma Athai could have dubbed me childish or at least teased me gently.  And that would not have been wrong per se.  But as a recent favorite quote (attributed to Atul Chitnis) of mine goes, “You are never remembered for doing what is expected of you.”  Athai actually sat me down and explained that sometimes little kids - her daughter was just 3 ½ at that time! - behave in ways that are not going to appear reasonable to older people.  She assured me that my cousin would definitely bond with me over time.  And that did happen, even if not during that trip!  Years later, we used to joke about how my cousin gave preferential treatment to our neighbor.  But as I reflect on Athai a little more, I see that she just let me be the 13-year old kid I was, while subtly making me see reason.

Athai, at a family wedding in 2010

In 1998, when my parents and I moved to the US, I had more opportunities to visit and spend time with her.  Another distinct memory that I have is of my maternal grandma from India calling us at Athai's home.  Athai immediately told my Mother, “Manni, please tell Maami that you will call her right back from our number.”  Kids of this generation will not quite comprehend what was so special about that gesture.  But back in 1998, there were no free Whatsapp calls or Facetime.  International calls to and from India were expensive.  But Athai was spontaneous, generous and above all, unfussy about her spontaneity and generosity.  She was a giver in the most understated, casual manner.  

Athai was someone who derived happiness from the joy and success of others.  I remember when I did well during my undergrad and graduate years, Athai’s notes of appreciation for any of my achievements, regardless of significance, would drip with genuineness.  I could feel the genuineness not just in her exquisite choice of words or in the sweetness of her voice.  Beyond all that, it came from the purity of her thought which is extremely hard to concretize but equally hard to miss if you care to look for it.  I just re-listened to her voice note for my birthday this year where she wished me “the very, very best of health, peace of mind, happiness and whatever it is you wish for.”  The “whatever it is you wish for” seems to perfectly exemplify who she was as a person.  What mattered to her was whether we achieved happiness on our terms.  She probably thought it was too presumptuous of her to assume that she knew exactly what made me happy.  

As wonderful as she was at expressing genuine elation devoid of filters, biases, prejudices or jealousy, Athai was also extremely empathetic towards people when they were going through a low phase.  She would expertly walk the tightrope walk, not being pushy or inquisitive, yet expressing her support in no uncertain terms.  10 years ago, I had to undergo a back surgery.  She wrote me a mail as soon as she learned about it from my grandmother.  In her note, she wished me well.  While asking about the nature of the surgery, she prefaced her question with, “Hope I am not being intrusive if I ask you.”  As my Aunt, she could have just asked me about the operation.  But no, she seemed so instinctively respectful of people’s spaces and choices.  Knowing her, she would have been perfectly okay had I chosen to not divulge the details of my surgery.

Another trait that I instantly associate with her is humility.  An accomplished CPA, she never really spoke, unless asked, of the achievements of hers or her family.  Before I had traveled to the US with my Mom in 1991, my Dad told me that Athai had cracked a tough exam and had scored "85%."  During the trip, I duly congratulated her.  She was probably surprised that I even knew about it.  She smiled and asked, "Yaaru, Murali sonnaana?  84 thaan, 85 illa!"  The reason I remember this detail 32 years later is because I was struck by the humility of her response.  But then, that was who she was right through her life.  Honest, humble and focused on her loved ones, not the self.

The last time I saw Athai was at a family wedding last year.  I had not really been in a position to attend the wedding since things were hectic at work.  But I attended since my Uncle urged me to attend and surprise everyone.  It was so wonderful to see her after a long time.  The care, the concern, the kindness were all intact as always. (Not that I expected it to be any different.) I just did not know that my goodbye at the end of the trip would be the last time I bid farewell in person.  I suppose that I have to be grateful for the fact that my Uncle's prodding meant that I got the opportunity to see her one last time.  Mysterious are the vagaries of fate and the ways of this world, I suppose.

Athai - you told me that I could get 'whatever it is I wished for.' 

I wish that you are in a better place, sans any of the physical pain that you had to endure recently. 

I wish for Uncle and the kids to have the strength to lead life with their strong, indelible memories of you. 

I wish for the light of your spirit to glow brightly in our hearts for the rest of our lives. 

I wish this world would be a kinder place to pure, noble souls like you who deserved to live much longer lives. 

Above all, I just wish you were here, Bommathai.  I will miss you.

What will I remember? - Thoughts on "Modern Love Chennai"

It has been a few days since I watched “Modern Love Chennai.”  There is one image that refuses to leave me. It is that of TJ Bhanu on the hospital bed, wordlessly checking on her newborn with a mix of anxiety, fear and hope that the child should not have the eye condition that she has.  Of the six stories in this anthology, this episode - titled “ImaigaL” - is the best.  On top of the stellar performances by the lead pair (Ashok Selvan plays Bhanu’s husband) and the beautiful writing, the reason I liked this story the most was because this was the one that felt most “modern” to me.

That is because “ImaigaL” (directed by Balaji Sakthivel) is the episode that affirms my thought that modern is a way of thinking and acting.  Modern is not necessarily about the clothes you wear, the language you speak, the places you mingle in.  In my book, something that shakes the status quo for the better is what is modern.  And if I stick to that criterion, “ImaigaL” is unquestionably modern.  A man marries a woman with the knowledge that she is going to gradually lose her vision.  The fact that he would like to marry her despite this condition is presented matter-of-fact sans any overt emphasis.  Even when he has a disagreement, he immediately realizes the error of his ways and is not hesitant to kneel down apologetically in the middle of the road.  There is a small yet meaningful moment where we see him awake while his wife and kid are asleep.  We get to know later that he was actually thinking of her passion for the ‘veeNa.’  How often have we seen a male character on screen so insistent on being a tool for genuine, abiding empowerment.  If Bhanu sparkles in her author-backed role, Ashok Selvan too is wonderful in playing a foil.  This pair of mature performances is the best thing about this anthology.

Bharathiraja’s “Paravai Kootil Vaazhum MaangaL” is arguably the first time in Bharathiraja’s entire career where the creator is an invisible presence.  Known for his emphatic style of narration and his signature touches, he has experimented with a style of narration that was his friend Balu Mahendra’s (whom he has dedicated this to) forte.  This is the tale of a married man who falls out of love with his wife and falls for another woman.  While the direct conversations and the philosophical lines do work, I wish the story had done more justice to the pain felt by the Ramya Nambeesan character.  For instance, we hear her tell Vijayalakshmi (who plays the ‘other’ woman with remarkable dignity) that her initial reaction to Kishore breaking the news, was quite intense.  A quick vignette would have had more impact than the line uttered by her. But I will remember this segment for the two contrasting selfies that dovetail seamlessly, to capture the arc of the three main leads.

“Lalagunda BommaigaL” directed by Raju Murugan adopts a lightweight approach to some rather serious issues.  I liked how the lead character is shown as shrugging off betrayals and disappointments and is looking to rebuild her life.  The ending was unexpected but the quirky finish was in sync with the tone of the rest of this short.

“Kadhal Enbadhu Kannula Heart Irukara Emoji” will work better for movie buffs than others.  Ritu Varma is cast against type but she finds the right pitch for her performance, being perky without overdoing the ditziness.  Varma plays a die-hard movie buff who sees a bit of the movies creep into every element of her life.  I liked the fact that she is not shown as having to shed that bit of craziness in order to be happy.  Sometimes one gets the sense that a filmmaker crafts zany characters to have laughs at their expense.  That is not the case here.  Thanks to the surefooted writing of Reshma Ghatala and the direction of Krishnakumar Ramakumar, we smile with her, not laugh at her.  And that makes for a feel-good experience.

“Margazhi” (directed by Akshay Sunder) is a lovely story of a high school girl who develops feelings for a boy in her class.  Balaji Tharaneetharan’s writing is exquisite and captures the psyche of the adolescent kids in a dignified manner.  Tamil Cinema has had its share of cheap, exploitative films set in the high school milieu.  “Margazhi” is a class apart.  The focus is on getting into the mind and heart of the girl who is going through a tricky period of her student life.  The way the story concludes feels just right in its balance of closure and open-endedness.  Something that is so symptomatic of the way things play out in that stage of life.  Ilayaraja’s beautiful score captures the beats of the heart as well as it does the moments where the heart skips a beat!

And finally Thiagarajan Kumararaja’s “Ninaivo Oru Paravai." His two full-length feature films “Aaranya Kaandam” and “Super Deluxe”, both splendid films, were as offbeat and bold as “Ninaivo Oru Paravai.”  But they had two things that this segment does not have - a narrative flow that kept us hooked and characters (as unconventional as they were) that we were interested in.  It is not necessary for lead characters to be likable per se.  But they need to be interesting enough for us to be invested in their story. (Sri Priya from “AvaL Appadithan” comes to mind.) Here, the in-your-face lines and the supposedly ‘shocking’ moments left me completely unmoved and strangely disengaged.

I recently came across a thought-provoking quote attributed to Atul Chitnis - “You are never remembered for doing what is expected of you.”  This applies to both filmmakers as well as the characters in their films.  The most memorable love stories in this anthology are the ones where the surprises spring onto us in a pleasant way, gently setting aside mores and conventions and, in their place, ushering in fresh thinking.  If that is not “modern”, then I do not know what is!

Two Diamonds in a Sea of Gems - My essay on Ponniyin Selvan (Part 2)

Disclaimer: I have not read Kalki’s Ponniyin Selvan as yet.  This is my review of Mani Ratnam’s film, Ponniyin Selvan (Part 2).

This is it.  This is the Vikram performance that we have all been waiting for.  The monstrously talented actor who has acted in scores of forgettable films in the last two decades, finally gets a role that is befitting his talents.  We saw glimpses of what Mani Ratnam could do with Vikram in Raavanan and in Ponniyin Selvan-1 (PS-1).  But those feel like appetizers to what he serves us in Ponniyin Selvan-2 (PS-2).  Even though the actor did not feature in the Navarasa series, his performance is an exhibition of all the rasas.  His eyes do much of the work.  Whether he expresses anguish over his lost love, relief in hearing good news about his brother, disappointment in seeing his friend seemingly turn against him, arrogance in entering a palace or disdain when seeing his lover’s husband, Vikram’s powerful eyes tell their own story.  Coupled with his fantastic diction and assured body language – you have not lived as a movie buff till you have seen him in his final scene – his performance is one for the ages. 

Aishwarya Rai Bachchan, pitted against the powerhouse that Vikram is, manages to hold her own in bringing to life a character that has more than a few shades of gray.  Mani Ratnam has always been a master at ensuring that the human side of antagonistic characters are fleshed out.  That even when we may not quite agree with them or root for them, that we understand their psychological motivations.  Thanks to the balanced writing and Aishwarya Rai’s superbly controlled performance – the quiet, internalized intensity is a riveting contrast to Vikram’s raw, unhinged portrayal -  what we see is a person driven by rage and fury of her own but one who knows fully well that she is not doing right by the ones that truly love her.  With a slew of minute expressions, firm but measured delivery of the lines and a regal presence overall, Aishwarya Rai turns in her best performance yet.  At the end of the day, it is the scenes featuring Vikram and Aishwarya Rai that give the film true emotional depth.  Depth that is sadly missing in the rest of the film. 

The machinations, the political intrigue and the battle for power were all set up perfectly in PS-1.  I went into PS-2 hoping that the plot would unravel in a way that would do justice to the central themes and the seemingly powerful characters.  But in my estimation, PS-2 flatters to deceive.  Mani Ratnam, along with his co-writers Jeyamohan and Kumaravel, had established the core traits of the key characters in PS-1.  But apart from Vikram and Aishwarya Rai, none of the other characters truly get their due.  They appear when the plot needs them to step in and offer a few expositions.  Except for a couple of lovely little moments – the one featuring Trisha and a blindfolded Karthi is vintage Mani Ratnam – there were many moments where what I saw on screen was inelegant writing staged in a way that tried, but failed, to obscure the shallowness of the writing.  The hurried way in which Vinodhini makes Aishwarya Rai recall her past or the rushed manner in which key truths are exposed in the scene on the ship, made me wonder if Mani Ratnam felt that everything outside of Vikram and Aishwarya Rai were incidental loose ends that needed to be tied, even if clumsily.

You know that a film is not quite working for you the way it should when the lines spoken are actually supposed to sting but you are sitting in a theater unmoved.  Jeyamohan comes up with some fantastic lines.  (Having not read the novel, I am attributing the lines to the credited screenwriter.) One line goes, “ArasargaL sollum poiyai arasiyal enbargaL.”  Some of Jayam Ravi’s idealistic lines in the climactic portions are splendid.  Yet the scenes in which they are housed never seem to make them pop out of the screen, say the way Sivaji Ganesan’s “aana vedhai…naan pottadhu” line exploded onto you from within the narrative of Thevar Magan.  And speaking of the written and spoken word, the diction of some of the actors (the “La” and “Zha” sounds were rarely heard from some of the actors!) left much to be desired.

Ravi Varman’s cinematography and Mani Ratnam’s staging too worked best in the scenes with Vikram and Aishwarya Rai.  There is a marvelous shot of the duo framed in a tight close-up which, by itself, increases the intensity of the moment manifold.  Ditto for AR Rahman’s searing background score for their scenes together.  All this serves to underscore my point that when done in service of powerful, nuanced writing, every element of a film’s craft will shine. 

Alas, PS-2, for me, will be remembered for two unforgettable characters brought to life by two shining performances in a film that should have been about much more.  And given the array of dazzling talents behind and in front of the camera, this experience is akin to two shiny diamonds glistening on a surface where the rest of the gems are hidden underneath.