Despite its dismal box office performance, I thought Dum Dum Dum was a fairly well-crafted romantic comedy. It did have a slightly tedious second half, and the big conflict between the parental units seemed a little implausible, but I found it much better than the other Madhavan movie that came around the same time and fared quite well - Minnalae.
Dum Dum Dum is essentially a showcase for Jyothika's brand of acting. She is generally accused by her detractors of playing the same role over and over again, and these detractors are usually right. However, I'd say this is a movie where it is not a disadvantage.
The plot involves the two (Madhavan and Jyothika) being stuck in an arranged marriage neither of them wants, so they do all they can to have it called off before it gets solemnized. As luck would have it, none of it works, they find themselves drawn to each other and then an actual fight erupts and... you can fill in the rest.
Anyway, one of the strategies adopted by Madhavan to try and break the alliance is to approach his prospective father-in-law directly and persuade him not to give any dowry. So, when the parental units are meeting to discuss the details of the marriage, the man does as Madhavan says and refuses to pay a dowry. Jyothika isn't aware of this strategy, so the entire thing is a surprise to her. The way this scene plays out is quite nice - there's actual dialogue being spoken, but the real conversation is the unspoken one, between Madhavan, Murali and Jyothika. All three of them do such a good job with their eyes that you are never in any doubt about what each of them is thinking.
Showing posts with label Tamil movies. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tamil movies. Show all posts
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Freeze Frame #51: Run
Run was the movie that allowed Madhavan to break away from his romantic hero image and play an action hero. For the first half hour or so, you don't even realize it: all you see is him chasing Meera Jasmine around, singing songs and doing his usual shtick.
Then comes the scene in the subway, where he is cornered by some of her brother's men. He starts running and goes right up to the exit only to pull down the shutters. Turns, looks at his pursuers, waits for the first one to come at him and lays him out with a single savage blow. Crocks his head, gets a wild look in his eye and walks towards the rest.
Honestly, I didn't think Madhavan had it in him to do that. He is so effective in that moment that it makes the rest of the movie work wonderfully.
Then comes the scene in the subway, where he is cornered by some of her brother's men. He starts running and goes right up to the exit only to pull down the shutters. Turns, looks at his pursuers, waits for the first one to come at him and lays him out with a single savage blow. Crocks his head, gets a wild look in his eye and walks towards the rest.
Honestly, I didn't think Madhavan had it in him to do that. He is so effective in that moment that it makes the rest of the movie work wonderfully.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Sivaji: Citizen Kenai
In some ways, this was a movie just waiting to be made. Shankar is a director with a proven ability to create box office magic with movies involving middle-class supermen fighting corruption. Rajni is a star who has made a career out of playing such roles. The only question that remains is: do we get to see Rajni in a Shankar movie, or Shankar directing a Rajni movie? A little bit of both, thankfully.
Shankar is a director with an ability to think really big. His plots usually involve the sort of skulduggery you'd dream up after your third straight tequila, and believe to be plausible after the fifth. His technique is simple and time-worn: First, set up situations where the man on the street is victimized by greed and corruption at various levels - deserving students having to pay high capitation fees, doctors refusing to treat poor patients, politicos and government officials demanding bribes for everything and so on. Now, once you've gotten the audience baying for blood, have the hero blow up the logjam through some decidedly unconventional and swift methods. Usually, these methods involve some illegality - murder, robbery, blackmail and the like - but they are always directed at the established bad guys. What makes it work is the way he ratchets up the tone of the proceedings from the get-go. For Rajni, this sort of filmmaking is the perfect vehicle.
Aside: For those of you who are unfamiliar with Tamil cinema, Shankar is the man who made (either the original, or the remake as well) Nayak, Hindustani, The Gentleman and Aparichit. If you've seen any or all of these, you'll know what I mean in the above paragraph.
However, such an endeavour is not without its risks. Shankar's biggest weakness is a tendency to overdo things on occasion. Usually, this happens in the hero's tragic flashback - someone close to him gets badly burned or electrocuted, and the apathy of the people around him is what lights his fire. Rajni's weakness is a tendency to have his movies revolve entirely around him. Even while making something like Chandramukhi, he took the low-key Mohanlal role in the Malayalam original and added mucho baggage to it. Baggage of the sort his adoring fans have come to expect from every one of his outings. Maybe it's his fault, maybe it's the makers'. It doesn't matter.
Both these aspects - the synergies and the double-flaws - are on full display in Sivaji. Clocking in at around three hours, the movie takes its time to tell a story of a rich man who becomes poor trying to do good, then rich again by beating the crooks at their game, then arrested, then out, then... you know the drill, I'm sure.
Much of it could have been told in less than two and a half hours, and some of it needn't have been told at all. Large portions of the first half, especially the scenes dealing with Rajni wooing Shreya and her family, could have been done away with. It's unfunny, loud, occasionally crude and mostly cringe-worthy. The most shocking part of it all is that one of Rajni's best attributes - excellent comic timing - has deserted him here. What salvages it somewhat is a triumphant return to form by Vivek. He manages to lampoon just about everybody, including the man who has taken his place on the popularity charts in the last few years - Vadivelu.
The song sequences are about as hopeless as the music (A. R. Rehman having an off-day of mammoth proportions), and watching Rajni flap the odd limb at high speed in an effort to approximate dancing is painful at best. And don't even get me started on the costume design.
The only scenes that work in the first half are the serious ones involving his fight to realize is dream of providing free education and medical care to the poor. In this he comes across a dangerous adversary, a corrupt kingmaker named Adiseshan. The biggest problem with Rajni movies in recent times has been finding a worthy foe with sufficient screen presence. What Shankar and Suman have accomplished here is fantastic: aided in large part by a low-key Rajni performance in the first half, Suman creates an Adiseshan who is as soft-spoken as he is menacing. By the time we reach the halfway point, he's made us want to figure out how Rajni would destroy him.
The second half is where it all comes together. Rajni and Shankar both stop fooling around and get down to business, and the effect is electric. Pure masala, peppered with inside jokes that would have seasoned Tamil film goers in splits. And the coup de grace: a Rajni in the final scenes looking and acting like the old Rajni from Thai Veedu, Thanga Magan and Moondru Mugam. Fantastic stuff! There's a dodgy little sequence involving an amalgam of medical science and biblical resurrection, but I'm inclined to forgive that in light of what follows.
On the whole, this is far less of a movie than it could have been, thanks to some disastrous choices in the first half, but delivers its share of vintage Rajni entertainment in the second half. Worth a dekko? Hell yeah! The Rajni you see in the last fifteen minutes alone is worth the price of admission.
ps: The title was inspired by a comment by my friend Gora. For the uninitiated, Kenai is a Tamil word that broadly translates to "imbecile".
Shankar is a director with an ability to think really big. His plots usually involve the sort of skulduggery you'd dream up after your third straight tequila, and believe to be plausible after the fifth. His technique is simple and time-worn: First, set up situations where the man on the street is victimized by greed and corruption at various levels - deserving students having to pay high capitation fees, doctors refusing to treat poor patients, politicos and government officials demanding bribes for everything and so on. Now, once you've gotten the audience baying for blood, have the hero blow up the logjam through some decidedly unconventional and swift methods. Usually, these methods involve some illegality - murder, robbery, blackmail and the like - but they are always directed at the established bad guys. What makes it work is the way he ratchets up the tone of the proceedings from the get-go. For Rajni, this sort of filmmaking is the perfect vehicle.
Aside: For those of you who are unfamiliar with Tamil cinema, Shankar is the man who made (either the original, or the remake as well) Nayak, Hindustani, The Gentleman and Aparichit. If you've seen any or all of these, you'll know what I mean in the above paragraph.
However, such an endeavour is not without its risks. Shankar's biggest weakness is a tendency to overdo things on occasion. Usually, this happens in the hero's tragic flashback - someone close to him gets badly burned or electrocuted, and the apathy of the people around him is what lights his fire. Rajni's weakness is a tendency to have his movies revolve entirely around him. Even while making something like Chandramukhi, he took the low-key Mohanlal role in the Malayalam original and added mucho baggage to it. Baggage of the sort his adoring fans have come to expect from every one of his outings. Maybe it's his fault, maybe it's the makers'. It doesn't matter.
Both these aspects - the synergies and the double-flaws - are on full display in Sivaji. Clocking in at around three hours, the movie takes its time to tell a story of a rich man who becomes poor trying to do good, then rich again by beating the crooks at their game, then arrested, then out, then... you know the drill, I'm sure.
Much of it could have been told in less than two and a half hours, and some of it needn't have been told at all. Large portions of the first half, especially the scenes dealing with Rajni wooing Shreya and her family, could have been done away with. It's unfunny, loud, occasionally crude and mostly cringe-worthy. The most shocking part of it all is that one of Rajni's best attributes - excellent comic timing - has deserted him here. What salvages it somewhat is a triumphant return to form by Vivek. He manages to lampoon just about everybody, including the man who has taken his place on the popularity charts in the last few years - Vadivelu.
The song sequences are about as hopeless as the music (A. R. Rehman having an off-day of mammoth proportions), and watching Rajni flap the odd limb at high speed in an effort to approximate dancing is painful at best. And don't even get me started on the costume design.
The only scenes that work in the first half are the serious ones involving his fight to realize is dream of providing free education and medical care to the poor. In this he comes across a dangerous adversary, a corrupt kingmaker named Adiseshan. The biggest problem with Rajni movies in recent times has been finding a worthy foe with sufficient screen presence. What Shankar and Suman have accomplished here is fantastic: aided in large part by a low-key Rajni performance in the first half, Suman creates an Adiseshan who is as soft-spoken as he is menacing. By the time we reach the halfway point, he's made us want to figure out how Rajni would destroy him.
The second half is where it all comes together. Rajni and Shankar both stop fooling around and get down to business, and the effect is electric. Pure masala, peppered with inside jokes that would have seasoned Tamil film goers in splits. And the coup de grace: a Rajni in the final scenes looking and acting like the old Rajni from Thai Veedu, Thanga Magan and Moondru Mugam. Fantastic stuff! There's a dodgy little sequence involving an amalgam of medical science and biblical resurrection, but I'm inclined to forgive that in light of what follows.
On the whole, this is far less of a movie than it could have been, thanks to some disastrous choices in the first half, but delivers its share of vintage Rajni entertainment in the second half. Worth a dekko? Hell yeah! The Rajni you see in the last fifteen minutes alone is worth the price of admission.
ps: The title was inspired by a comment by my friend Gora. For the uninitiated, Kenai is a Tamil word that broadly translates to "imbecile".
Rajnikanth, Amitabh Bachchan and the necessity of dodging bullets
In the beginning, there was Rajnikanth the actor. He wasn't the best actor anyone had ever seen, but he was quite okay. His biggest gift was an undeniable screen presence. The man had style to burn, and it shone through even when he had a bit of a paunch, a leather belt that could hide Adnan Sami no matter how you draped it, and dance moves that seemed inspired by epileptic robots.
Somewhere along the way, he figured out what his best attributes where, amped up the style, smoothed out a few rough edges, added comic timing to his arsenal and set out to conquer the world. He became Rajni the star. He managed to do it often enough and consistently well, and the public ate it all up. Hence Rajni the Super Star. Whatever happened after that was just momentum.
The bad news is, I'm not entirely sure he can stop it anymore. In order to ensure box office success, the man ends up having to do a whole bunch of stuff that his age and physique no longer permit him to do. The fight sequences in Sivaji alone should get the editor of the movie a national award. Watching him dance is an almost painful experience. It's like he's come full circle, except the robots no longer have epilepsy, they have arthritis.
When you think about it, not too long ago, one could write roughly the same story about Amitabh Bachchan. If this were the Matrix and AB was Neo, the Oracle might've told him at some point that he needed something, maybe death, to take him to the next level. And so it was, that Mrityudaata proved to be his Mrityudaata. A few more filmmakers nailed that particular coffin in movies like Lal Badshah.
And then the man resurrected himself, french beard and all, and became a bankable star again. So bankable, in fact, that scripts like Cheeni Kum and Nishabd and Ekalavya get written now because there's someone like him to star in them. (I said star in them, mind you, not just act in them. AB is a damn good actor, no doubt. But so are Om Puri and Naseeruddin Shah and Pankaj Kapoor. Would these movies have gotten made with them?)
The bottomline is, Neo woke up from the dead and can now stop bullets in mid-air. So can AB. Rajni on the other hand is still dodging them. Action sequences to the contrary notwithstanding.
Somewhere along the way, he figured out what his best attributes where, amped up the style, smoothed out a few rough edges, added comic timing to his arsenal and set out to conquer the world. He became Rajni the star. He managed to do it often enough and consistently well, and the public ate it all up. Hence Rajni the Super Star. Whatever happened after that was just momentum.
The bad news is, I'm not entirely sure he can stop it anymore. In order to ensure box office success, the man ends up having to do a whole bunch of stuff that his age and physique no longer permit him to do. The fight sequences in Sivaji alone should get the editor of the movie a national award. Watching him dance is an almost painful experience. It's like he's come full circle, except the robots no longer have epilepsy, they have arthritis.
When you think about it, not too long ago, one could write roughly the same story about Amitabh Bachchan. If this were the Matrix and AB was Neo, the Oracle might've told him at some point that he needed something, maybe death, to take him to the next level. And so it was, that Mrityudaata proved to be his Mrityudaata. A few more filmmakers nailed that particular coffin in movies like Lal Badshah.
And then the man resurrected himself, french beard and all, and became a bankable star again. So bankable, in fact, that scripts like Cheeni Kum and Nishabd and Ekalavya get written now because there's someone like him to star in them. (I said star in them, mind you, not just act in them. AB is a damn good actor, no doubt. But so are Om Puri and Naseeruddin Shah and Pankaj Kapoor. Would these movies have gotten made with them?)
The bottomline is, Neo woke up from the dead and can now stop bullets in mid-air. So can AB. Rajni on the other hand is still dodging them. Action sequences to the contrary notwithstanding.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Freeze Frame #28, #29: Deewar
Deewar is, in my opinion, the movie that features the best Amitabh Bachchan performance of all time. It is not that he did not do a better job in any movie before or since - a number of movies come to mind where his performance has been fantastic. But the sort of raw intensity he brought to Deewar was just something I've never seen him replicate. Even today, when I see that movie, there are moments that give me the goosebumps.
This is a movie with a number of great scenes, but my pick for the standout scene is pretty much the same as most others' - the one in the temple, where he goes to pray for his mother's life for the first time. The arrogance of his posture, the anger with which he starts speaking, and the way it breaks down when he eventually begs for her life... it still moves me to tears.
The other scene I really loved was when he goes to a garage where a bunch of goons who have been looking for him all day are gathered, and beats them up. It's a standard action scene, and the dialogue that begins it is straightforward. He just says, "You've been looking for me all day and here I am, waiting for you." But what really struck me was how much the lazy drawl in his voice conveyed the kind of man he was.
Most of Amitabh's blockbusters have been remade in Tamil with Rajnikanth. Deewar became Thee, with Suman in the Shashi Kapoor role. The movie probably did good business, but I found it to be a colossal disappointment. It lacked precisely what its title claimed: Thee (Fire).
Incidentally, I was watching K. Bhagyaraj's Thavani Kanavugal on TV yesterday and there's a scene in which Sivaji Ganesan, who plays his crusty old landlord and an army man who has never set foot in a temple, goes to the nearby Ganesha temple to pray for the well-being of his (Bhagyaraj's) family. And what do you know, the speech is basically a precise translation of Amitabh's speech in Deewar!
This is a movie with a number of great scenes, but my pick for the standout scene is pretty much the same as most others' - the one in the temple, where he goes to pray for his mother's life for the first time. The arrogance of his posture, the anger with which he starts speaking, and the way it breaks down when he eventually begs for her life... it still moves me to tears.
The other scene I really loved was when he goes to a garage where a bunch of goons who have been looking for him all day are gathered, and beats them up. It's a standard action scene, and the dialogue that begins it is straightforward. He just says, "You've been looking for me all day and here I am, waiting for you." But what really struck me was how much the lazy drawl in his voice conveyed the kind of man he was.
Most of Amitabh's blockbusters have been remade in Tamil with Rajnikanth. Deewar became Thee, with Suman in the Shashi Kapoor role. The movie probably did good business, but I found it to be a colossal disappointment. It lacked precisely what its title claimed: Thee (Fire).
Incidentally, I was watching K. Bhagyaraj's Thavani Kanavugal on TV yesterday and there's a scene in which Sivaji Ganesan, who plays his crusty old landlord and an army man who has never set foot in a temple, goes to the nearby Ganesha temple to pray for the well-being of his (Bhagyaraj's) family. And what do you know, the speech is basically a precise translation of Amitabh's speech in Deewar!
Friday, March 30, 2007
Mozhi
Prakash Raj's Duet Films has been making some fairly interesting films. There was Azhagiya Theeye, which I regard as one of the best romantic comedies ever made in Tamil. Then there was Kanda Naal Mudhal which was nearly as good. And now Mozhi, a movie about a man's love for a woman who is deaf and dumb. The premise has so much scope for melodrama that you stay on tenterhooks most of the time, waiting for the movie to make a mistake. Surprisingly, Mozhi hardly ever missteps.
The humor in this movie is of an everyday kind - the jokes are the sort you or I might come up with. Which means that, while it's not always laugh out loud funny, it is very often chuckleworthy. Prakash Raj, in a comic role after a while, is fantastic.
But outside of that, what really worked for me were some deft little touches. The scenes where the friendship between Karthik (Prithviraj) and Archana (Jyothika), and their friends Viji (Prakash Raj) and Sheela (Swarnamalya) develops is interlaced with music, and the interesting thing is how the deaf-mute Archana responds to music. Like a language she's hearing for the first time, she seeks patterns. She notices the rhythm, and begins to vibe with it. The way this is done is obvious, yet not overdone. You don't see her move her head too much, or start dancing suddenly. You just see her nod, almost to herself, hardly noticeable to an unknowing outsider. Nice touch, that.
The other moment that worked was towards the end, when she takes a cold, hard look at herself after Karthik has just read her the riot act. Her instinctive reaction is to clench her fists in anger - the reaction she has had all these years, and which we have seen so often before. But she kinda realizes that this refuge won't work anymore, unclenches her fists and just screams out in grief. And her grandmom, sitting outside, looks concerned for a moment, and then smiles.
The humor in this movie is of an everyday kind - the jokes are the sort you or I might come up with. Which means that, while it's not always laugh out loud funny, it is very often chuckleworthy. Prakash Raj, in a comic role after a while, is fantastic.
But outside of that, what really worked for me were some deft little touches. The scenes where the friendship between Karthik (Prithviraj) and Archana (Jyothika), and their friends Viji (Prakash Raj) and Sheela (Swarnamalya) develops is interlaced with music, and the interesting thing is how the deaf-mute Archana responds to music. Like a language she's hearing for the first time, she seeks patterns. She notices the rhythm, and begins to vibe with it. The way this is done is obvious, yet not overdone. You don't see her move her head too much, or start dancing suddenly. You just see her nod, almost to herself, hardly noticeable to an unknowing outsider. Nice touch, that.
The other moment that worked was towards the end, when she takes a cold, hard look at herself after Karthik has just read her the riot act. Her instinctive reaction is to clench her fists in anger - the reaction she has had all these years, and which we have seen so often before. But she kinda realizes that this refuge won't work anymore, unclenches her fists and just screams out in grief. And her grandmom, sitting outside, looks concerned for a moment, and then smiles.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Strange chords #3: Duet Theme
Duet is not the best film K. Balachander has made. A remake of Cyrano de Bergerac, with assorted additional nonsense and a dash of Alibaba thrown in for good measure, the movie never really manages to get itself out of the way and reach the heights it could. It is, however, one of the most interesting movies I've seen, from a musical standpoint. The main reason why I'm somewhat fond of that movie is its music.
They key, for me, came during the opening titles itself. I didn't notice it when I saw the movie for the first time, since I didn't know the whole plot then. But when I went back home and listened to the album, I realized what KB and Rehman were doing in that opening piece.
It is a Kadri Gopalnath saxophone solo in Kalyanavasantham - a beautiful, beautiful raga (best known example: Nadaloludai, composed by Sri Thyagaraja - yet another of his little gems). In the movie, you see Prabhu playing it.
He plays a character named Guna, a talented musician and sax player, who forms part of a successful music duo with his brother Siva. Guna is overweight, and doesn't have much luck with women as a result, whereas Siva pretty much has them eating out of his hands. A minor early crisis causes them to move to a different city, where they begin their career afresh. Their life settles into a comfortable routine when love comes in the form of Anjali, a film choreographer who lives next door. She loves Guna's music, but thinks Siva is the one composing it. Things get a little heated when this truth is revealed, but before it can be resolved between the three of them, additional complications arrive in the form of Sirpi, a psychotic movie star with designs on Anjali. It all ends in a violent and senseless climax where all extra characters are bumped off and only the hero and heroine are left.
Crazy plot, and there's really no obvious reason why I should narrate it here. But now that you know this plot, go back and listen to the theme music and see how it is patterned - how it starts off slow, breaks for a moment when the waves crash against the rocks, starts again, settles into a rhythm, then picks up the pace, then begins to have more ominous notes sounding in the background, and ends with the waves crashing against the sea. When you think about it, this could have been pretty much any piece - most movies have random instrumental music playing over the opening titles - but KB showed here what he could do with it.
The entire story is told in flashback from Prabhu's point of view, and you realize, after watching it and harking back to its musical set pieces, that this was a man who used his sax as a narrative intrument. Listen to the interludes in En kaadhalae, and you see how he expresses his feelings - his frustration, his despair, his love - through his instrument. Amazing piece of work.
They key, for me, came during the opening titles itself. I didn't notice it when I saw the movie for the first time, since I didn't know the whole plot then. But when I went back home and listened to the album, I realized what KB and Rehman were doing in that opening piece.
It is a Kadri Gopalnath saxophone solo in Kalyanavasantham - a beautiful, beautiful raga (best known example: Nadaloludai, composed by Sri Thyagaraja - yet another of his little gems). In the movie, you see Prabhu playing it.
He plays a character named Guna, a talented musician and sax player, who forms part of a successful music duo with his brother Siva. Guna is overweight, and doesn't have much luck with women as a result, whereas Siva pretty much has them eating out of his hands. A minor early crisis causes them to move to a different city, where they begin their career afresh. Their life settles into a comfortable routine when love comes in the form of Anjali, a film choreographer who lives next door. She loves Guna's music, but thinks Siva is the one composing it. Things get a little heated when this truth is revealed, but before it can be resolved between the three of them, additional complications arrive in the form of Sirpi, a psychotic movie star with designs on Anjali. It all ends in a violent and senseless climax where all extra characters are bumped off and only the hero and heroine are left.
Crazy plot, and there's really no obvious reason why I should narrate it here. But now that you know this plot, go back and listen to the theme music and see how it is patterned - how it starts off slow, breaks for a moment when the waves crash against the rocks, starts again, settles into a rhythm, then picks up the pace, then begins to have more ominous notes sounding in the background, and ends with the waves crashing against the sea. When you think about it, this could have been pretty much any piece - most movies have random instrumental music playing over the opening titles - but KB showed here what he could do with it.
The entire story is told in flashback from Prabhu's point of view, and you realize, after watching it and harking back to its musical set pieces, that this was a man who used his sax as a narrative intrument. Listen to the interludes in En kaadhalae, and you see how he expresses his feelings - his frustration, his despair, his love - through his instrument. Amazing piece of work.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Strange chords #2: Paruvamae
Yet another gem from Ilaiyaraja, from the movie Nenjathai Killadhe. The picturization involves Mohan and Suhasini jogging together, and the song plays in the background. What's amazing is how much of the visualization has crept into the piece itself.
For one thing, the singers (SPB and Janaki) sound like they're shivering in the cold morning weather - their voices aren't strong and clear. Plus, there's the rhythm of footsteps to cover the jogging - it adds another layer.
But my favourite little addition comes in the second interlude: it fades in, then out slowly, as if the joggers just ran past a bunch of musicians playing the interlude. Again, this is one of the things Rajesh told me - I didn't notice it myself until he did. He called it the Doppler Effect song!
For one thing, the singers (SPB and Janaki) sound like they're shivering in the cold morning weather - their voices aren't strong and clear. Plus, there's the rhythm of footsteps to cover the jogging - it adds another layer.
But my favourite little addition comes in the second interlude: it fades in, then out slowly, as if the joggers just ran past a bunch of musicians playing the interlude. Again, this is one of the things Rajesh told me - I didn't notice it myself until he did. He called it the Doppler Effect song!
Passing the musical buck
Another sub-genre of film songs that I am very fond of is - for want of a better term - the relay race song. These are songs where one singer falters somewhere in the middle for whatever reason, and someone else picks up from where he/she left off and completes it. Here's my top three in that category:
3. Beeti na bitaye raina: Sung by Lata Mangeshkar and Bhupinder, from the movie Parichay. Jaya Bhaduri starts singing, falters, and Sanjeev Kumar steps in. Beautiful number - R. D. Burman at his very best.
2. Chinnanchiru vayathil: Sung by Janaki and K. J. Yesudas, in the movie Meendum Kokila. Sreedevi plays a young woman whom Kamal Hassan has come to "see" (a concept familiar to anyone who knows about the arranged marriage system). She is asked to sing a song, picks this one and promptly forgets the lyrics halfway through. Kamal steps in and finishes it. It's a beautiful song, and beyond just the musical qualities it possesses, Janaki manages to bring out the girl's shyness and embarassment, and her reaction to her husband-to-be singing the rest of the song, in a manner that very few other singers can even aspire to, let alone achieve. Okay, I admit, that wasn't a great sentence. Aw, heck, you know what I mean.
And finally, the Numero Uno in this category:
1. Dorakuna: S. P. Balasubramaniam and Vani Jayaram, from the movie Shankarabharanam. This album was one of the big reasons why I wanted to learn Carnatic classical music when I was a kid, and this song remains my all-time favourite. J. V. Somayajulu plays a great singer who has since faded into obscurity - this is supposed to be his comeback concert. Predictably, he collapses due to ill health right in the middle, and his disciple takes over his mantle, both symbolically and literally. The moment when Vani Jayaram continues where SPB left off after a coughing fit still gives me goosebumps.
3. Beeti na bitaye raina: Sung by Lata Mangeshkar and Bhupinder, from the movie Parichay. Jaya Bhaduri starts singing, falters, and Sanjeev Kumar steps in. Beautiful number - R. D. Burman at his very best.
2. Chinnanchiru vayathil: Sung by Janaki and K. J. Yesudas, in the movie Meendum Kokila. Sreedevi plays a young woman whom Kamal Hassan has come to "see" (a concept familiar to anyone who knows about the arranged marriage system). She is asked to sing a song, picks this one and promptly forgets the lyrics halfway through. Kamal steps in and finishes it. It's a beautiful song, and beyond just the musical qualities it possesses, Janaki manages to bring out the girl's shyness and embarassment, and her reaction to her husband-to-be singing the rest of the song, in a manner that very few other singers can even aspire to, let alone achieve. Okay, I admit, that wasn't a great sentence. Aw, heck, you know what I mean.
And finally, the Numero Uno in this category:
1. Dorakuna: S. P. Balasubramaniam and Vani Jayaram, from the movie Shankarabharanam. This album was one of the big reasons why I wanted to learn Carnatic classical music when I was a kid, and this song remains my all-time favourite. J. V. Somayajulu plays a great singer who has since faded into obscurity - this is supposed to be his comeback concert. Predictably, he collapses due to ill health right in the middle, and his disciple takes over his mantle, both symbolically and literally. The moment when Vani Jayaram continues where SPB left off after a coughing fit still gives me goosebumps.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Freeze Frame #23, #24: Salangai Oli / Saagara Sangamam
Salangai Oli was one of those movies that characterized the best of its era in South Indian cinema: individualistic, dramatic and comprising a clutch of bravura moments. It also happens to feature one of Kamal Hassan's greatest performances, as a classical dancer whose love for his art, and for one woman, are pretty much the only things that hold him together. Not surprisingly, the two most powerful scenes in the movie focus on these two aspects.
The opening scenes introduce Kamal as Balu, a dance critic and an alcoholic - he staggers into an auditorium where a young woman named Sailaja is giving a Bharatanatyam performance. Most people around him seem quite impressed with her performance; he, however, begs to differ and writes a column that suggests that the lady in question is inspired more by the primates she evolved from than the art itself. Infuriated by the solitary negative review, she and her boyfriend storm into the newspaper office to demand a retraction. And Kamal silences her by an impromptu performance of how she should have danced, in a number of classical dance forms. Sure, this sort of scene has been done before and since, and it will be done again a million times, but to me, Kamal's performance in that scene is the gold standard. The anger, the contempt of people who cannot understand or appreciate his art... I must have watched this movie a million times, but even today, that scene makes me want to stand up and cheer.
The other scene is comes in the final third of the movie, right at the end of the song Thakita Thadhimi. Yeah, the one where he gets drunk and dances on the parapet of a well. Jayapradha, the love of his life who he sent away with her now-dead husband, has tried to hide from him so far in the proceedings, but realizes that her appearance might be the only thing that stops him from killing himself. But since she wants her widowhood to remain a secret from him, she goes up, puts on some sindoor, and goes up to him to persuade him to step down from the wall. He sees her, steps down, realizes that the rain is washing away her sindoor, and puts a hand up to protect it. Nothing about that moment is anything less than obvious, but I find it quite affecting.
The opening scenes introduce Kamal as Balu, a dance critic and an alcoholic - he staggers into an auditorium where a young woman named Sailaja is giving a Bharatanatyam performance. Most people around him seem quite impressed with her performance; he, however, begs to differ and writes a column that suggests that the lady in question is inspired more by the primates she evolved from than the art itself. Infuriated by the solitary negative review, she and her boyfriend storm into the newspaper office to demand a retraction. And Kamal silences her by an impromptu performance of how she should have danced, in a number of classical dance forms. Sure, this sort of scene has been done before and since, and it will be done again a million times, but to me, Kamal's performance in that scene is the gold standard. The anger, the contempt of people who cannot understand or appreciate his art... I must have watched this movie a million times, but even today, that scene makes me want to stand up and cheer.
The other scene is comes in the final third of the movie, right at the end of the song Thakita Thadhimi. Yeah, the one where he gets drunk and dances on the parapet of a well. Jayapradha, the love of his life who he sent away with her now-dead husband, has tried to hide from him so far in the proceedings, but realizes that her appearance might be the only thing that stops him from killing himself. But since she wants her widowhood to remain a secret from him, she goes up, puts on some sindoor, and goes up to him to persuade him to step down from the wall. He sees her, steps down, realizes that the rain is washing away her sindoor, and puts a hand up to protect it. Nothing about that moment is anything less than obvious, but I find it quite affecting.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Pokkiri
The problem with Pokkiri, the new Vijay starrer, is simply this: it does too much. There's the story of how a young, ruthless killer named Thamizh rises up the ranks of the Chennai underworld. There's the love story between him and Asin, which gets interrupted, both literally and metaphorically, by bouts of violence. Then there's the story of the corrupt police officer who has his eyes on Asin. Plus, there's a comedy track with Vadivelu.
I realize that having these many threads is par for the course in many movies, but there are moments when the begins to feel a bit crowded. Plus, there are so many gangsters, most of whom look and talk the same way, that it's difficult to keep track.
These cribs apart, Pokkiri is an entertaining ride with all the masala ingredients one expects of a Vijay potboiler. The man does his shtick, Asin looks cute, the action scenes are well shot... basic paisa vasool, no complaints.
Vijay's performance here owes as much to Mahesh Babu as to his recent movies, in all of which he plays pretty much the same character. Mahesh Babu's performance in the Telugu original came across as a lot colder and ruthless (having seen one other of the man's movies, I am now given to understand that this is his default mode) - Vijay has brought that aspect to his performance here. However, the dialogue delivery - his strongest point - is not as good here. It's different from his usual, but in his attempt to convey more steel, he ends up sounding disinterested in some of the key scenes.
The thing that struck me most obviously while watching the movie was how risque some of the material was. There's a vamp who's got a crush on him, and her dialogues, actions and facial expressions are pretty blatant. And then there's a song at a club that has lyrics just this side of Penthouse Letters. Not that I'm complaining, mind you!
Nasser has one key scene towards the end, where his performance, though well-meaning, struck the wrong note for me. There was a quiet dignity to his character that was suppressed in gavour of rhetoric. Prakash Raj has moments of comedy mixed in with violence and general evil - effective at times. Livingston makes for an impressive cop, and has a scene where he takes the press to task that he does quite well. Vadivelu, who has in recent years made slapstick fashionable again, finds new ways of getting beaten up. His signature style seems to be an active sort of masochism, and it works for him.
For Prabhudeva, this looks like a safe bet to announce himself as a director to the Tamil film industry. The movie is a remake of a Telugu superhit, has a plot and character tailormade for Vijay, and doesn't disappoint on any major counts. Start counting the money - there's a good bit of it bound to flow in.
I realize that having these many threads is par for the course in many movies, but there are moments when the begins to feel a bit crowded. Plus, there are so many gangsters, most of whom look and talk the same way, that it's difficult to keep track.
These cribs apart, Pokkiri is an entertaining ride with all the masala ingredients one expects of a Vijay potboiler. The man does his shtick, Asin looks cute, the action scenes are well shot... basic paisa vasool, no complaints.
Vijay's performance here owes as much to Mahesh Babu as to his recent movies, in all of which he plays pretty much the same character. Mahesh Babu's performance in the Telugu original came across as a lot colder and ruthless (having seen one other of the man's movies, I am now given to understand that this is his default mode) - Vijay has brought that aspect to his performance here. However, the dialogue delivery - his strongest point - is not as good here. It's different from his usual, but in his attempt to convey more steel, he ends up sounding disinterested in some of the key scenes.
The thing that struck me most obviously while watching the movie was how risque some of the material was. There's a vamp who's got a crush on him, and her dialogues, actions and facial expressions are pretty blatant. And then there's a song at a club that has lyrics just this side of Penthouse Letters. Not that I'm complaining, mind you!
Nasser has one key scene towards the end, where his performance, though well-meaning, struck the wrong note for me. There was a quiet dignity to his character that was suppressed in gavour of rhetoric. Prakash Raj has moments of comedy mixed in with violence and general evil - effective at times. Livingston makes for an impressive cop, and has a scene where he takes the press to task that he does quite well. Vadivelu, who has in recent years made slapstick fashionable again, finds new ways of getting beaten up. His signature style seems to be an active sort of masochism, and it works for him.
For Prabhudeva, this looks like a safe bet to announce himself as a director to the Tamil film industry. The movie is a remake of a Telugu superhit, has a plot and character tailormade for Vijay, and doesn't disappoint on any major counts. Start counting the money - there's a good bit of it bound to flow in.
Friday, December 29, 2006
Conversational numbers
I spend a lot of time listening to movie music. The reason for this can be condensed to two words: Marathahalli Bridge. This is a little stretch in Bangalore on my way to work where I've spent a significant fraction of my adult life staring at the butt of the car before me. My only respite from this experience is the music I keep playing in the car - Tamil and Hindi film music, mostly.
I listen to and love so much of it that it's difficult to pick favourites off-hand. But a particular category that I'm quite fond of is conversational numbers - songs that involve some kind of dialogue between two or more characters. The song itself is in the form of a dialogue, and sometimes it also has actual dialogue interspersed in it. Somehow, I find these a lot more involving, and fun to listen to than the generic stuff. So here's my list of favourites in this category:
5. Jaane Kyon Log Pyaar Karte Hain, from Dil Chaahta Hai. Composed by Shankar-Ehsaan-Loy. Sung by . Picturized on Aamir Khan and Priety Zinta. Playful, romantic and cynical in equal measure. (I'm also tempted to include Pyaar mein sau uljhanein hain from Kyun... Ho Gaya Na! in this list, but it's not a conversational number, strictly speaking.)
4. Ghum Hai Kisi Ke Pyaar Mein, from Rampur Ka Laxman. Composed by R. D. Burman. Sung by Kishore Kumar and Lata Mangeshkar. Picturized on Randhir Kapoor and Rekha. This is pretty much the only sequence involving Randhir Kapoor that I can tolerate. The song is basically a vehicle for the two of them to tell each other how they feel. He goes first, but is shy and doesn't quite come out and say who he's talking about. She figures it's about her, and tells him she reciprocates.
3. Poongatru Thirumbumaa, from Mudhal Mariyadhai. Composed by Ilaiyaraja. Sung by Malaysia Vasudevan and S. Janaki. Picturized on Savaji Ganesan and Radha. The man is in a dejected mood and sings, almost to himself, of his loneliness. And hears a female voice singing in response, consoling him. One of the best duets I've ever heard.
2. Abhi Na Jaao Chodkar, from Hum Dono. Composed by Jaidev. Sung by Mohd. Rafi and Geeta Dutt. Picturized on Dev Anand and Sadhana. One of the best looking screen pairs of all time, and a sweet, romantic song where she wants to leave and he asks her to stay. It's a damn good song as it is, but the little touches, such as when Geeta Dutt sings Yeh hi kahoge tum sada / Ke dil abhi nahin bhara, and parodies Dev Anand in that line, or when Rafi brings a touch of gentle sarcasm when he says Bura na maano baat ka / Yeh pyaar hai gila nahin... that's what takes it from being a song to a dialogue between the lovers.
And my favourite song in this category, without doubt is...
1. Sippi Irukkudhu Muthum Irukkudhu from Varumaiyin Niram Sigappu. Composed by M. S. Viswanathan. Sung by SPB and Janaki. Picturized on Kamal Hassan and Sridevi. The song is basically a contest between the hero and the heroine - she composes a tune, and he comes up with lyrics to suit it. The exchange is playful, interesting from both a musical and lyrical standpoint, and absolutely magical.
I listen to and love so much of it that it's difficult to pick favourites off-hand. But a particular category that I'm quite fond of is conversational numbers - songs that involve some kind of dialogue between two or more characters. The song itself is in the form of a dialogue, and sometimes it also has actual dialogue interspersed in it. Somehow, I find these a lot more involving, and fun to listen to than the generic stuff. So here's my list of favourites in this category:
5. Jaane Kyon Log Pyaar Karte Hain, from Dil Chaahta Hai. Composed by Shankar-Ehsaan-Loy. Sung by . Picturized on Aamir Khan and Priety Zinta. Playful, romantic and cynical in equal measure. (I'm also tempted to include Pyaar mein sau uljhanein hain from Kyun... Ho Gaya Na! in this list, but it's not a conversational number, strictly speaking.)
4. Ghum Hai Kisi Ke Pyaar Mein, from Rampur Ka Laxman. Composed by R. D. Burman. Sung by Kishore Kumar and Lata Mangeshkar. Picturized on Randhir Kapoor and Rekha. This is pretty much the only sequence involving Randhir Kapoor that I can tolerate. The song is basically a vehicle for the two of them to tell each other how they feel. He goes first, but is shy and doesn't quite come out and say who he's talking about. She figures it's about her, and tells him she reciprocates.
3. Poongatru Thirumbumaa, from Mudhal Mariyadhai. Composed by Ilaiyaraja. Sung by Malaysia Vasudevan and S. Janaki. Picturized on Savaji Ganesan and Radha. The man is in a dejected mood and sings, almost to himself, of his loneliness. And hears a female voice singing in response, consoling him. One of the best duets I've ever heard.
2. Abhi Na Jaao Chodkar, from Hum Dono. Composed by Jaidev. Sung by Mohd. Rafi and Geeta Dutt. Picturized on Dev Anand and Sadhana. One of the best looking screen pairs of all time, and a sweet, romantic song where she wants to leave and he asks her to stay. It's a damn good song as it is, but the little touches, such as when Geeta Dutt sings Yeh hi kahoge tum sada / Ke dil abhi nahin bhara, and parodies Dev Anand in that line, or when Rafi brings a touch of gentle sarcasm when he says Bura na maano baat ka / Yeh pyaar hai gila nahin... that's what takes it from being a song to a dialogue between the lovers.
And my favourite song in this category, without doubt is...
1. Sippi Irukkudhu Muthum Irukkudhu from Varumaiyin Niram Sigappu. Composed by M. S. Viswanathan. Sung by SPB and Janaki. Picturized on Kamal Hassan and Sridevi. The song is basically a contest between the hero and the heroine - she composes a tune, and he comes up with lyrics to suit it. The exchange is playful, interesting from both a musical and lyrical standpoint, and absolutely magical.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Freeze Frame #22: Pithamagan
Pithamagan has one flaw: Laila is too loud to be credible. There, I've got that out of the way. Otherwise, this is pretty much a perfect movie. Heavy, hard-hitting, and comprising some incredible performances. So good that using anything less than superlatives to describe the performances of Vikram and Surya would be an insult.
The biggest insult of all came when Hrithik and SRK appeared on Karan Johar's Koffee with Karan and Hrithik spoke of how SRK told him that he deserved to win the National Award for Best Actor for his performance in Koi... Mil Gaya. This was the year in which Vikram won for Pithamagan. Sure, Hrithik did a great job in KMG, but that comment... If I killed SRK that night, I'd have played both movies in the courtroom in my defense and claimed justifiable homicide.
This is a movie where Vikram's performance does not have a single weak link - you don't see the actor at all. He plays Chiththan, a man who was orphaned when his mom died in a cremation ground during childbirth, and grew up there. This is a man who grew up in the company of death - he has no conception of grief, nor of happiness. His companions have been the dogs that roam the cremation ground, and his behavious comes from them. Watch how he runs, how he reacts to the situations around him, especially how he behaves in the end after he has killed the man who killed his best friend - this is no ordinary performance.
The standout moment, for me, comes when Surya and Vikram are involved in a fight inside the jail where they meet, and the policemen come to break it up. And just before the cops get to the scene of the fracas, Vikram gives his entire body a kind of shake, to get the dust off - the way dogs shake themselves off when they get wet. It's such an amazing action, it takes you totally by surprise. And if you did not see the dog analogy until then, you cannot miss it after that scene.
The biggest insult of all came when Hrithik and SRK appeared on Karan Johar's Koffee with Karan and Hrithik spoke of how SRK told him that he deserved to win the National Award for Best Actor for his performance in Koi... Mil Gaya. This was the year in which Vikram won for Pithamagan. Sure, Hrithik did a great job in KMG, but that comment... If I killed SRK that night, I'd have played both movies in the courtroom in my defense and claimed justifiable homicide.
This is a movie where Vikram's performance does not have a single weak link - you don't see the actor at all. He plays Chiththan, a man who was orphaned when his mom died in a cremation ground during childbirth, and grew up there. This is a man who grew up in the company of death - he has no conception of grief, nor of happiness. His companions have been the dogs that roam the cremation ground, and his behavious comes from them. Watch how he runs, how he reacts to the situations around him, especially how he behaves in the end after he has killed the man who killed his best friend - this is no ordinary performance.
The standout moment, for me, comes when Surya and Vikram are involved in a fight inside the jail where they meet, and the policemen come to break it up. And just before the cops get to the scene of the fracas, Vikram gives his entire body a kind of shake, to get the dust off - the way dogs shake themselves off when they get wet. It's such an amazing action, it takes you totally by surprise. And if you did not see the dog analogy until then, you cannot miss it after that scene.
Freeze Frame #21: Nanda
Nanda was Surya's breakout movie, the one that transformed him from a generic romantic hero to an actor of substance. A number of movies that came afterwards cemented that position - Kaakka Kaakka (the best cop drama in Tamil cinema bar none, in my opinion), Perazhagan (his most astounding performance to date), Pithamagan (stole nearly every scene he was in)... but Nanda was where it began.
The movie is about a boy who kills his abusive father as a kid when the guy is beating up his mom. The mom goes crazy, and believes that her son is a cold-blooded killer. The son goes to juvenile prison, and when he emerges, circumstances lead him to work as a henchman for the local bigwig (a towering performance by Raj Kiran). He's pretty good at what he does, and quickly moves up the ranks to become the Raj Kiran's right hand man. All the while, he attempts to reconcile with his mom, but all she seems to see of his is his violent side. Meanwhile, his ascent triggers the jealousy and insecurity of Raj Kiran's son. The consequences are obvious - son kills father, Nanda kills son. So far so good. But Bala has a slingshot ending up his sleeve - when Nanda comes home to eat before fleeing the town with his sweetheart (played by a surprisingly tolerable Laila), his mom poisons him, believing that her son is too much of a violent force to be let loose. Throughout the movie, we can see that she is a bit mad, but this is essentially where it all comes to a head. True, we've seen mothers kill wayward sons before (Mother India, Vaastav), but not like this. Not like this.
With a trio of offbeat movies of phenomenal power (Sethu, Nanda and Pithamagan), Bala has emerged as the K.Balachander of our time - if KB took Rajni and Kamal and made stars out of them, Bala has done that with Vikram and Surya. The difference, though, is that KB's product was relatively more mainstream. And he never hit this hard.
The movie is about a boy who kills his abusive father as a kid when the guy is beating up his mom. The mom goes crazy, and believes that her son is a cold-blooded killer. The son goes to juvenile prison, and when he emerges, circumstances lead him to work as a henchman for the local bigwig (a towering performance by Raj Kiran). He's pretty good at what he does, and quickly moves up the ranks to become the Raj Kiran's right hand man. All the while, he attempts to reconcile with his mom, but all she seems to see of his is his violent side. Meanwhile, his ascent triggers the jealousy and insecurity of Raj Kiran's son. The consequences are obvious - son kills father, Nanda kills son. So far so good. But Bala has a slingshot ending up his sleeve - when Nanda comes home to eat before fleeing the town with his sweetheart (played by a surprisingly tolerable Laila), his mom poisons him, believing that her son is too much of a violent force to be let loose. Throughout the movie, we can see that she is a bit mad, but this is essentially where it all comes to a head. True, we've seen mothers kill wayward sons before (Mother India, Vaastav), but not like this. Not like this.
With a trio of offbeat movies of phenomenal power (Sethu, Nanda and Pithamagan), Bala has emerged as the K.Balachander of our time - if KB took Rajni and Kamal and made stars out of them, Bala has done that with Vikram and Surya. The difference, though, is that KB's product was relatively more mainstream. And he never hit this hard.
Freeze Frame #20: 16 Vayathinilae
In an earlier post, I had spoken of my admiration of Bharathiraja, and how he wrote the rule book for village films with 16 Vayathinilae. That movie, more than any others I have seen that came before it, brought that milieu to life. Somehow, earlier movies never really got their hands dirty while making a movie about the heat and dust of rural Tamil Nadu - there seemed to be some distance between the makers and their subject. That went away with this movie. In its own way, I think 16 Vayathinilae did to the village film in Tamil cinema, what Marlon Brando's portrayal of Stanley Kowalski in A Streetcar Named Desire did to acting in Hollywood.
For me, the defining moment in that movie was right at the beginning, during the title sequence. The movie did something that I had never seen before: it showed each of the main characters and did a freeze frame while the name appeared on screen, but the name shown was not that of the actor, but that of the character. This doesn't seem like much now, considering how often this has been done in the movies. But to me, this was essentially what made me sit up and watch the film with a lot more interest than I would otherwise have had.
For me, the defining moment in that movie was right at the beginning, during the title sequence. The movie did something that I had never seen before: it showed each of the main characters and did a freeze frame while the name appeared on screen, but the name shown was not that of the actor, but that of the character. This doesn't seem like much now, considering how often this has been done in the movies. But to me, this was essentially what made me sit up and watch the film with a lot more interest than I would otherwise have had.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Freeze Frame #16 & #17: Iruvar
My favourite Mani Rathnam movie of all time. Yes, even more than Mouna Raagam, Nayakan or the movie I just raved about in an earlier post - Kannathil Muthamittal. I can't quite explain why.
Iruvar is the story of two men, both destined to shape the future of Tamil Nadu politics. One is an actor, the other a writer. They start out as friends, then become comrades in the political arena, then rivals, then just a couple of old men with a lot of baggage but not enough energy to carry it anymore.
Two larger than life protagonists, both played by great actors. A story whose broad outlines most Tamilians with a grasp of recent history can recognize. Little wonder that the women don't have too much to do. Yet, my two favourite scenes in the movie both involve the women.
1. Tabu plays Senthamarai, a school teacher in a village in Tamil Nadu who catches the eye of Thamizhselvam (Prakash Raj in the Karunanidhi role) when he is at a protest rally. He writes to her and asks her to come to him. And she does. He is a married man, and the concept of a divorce is not only alien to the culture of that time, but would also mean political suicide. She asks him, "Who am I here? What is my position?" And he replies, "My darling. My lover. My friend." He explains with his eyes what that list does not contain, and why it can never contain it. She processes this, ponders for a moment and smiles, eyes shining with unshed tears.
The next scene shows the couple on the floor on the bedroom after their coupling, while the lines Unnodu naan vaazhntha ovvoru maniththuliyum, maranappadukkaiyilum marakkathu kanmaniye (Every moment I have lived with you, I will never forget to my dying breath) are uttered in the background. It's a beautiful poem, very well rendered, quite poignant. But I think it would've been far less powerful, had it not been preceded by that sublime moment between Prakash Raj and Tabu.
2. After he becomes the chief minister, on the way home, Selvam changes his mind midway and asks his driver to direct the car to Senthamarai's place. One of his aides calls up his house to inform his wife Maragatham (played by Revathy) of the change in plans. She is in the middle of some housework when the call comes. You don't hear what is said - you just see her face. She listens, her face falls for a moment, then with a resigned look, she goes back to her housework. Revathy has about 10 minutes of screen time in a three hour movie. Most of it is nondescript. But in that one moment, without a single line of dialogue, she captures the essence of her character.
Iruvar is the story of two men, both destined to shape the future of Tamil Nadu politics. One is an actor, the other a writer. They start out as friends, then become comrades in the political arena, then rivals, then just a couple of old men with a lot of baggage but not enough energy to carry it anymore.
Two larger than life protagonists, both played by great actors. A story whose broad outlines most Tamilians with a grasp of recent history can recognize. Little wonder that the women don't have too much to do. Yet, my two favourite scenes in the movie both involve the women.
1. Tabu plays Senthamarai, a school teacher in a village in Tamil Nadu who catches the eye of Thamizhselvam (Prakash Raj in the Karunanidhi role) when he is at a protest rally. He writes to her and asks her to come to him. And she does. He is a married man, and the concept of a divorce is not only alien to the culture of that time, but would also mean political suicide. She asks him, "Who am I here? What is my position?" And he replies, "My darling. My lover. My friend." He explains with his eyes what that list does not contain, and why it can never contain it. She processes this, ponders for a moment and smiles, eyes shining with unshed tears.
The next scene shows the couple on the floor on the bedroom after their coupling, while the lines Unnodu naan vaazhntha ovvoru maniththuliyum, maranappadukkaiyilum marakkathu kanmaniye (Every moment I have lived with you, I will never forget to my dying breath) are uttered in the background. It's a beautiful poem, very well rendered, quite poignant. But I think it would've been far less powerful, had it not been preceded by that sublime moment between Prakash Raj and Tabu.
2. After he becomes the chief minister, on the way home, Selvam changes his mind midway and asks his driver to direct the car to Senthamarai's place. One of his aides calls up his house to inform his wife Maragatham (played by Revathy) of the change in plans. She is in the middle of some housework when the call comes. You don't hear what is said - you just see her face. She listens, her face falls for a moment, then with a resigned look, she goes back to her housework. Revathy has about 10 minutes of screen time in a three hour movie. Most of it is nondescript. But in that one moment, without a single line of dialogue, she captures the essence of her character.
Freeze Frame #13, #14, #15: Kannathil Muthamittal
One of the recurring themes in Mani Rathnam's movies is that of an individual or a family caught in a social maelstrom. Kannathil Muthamittal is one such, depicting a little girl's search for her biological mother in civil war-ravaged Sri Lanka. For the most part, the movie is, I think, pitch perfect. It overdoes it right at the very end, and it's kind of a glaring flaw, but I'm inclined to forgive that - to paraphrase what Einstein once said t Wheeler, he has earned the right to be wrong occasionally.
Three scenes stand out in my opinion. The first is well-known and quite often mentioned by reviewers. The second is not often mentioned, I think. And the third is the big payoff.
1. There's a scene where a village is being evacuated before the Sri Lankan air force bombs the place. An amazing song - Vidai Kodu Engal Naade - plays in the background. (Amazing how A. R. Rehman picks an unconventional but absolutely perfect voice to render some of his songs - this one is by M. S. Viswanathan, and simply blows me away every time I hear it.) The standout moment involves the old temple priest in the village who refuses to leave the place he has lived in all his life. You see him standing there, defiantly ringing the temple bell as the bombs explode all around him. Poetic.
2. Right at the end, the girl Amudha finally gets her wish - she meets her biological mother Shyama. And she asks her, "Why did you leave me? Why did you never come to see me?"
Shyama had gone back to Sri Lanka soon after giving birth to her in Rameswaram over ten years ago, and joined the ranks of the LTTE. Her husband is dead, she has probably seen many of her comrades, friends and family members die during these years, and has trained herself to concentrate single-mindedly on her chosen purpose. This unexpected meeting with her child, and that question, leaves her sandbagged.
She pauses for a moment, and simply says "Tarunam appadi." (Loosely translated, "The circumstances were such.") It is a testament to Nandita Das' acting, and to Mani Rathnam's skill, that those two words are all we need.
3. This one involves Simran. For years, her function in the movies was to look pretty, and she did that admirably. The sole blip on the radar was Vaali, and I felt even that performance was overrated. When I watched Kannathil Muthamittal for the first time, I noticed the performances of Keerthana, who plays Amudha, and Nandita Das, who has about 10 minutes of screen time and uses it exceptionally well.
The second time around, I concentrated on Simran. Hers is an interesting role: she plays Indira, Amudha's adoptive mother who, along with her husband, searches for her daughter's biological parent. She never really verbalizes it, but there's a feeling of insecurity that comes with that search. It comes out in little ways, like when she has little fights with her daughter. And watch how she winces almost imperceptibly every time her daughter mentions that they're in Sri Lanka to look for her "real mother". (That's why I've been using the word "biological" ad nauseam, by the way.)
Right at the end of the movie, when Shyama is walking away after the big meeting, Amudha turns and gives Indira a big kiss on the cheek. To the girl, it's probably just a way od saying thank you, for helping her find her mother. But to Indira, it means so much more, and you see her face light up.
When I watched the movie for the first time, this moment didn't do anything for me. But on the second viewing, I was concentrating on Indira, and Simran did such a great job of conveying the character's inner turmoil while staying mostly in the background, that the last kiss totally made my day.
I realized then that the movie was not about the girl, or about her search, or about the Sri Lankan conflict. All that is just the backdrop for Indira's story. And the title of the movie (translated to "she kissed me on the cheek") wasn't trivial - Mani was trying to tell you what he was trying to do, and what to look for.
Three scenes stand out in my opinion. The first is well-known and quite often mentioned by reviewers. The second is not often mentioned, I think. And the third is the big payoff.
1. There's a scene where a village is being evacuated before the Sri Lankan air force bombs the place. An amazing song - Vidai Kodu Engal Naade - plays in the background. (Amazing how A. R. Rehman picks an unconventional but absolutely perfect voice to render some of his songs - this one is by M. S. Viswanathan, and simply blows me away every time I hear it.) The standout moment involves the old temple priest in the village who refuses to leave the place he has lived in all his life. You see him standing there, defiantly ringing the temple bell as the bombs explode all around him. Poetic.
2. Right at the end, the girl Amudha finally gets her wish - she meets her biological mother Shyama. And she asks her, "Why did you leave me? Why did you never come to see me?"
Shyama had gone back to Sri Lanka soon after giving birth to her in Rameswaram over ten years ago, and joined the ranks of the LTTE. Her husband is dead, she has probably seen many of her comrades, friends and family members die during these years, and has trained herself to concentrate single-mindedly on her chosen purpose. This unexpected meeting with her child, and that question, leaves her sandbagged.
She pauses for a moment, and simply says "Tarunam appadi." (Loosely translated, "The circumstances were such.") It is a testament to Nandita Das' acting, and to Mani Rathnam's skill, that those two words are all we need.
3. This one involves Simran. For years, her function in the movies was to look pretty, and she did that admirably. The sole blip on the radar was Vaali, and I felt even that performance was overrated. When I watched Kannathil Muthamittal for the first time, I noticed the performances of Keerthana, who plays Amudha, and Nandita Das, who has about 10 minutes of screen time and uses it exceptionally well.
The second time around, I concentrated on Simran. Hers is an interesting role: she plays Indira, Amudha's adoptive mother who, along with her husband, searches for her daughter's biological parent. She never really verbalizes it, but there's a feeling of insecurity that comes with that search. It comes out in little ways, like when she has little fights with her daughter. And watch how she winces almost imperceptibly every time her daughter mentions that they're in Sri Lanka to look for her "real mother". (That's why I've been using the word "biological" ad nauseam, by the way.)
Right at the end of the movie, when Shyama is walking away after the big meeting, Amudha turns and gives Indira a big kiss on the cheek. To the girl, it's probably just a way od saying thank you, for helping her find her mother. But to Indira, it means so much more, and you see her face light up.
When I watched the movie for the first time, this moment didn't do anything for me. But on the second viewing, I was concentrating on Indira, and Simran did such a great job of conveying the character's inner turmoil while staying mostly in the background, that the last kiss totally made my day.
I realized then that the movie was not about the girl, or about her search, or about the Sri Lankan conflict. All that is just the backdrop for Indira's story. And the title of the movie (translated to "she kissed me on the cheek") wasn't trivial - Mani was trying to tell you what he was trying to do, and what to look for.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Freeze Frame #3: Mudhal Mariyadhai
I consider Bharathiraja to be one of the finest directors Tamil cinema has seen. Sure, he can be quite melodramatic, and there are times when he doesn't know where to stop, but consider what he has managed to do. After 16 Vayathinilae, the village film would never be the same again. Movies that came after it simply followed the rule book that he wrote.
My favourite scene from his movies is from Mudhal Mariyadhai. The plot involves a middle aged man (Sivaji Ganesan in one of his great performances) and his relationship with a young woman (Radha). The man is married to an absolute harridan (Vadivukkarasi), and his friendship
with the younger woman is what sustains his soul. On one occasion, when his wife is on yet another of her rants, he loses it and talks about what a slut she was when she was young, and how he married her when she got pregnant by someone else, simply because her father begged him to help save face. At the face of it, it is simply a scene that allows him to lash out at a woman who has been making his life miserable for so long, but it sets up a later scene of poetic simplicity and power.
One morning, the village is abuzz with the news that the young woman has killed a man. The man, his wife, and many others get to the edge of the river where the body lies, covered by a cloth. The young woman stands there, mute; she has refused to offer any explanation for her actions. It begins to drizzle, and just at that moment, a gust of wind blows away the cloth covering the dead man. And Bharathiraja doesn't stay on the man's face but cut's to the wife's expression. As you see the shock and comprehension in her eyes, and the sudden unbidden tears, the rain slowly wipes off the sindoor from her forehead. And you realize, without anything having to be told, who the dead man was, and why the woman must have killed him.
My favourite scene from his movies is from Mudhal Mariyadhai. The plot involves a middle aged man (Sivaji Ganesan in one of his great performances) and his relationship with a young woman (Radha). The man is married to an absolute harridan (Vadivukkarasi), and his friendship
with the younger woman is what sustains his soul. On one occasion, when his wife is on yet another of her rants, he loses it and talks about what a slut she was when she was young, and how he married her when she got pregnant by someone else, simply because her father begged him to help save face. At the face of it, it is simply a scene that allows him to lash out at a woman who has been making his life miserable for so long, but it sets up a later scene of poetic simplicity and power.
One morning, the village is abuzz with the news that the young woman has killed a man. The man, his wife, and many others get to the edge of the river where the body lies, covered by a cloth. The young woman stands there, mute; she has refused to offer any explanation for her actions. It begins to drizzle, and just at that moment, a gust of wind blows away the cloth covering the dead man. And Bharathiraja doesn't stay on the man's face but cut's to the wife's expression. As you see the shock and comprehension in her eyes, and the sudden unbidden tears, the rain slowly wipes off the sindoor from her forehead. And you realize, without anything having to be told, who the dead man was, and why the woman must have killed him.
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