Trials of a Kamalian
12 Dec 2011 Leave a Comment
in Movie Reviews (Tamil), Oh My God!, Tamil Cinema Tags: Dasavatharam, Desi Pages, Kamal Haasan
[Originally published in Fun Asia's Desi Pages, immediately post the release of Kamal Haasan's Dasavatharam. Now, you know.]
Dasavatharam. The most eagerly awaited movie of the year. With all the hype surrounding it for weeks, the Kamal-starrer was the reigning champ of the Tamil Film Industry for months. Every passing week saw some news about its director, actors, producers and technicians in every daily, weekly, monthly and the Internet. After Rajnikanth’s mega-hit Sivaji last year, Kamal’s fans, also known as Kamalians, were keen on making sure that their icon’s movie also did well, if not better. With the movie having been in production for more than two years, everyone needed news to focus on the movie of the year. And when, finally, the movie’s release dates were announced as some date in the later weeks of May, the scramble for tickets and show times began.
Predictably, the web-sites were the first to pick up on the frenzy. Every site was running competitions, pick-me-ups and novel ways to win tickets for the first day, first show. It was public knowledge that the average movie-goer had no hope in hell of watching the movie the day it released, or even a couple of days later – but what of the rabid Kamal fans who really, really wanted to watch their beloved star on the silver screen, dazzling his devoted followers after such a long break? Everyone knew that a self-respecting Kamalian didn’t really wait until the movie had had its run in the cinema halls. What was the point of watching the movie at all, if you couldn’t manage to grab a seat by the skin of your teeth for the first show, and watching it with the rest of the hungry hordes?
Which meant that you couldn’t really allow yourself to sit on your haunches and wait for whenever the floodgates opened and the rushing torrents slowed to a trickle – unless, by some miracle of fate, you managed to worm your way into a press show, and which would ideally be a way of sticking out your tongue at the other, poor things who couldn’t manage entry. But this was a plus only if the press show actually happened before the first show, or at least on the first day – there was no point in jostling for seats, even if you could get them, with a bunch of journalists a week after the euphoria ended.
Thus ruminated one Kamalian.
Rabid fan K, who has watched all of Kamal’s movies 20 times – even Aalavandhan – was now keen on giving Dasavatharam the same treatment. K, living in, say, Chennai, maybe a fanatic, but he was a working man, and had neither the time nor the inclination to become the member of fan clubs/associations and the like. On the other hand, he had a moral responsibility to himself and his star, to get there before anyone else. Which meant that his personal countdown started from the time the movie’s release dates were announced, and promptly got him tied up in knots about how to go about it.
Had K been connected to some movie family, or the industry, or even some press organization that might arrange something for its members, he might have had a battling chance, but there again, that which made K so valuable as a fan – his ordinariness – was now his worst enemy. In this terrible sycophantic war, he wasn’t even valid as a pawn. So. He had to don the armour of a warrior, and wade into battle. A battle that was as important, and involved as many strategies and tactic as any self-respecting war.
The first step, obviously, was to scout all ticket avenues. His own friends were as ordinary as he; he knew no bigwigs who would ask him as an honoured guest. As each newspaper carried tales of Dasavatharam’s greatness, he scanned websites like www.bookmyshow.com, which asserted itself as Bookings Ka Baap, promising seats weeks in advance of anyone else. He booked tickets for himself. He went to www.galatta.com where he answered three questions which promised the first show’s tickets as the first prize. Not content with this, he pored over magazines, articles, both online and offline. Free hours were spent in fantasizing about Kamal’s 10 avataars, and speculation about what they might be. How did Rangarajan Nambi connect with the Daler Mehndi look-alike? What were Asin’s two roles? Where would the song Ulaganayagane – his favourite – be featured, in the film? Would K S Ravikumar perform his usual magic? Would the tsunami scenes by Brian Jennings be really spectacular?
He sighed, and devoted himself to reading about the problems faced by the producer, Aascar Ravichandran. Aside from forcing a name change, a Vaishnavite group had filed a case against him. The release dates had been postponed. He groaned with disappointment. He checked the websites of Sathyam, Sangam, Woodlands and Inox theatres – with his work schedule, they were the only ones that permitted easy online booking – none of them featured the show timings, though regular ads and trailers had started appearing. He watched the mesmerizing scenes of past and present, hoping against hope that he would be able to watch the first show.
June appeared, the first week passed; the release had been postponed again, because of lack of number of prints, said the producer. Excitement mounted in K – when would the bookings open? He briefly considered the idea of standing in the long queue outside the theatre, and discarded it.
On Sunday morning, the 8th of June, disaster struck.
His friend called him up at 8 AM, spouting a garbled message. The only words he could make out were “Dasavatharam” and “bookings.” Then he sat bolt upright. They must have opened bookings in the theatres! Feverishly, he booted his computer, brushing bleary eyes. Logging onto the theatre’s sites, his eyes spied the unbelievable: Dasavatharam in bold green letters. He clicked on the dates and discovered the dreaded red rectangle around the movie. Every single show, starting from 7.15 AM, was booked out.
This was terrible. As a Kamalian, he really could not afford to wait until a week later, when bookings might clear. No, he had to watch the movie at 7.15 AM on the 13th of June, or life wasn’t worth living.
That week was a nightmare. At work, he refreshed the browser window every few seconds, hoping against hope that someone might have cancelled their tickets, leaving him with an opening. He cursed the fan club fanatics who had obviously deposited themselves in droves at the theatre, booking seats in hundreds. How could isolated Kamalians like him hope to watch the movie? He called up Sathyam’s theatre manager, passing himself off as a movie critic. This didn’t earn him any brownie points – she promised to “see if there were tickets,” but that was it. He called up Inox and the pre-booking sites. The latter washed their hands of him, while the theatre said that customers who came in person got the first preference. Who cared about customers who pre-booked?
By June 11, he was desperate. One of his “industry” friends had informed him of a press show on June 13 – but there was no guarantee he would be allowed in. He managed to wheedle the name and number of the PRO for the movie, and called him in desperation. Asked which magazine he represented, K fumbled. He was a fan, a great fan, he declared. A moment later, the line went dead. His friend later called up and admonished him for having tried to abuse his friendship. “If you’re not connected with the press, don’t even bother.”
“So no one who’s unconnected to the press ever watches a press show?”
The line went dead again.
June 12. He was sure he would never be able to watch his star’s movie, the first show. Despair filled him. He had just left work. There was no more time to check websites or check with friends. Wearily, he cruised randomly to the Abhirami Theatre. The place was filled with posters, and he watched mesmerized as a crowd of people burst crackers. One group was pouring a pitcher of milk enthusiastically over the star’s cut-out. Shouts rent the air. Almost inspite of himself, his feet took him there. Someone caught him by the arm. “Are you a member of the Club?” He tried to shake his head, but the man wouldn’t take No for an answer. He found himself in the midst of a roaring crowd. Worried, he wondered where they might be going. The group surged into the theatre, up the stairs, and carried him inside the cinema hall.
It was a special screening of Dasavatharam, for the star’s fans. The day before the movie officially released.
Ye Gods. He couldn’t believe his luck. His star had smiled at him from the heavens.
His heart soared as he watched the first section – Kamal as Rangarajan Nambi, standing up against Kulothunga the Second, chained to the statue of Govinda Raja, and being thrown into the sea. His eyes filled with tears. The crowd roared its approval. Bits of paper and whistles cut the air. Then, as the screenplay veered towards the scientists’ portion, he sat up. This part was a little difficult to follow. Asin was beautiful, even if she did yell “Perumale!” too many times. The RAW agent made him laugh out loud, but the constant running and chasing left him a little jaded. He whistled whenever the activist Vincent Poovaraghan, with his peculiar accent, came onscreen. The assassin Christian Fletcher, who chased Scientist Kamal didn’t impress him much, though. His face looked too plastic. So did George Bush. K might be a die-hard Kamalian, but he could recognize a loose screenplay when he saw it. Still, his loyalty and Kamal’s undeniable histrionics made him watch the movie right upto the tsunami climax – which, rather disappointingly, didn’t match up to his special-effects expectations at all. Dasavatharam might have been hyped – but it came nowhere near a Devar Magan or Virumaandi.
Still. He had caught the first show – and seen the Universal hero in action. That magic, the sheer aura of something special that belonged only to a first show, had infected him. Dasavatharam might not be the best of Kamal Haasan’s work – but he was prepared to let the actor’s talent overshadow the pitfalls.
He was, after all, a Kamalian.
