“I love filmmaking, and I love the process. And I would rather do nothing else. It’s a privilege to be able to paint such big pictures, so to speak.”

~ Bryan Singer

At Amethyst, one of Chennai’s more exclusive restaurants, the scene is controlled chaos. Waiters pass by reverently among palm-fronds and potted plants outside, even as guests hobnob with celebrities, rubbing away absent-mindedly at mosquito bites. Inside, under the soft lighting and ethnic furniture, we wait patiently for the man of the moment: Gautam Vasudev Menon.

Undoubtedly, he’s the hero of the marquee: he’s just delivered a stupendous hit in both Tamil and Telugu. Vinnaithaandi Varuvaayaa is the love story of today complete with lingo, aspirations and characters of 2010, while Ye Maaya Chesave is creating similar magic in Andhra Pradesh. In a time where the box-office doesn’t take a hundred days, but just three, Menon’s movie has been going strong for days – and the best of all publicity tactics, Word-of-Mouth, is doing wonders for the movie.

The story is no different – it’s not so much as old wine in a new bottle as sparkling cola in a swanky, flashy mug. Billed a “Different love story. Again,” its chief attraction, aside from the lead pair themselves and a great crew, happens to be the warm and realistic men
and women portrayed. Yes, there are several beautiful numbers by Madras’s Mozart A R Rahman, no less, topping the charts – but it’s the feel of the movie, like sticking a camera into a into a couple’s life, that makes it so appealing.

More such ruminations later, Gautam Menon’s man-Friday appears first, heralding his arrival – and then the director arrives, pausing to accept congratulations by the dozen.

Talking to Gautam Menon is like conversing with spitfire – you have no idea what he’s going to come up with next, or which topic he’s going to tackle. The subject revolves, naturally, around VTV’s commercial and critical success, various reviews and the way the
climax differed in both Tamil and Telugu versions.

“I even shot the break-up differently,” he explains, hands waving in his eagerness to describe the shoot. “If you notice, I shot it continuously for the Telugu version because both actors are pretty new. But for Tamil, I could afford to break it up, because both stars
are capable of carrying on where we leave off.”

End of impromptu conversation, and we’re a go for the real interview. What does it feel like, now that the entire crew is down from VTV’s high?

“Actually, I’m still on a high,” Gautam gives a quick grin. “It was a long project, with a lot of painstaking work – and the results are finally out. Frankly, it’s amazing. People love it, the casting, the characters, songs …”

Has he ever gone online since the release to find out the veiwers’ verdict? A good number of bloggers and online users have fallen in love with the film and are posting enthusiastic reviews. A satisfied smile widens on Gautam’s face, an expression that appears often during the conversation.

“I’m not very into those things,” he says much to our amazement. “But I’m glad to know that they like it so much. So much public frenzy for this film is unheard off!”

Doubtless, the unpredictable casting had a good deal to do with it. How did he zero in on Trisha and Silambarasan for his lead pair – two actors who are known for their mainstream aura and completely commercial work, for what is rather an off-the-cuff film?

“It was a casting coupe, yes,” Gautam agrees. “The truth is, it was a completely business decision. I knew that if I cast Simbhu, I’d be going against a lot of pre-conceived ideas, and it was the same with Trisha,” he says bluntly. “But my instincts were correct; they
both did an excellent job. Whether it was dances, romantic or fight scenes, we had nothing in the way of elaborate rehearsals – they completed it in one shot.”

Of course, the best part of VTV is the characterization: Simbhu plays Karthik, crazily in love with his neighbour, while Trisha is Jessie, a Malayali Christian, practical, cool – and yet, filled with the fire of longing and love. Didn’t Gautam receive a lot of flak for portraying their scenes together in a rather lustful way? Indian cinema, after all, shies away from showing the physical aspect of any romantic relationship.

“I’m completely aware of the double standards adopted here – and I accept it.” Here comes the grin again. “But tell me – what part of romance doesn’t involve a physical aspect? Touch is important; there has to be touch, between lovers.”

A dialogue in the movie actually has Simbhu telling Jessie that he wants to “make love to her all the time.”

“Love-making is an essential part of romance – but I’ve shown it in a very tasteful way. Simbhu actually touches Trisha’s feet in the movie, if you notice. In the beginning, he’s hesitant, but after they accept their love, he does it with more confidence.”

What about the French kisses, though, peppered liberally throughout the movie?

“Oh come on,” Gautam guffaws, but there’s a faint frown on his brow, “of course there are going to be kisses between lovers!”

Considering the amount of realism in the movie – was this love story inspired from life? “Every film-maker inserts some part of himself into his movies,” admits Gautam. “I won’t say VTV is from my life, though. It’s a realistic take on today’s relationships.”

He elaborates on the theme, though, touching n his own life. “My wife and I were friends before we married, and she told me that she knew she was going to marry me the second we met,” he chuckles. “I didn’t feel any such thing – in fact, I was involved with someone else – but it was twelve years before I finally realized where my relationship with my future wife was headed. All it takes is a spark, really – and everything suddenly falls into place.”

A spark is all it takes for Simbhu’s Karthik to fall in love with a demurely saree-clad Jessie, a programme analyst with Polaris – and incidentally, a year older to him, in the movie. Nalini Sriram’s simple sarees and salwar-kameezes are a big part of Jessie’s classy, grown-up appeal; how did Gautam decided on her wardrobe, considering mainstream cinema’s mad dash after glitzy modern-wear?

“I and my assistants did a very thorough research on the dresses worn by a young woman working in a software company,” he says seriously. “We’d wait in the bus-stops around Chennai, photographing or recording the outfits of girls who worked in such companies
and then look into their attire. A majority of them wore salwar-kameezes like the ones Trisha wears in the movie. Malayali Christians, in particular, go in a lot for sarees.”

Interruptions galore, as actress Radhika comes over to congratulate Gautam, and we continue a few minutes later.

VTV might be a simple love-story, but what makes it so different are the confrontations between Karthik and Jessie – leading to criticism that Jessie’s character is confusing. What woman, some ask, is this muddled about her decisions?

“Haven’t you seen women like this?” Gautam asks, in turn. “I have. There are people like Jessie who want one thing but battle with their hearts to come to a decision. I’ve also seen men like Karthik who fall crazily in love. Ever since the movie released, so many people
have called to tell me that this is exactly their story. That they’ve fallen in love with a woman like Jessie, yelled in front of her home, thrown down their cell-phone … its life.”

Fair enough. But must they speak so much in English? Among the so-called mass audiences, this is a common complaint about Gautam’s movies.

“Don’t watch the film, then.” The answer is sharp. “I’m not forcing anyone to. Did you like Theeratha Vilayattu Pillai?” he mentions the Vishal movie. “Or Yogi? If that was the kind of earthy, rustic movie everyone wanted, they’d have watched it. They needn’t go
for this one.”

What did he think of Subramaniapuram, then, the trend-setter that re-wrote the rural milieu in Tamil cinema?

“I liked it,” he admits with a shrug. “I even called Sasi Kumar to say so.”

Gautam is, however, aware of his penchant for English – he’s inserted a couple of in-jokes about it in the film itself. The director insists, though, he’s completely home-grown, and thinks only in Tamizh. “I studied engineering in a place called Kalamavoor, between
Trichy and Pudukottai. Believe me, in our group of 20, only three spoke good English. Years later, I see them in foreign countries, heading companies, speaking English and wearing suits. I’m amazed at the transition. This is the real world.”

His own transition into the Tamil film world was slow and steady. He started out as Gautam, then became Gautam Menon – now, he’s Gautam Vasudev Menon.

“When I made my entry onto films, the producer felt that my surname might keep the audience from accepting me,” Gautam says candidly. “I’ve never had any reservations about using my full name, though.” His initials even appear on a prop-ship in one f the
song sequences – a joke played, reportedly, by art director Rajeevan.

Back to VTV – there are a couple of references to actor Ajith as well. What about the buzz surrounding his upcoming project with the actor?

“I’m still working on the script,” Gautam clarifies. “Ajith wanted some time as he’s going in for a racing championship for the next few months.” He does divulge that the working title for one particular script he’s mulling over is Thuppariyum Anand, a story set in Madras in the 1920s. Things are still very tentative, though, and the latest buzz is that he’s signed with Simbhu again.

Ganesh, one of the producers passes by, and conversation turns to him. The man plays a cinematographer who’s Simbhu’s friend, and incidentally, has walked away with plenty of applause.

“Ganesh was a genuine find,” Gautam’s face relaxes as he fields a dozens texts and calls on his phone. “We’ve been friends for a long time and initially, we thought we’d be the only ones to appreciate his brand of humour – but his off-beat comments in the movie
have become a hit,” he laughs.

It’s been an eventful ten years from his first film, Minnale. How has the ride been?

Gautam turns thoughtful. “I knew I wanted to be a film-maker even when I was studying. The first time I saw Nayagan – I was struck dumb. I worked for some time selling Auto-cad in Wipro – but I spent half a day at least, watching movies. I knew then, what I had
to do. I joined director Rajeev Menon as his assistant – and that was it. I’ve never looked back since.”

His friends surround him in earnest – and we leave him to enjoy the congratulations all over again; a just reward.

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 8^th 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 13^th 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.

By the way – it’s not all, “Oh my god, mind-blowing stuff.” More like a collection of tidbits. You’ve been warned.

What I Found: 

Weeble-Wobble:  A sort of wobbly kids’ toy that’s a little like our Thanjavur Thalaiyatti Bommai. Except that it wobbles as a whole.

It looks like:

Where I Found It:

“Sam can’t get up for the next three days without looking like a weeble-wobble.”

From the hugely talented K Hanna Korossy’s Supernatural Fanfic, Spiraling.

Each question has multiple options. Choose the option that suits you and your reaction best At the end, calculate your score and weep. Or whatever.

For the purposes of this survey, we’ll do away with the Kalanithi/Sun Pictures/Cloud Nine segments, title-card sequence, which includes the whole millions-of-Ajith-pics coalescing into one grand GRT Thangamaligai gold coin which reads Thala 50, because face it, we all know everyone screamed hoarse at the sight of it, fan or no. (I did.)

Also, please understand that I mean no disrespect, to any kind of fan. I’m a star-movie junkie myself. And I get it. This is just a bit of fun. If you think you might be offended, you may stop reading at this point.

Also, long post. Seriously. And Capital Letters. And irreverence.

Now, on to the endurance test:

1. When you saw the totally awesome-sauce introduction which featured our Thala hurtling through the air into the desert on a souped-up four-wheeler and crashing onto the sands with an ear-shattering shriek and then getting out with a swagger and crash-banging background music, you:

a. Stand up on the seats/dance on balustrade/run up and down aisle like a mad gorilla and shout “THALA da!” while simultaneously yelling at your neighbours/friends/fan-club cohorts, “What is this da, machi? This is only intro-va?” Because, you know, a four-wheeler smashing through the air and onto earth and then Thala getting down is, like, the tamest intro ever. What Venkat Prabhu should have done is to launch Ajith in a rocket into space and have him explode out of it in a shower of sparks, and then descend to earth waving his hands benignly, bring the rocket down safe and also save 2000 people from a random tsunami in Japan, while hot alien girls give him a wonderful police-cape. Because that’s the level of earth-shattering intro Ajith deserves. Or at least a water cannon.

b. Stand up on the seats/dance on balustrade/run up and down aisle madly, scatter torn up paper at the screen and yelled “THALA da!” even as you hug fellow-fans who are shattering the roof with whistles and cheers. Tears stream down your cheeks because you are floating in a level of ecstasy that is usually achieved only, you know, with the help of Ecstasy. You know instinctively that this is the film that Thala is GONNA ROCK, just as you knew that he was gonna rock Aegan or Aasal (and those who said the film was dumb, well, shoot the idiots.) You feel that maybe the intro could have been just a tad high-profile, but you are happy with what you got, because, you know, even if you, the hard-core Ajith fan would love for him to appear all god-like, there are other (stupid) people who would laugh at that kind of thing. Because they just don’t recognize the level of awesomeness he can achieve. Poor things will learn in their next birth.

c. Watch the swashbuckling intro with an amused grin at the ensuing hysterics. You are not really impressed with the gravity-defying stunts or unnecessary theatrics, but you are a child of the star-culture, understand the incredible attraction it has, and have, on occasion, fallen prey to it. You will never rise to the levels of mind-numbing delirium a true star-fan achieves , but you understand the joy of hero-worship, and are broad-minded enough to accept that what might not appeal to you, will appeal to others. You enjoyed the sheer festive spirit and madness that came with a star-release – indeed, you would have been disappointed if there hadn’t been any uproar, palabishekham or choodam-kattifying. You clap and cheer, not just incredible Thala, but his incredible fans. You are not affiliated to any particular star, but cherish a mild affection for all of them – and you purchase FDFS tickets more for the experience than the star himself.

d. You watch the Incredible and Amazing Intro, groan, and stare with disbelief at the dancing fans. You cannot understood how something so utterly unrealistic could rouse this kind of fervour among, you assume (fairly well-educated and otherwise normal) human beings, or why one man should be considered a demi-god when there are surely others who deserve this appreciation more. You shake your head and message various like-minded friends about the madness and discuss, condescendingly, about these “stupid people, yaar, I mean why are they acting like this, like, is he Robert Pattinson or something? I mean, seriously?”

e. Yawn. You slump in your seat and twiddle with your phone even as you eye fellow-fans with contempt. It’s not that you don’t get star-fans (you having seen human nature, understand the phenomenon. Dimly). You simply don’t understand Thala, why this movie or why any of his movies. It’s not like they’re master-pieces of dazzling screenplay and/or dialogues. You’re also intelligent enough never to say this out loud as you will be lynched in seconds. You came here mostly because some long-lost friend bugged you and you tagged along, for the heck of it, and hoped to see which Hollywood movie has been ripped off for this one.

2. When Thala wakes up in his incredibly mod room, rubs his stubbled cheek, answers his girlfriend’s call, gazes at a mussed Lakshmi Rai and says, “I will never drink again,” you:

a. Gasp aloud, stand up on seat (Indeed, it’s doubtful if you ever sit down, during the duration of the film) point fingers at a bed-sheet draped Laxmi Rai, snicker, discuss her respective “merits,” applaud Venkat Prabhu for showing Thala as a marvelous Casanova who beds women at will (hell, yeah!) and even a few men but that would be beyond censor limits, but look at this incredibly sexy guy who sleeps and drinks at will and is so human he doesn’t remember what happened last night and isn’t that INCREDIBLE? “But stupid girlfriend will be here, Thala, so send that woman away, no, because she won’t understand that a man has needs and all. Also, she is not the heroine,” you stage-whisper at the obviously hung-over star.

b. Gasp and scrunch in your seat, eyes wide at this departure from the usual “Hero-never-drinks-smokes-looks-at-another-girl-except-gf/wife-although-every-woman-and-man-falls-for-him,” and think about how realistic this is, at how Thala is so brave to actually admit that yeah, people drink and wander around with nameless girls and don’t remember anything about them later. Venkat Prabhu is seriously da man. This facet of Thala is rarely seen – and how uncaring of his image Thala must be, to even act in a scene like this and how can people not REALIZE how AWESOME that is? Because, people, can {insert competitor actor} actually pull of something like this? CAN HE?

But you, as a true fan, are worried about his image even if he isn’t. Also, you know that no matter how many people it’s ok to sleep around with, it’s always the done thing to profess eternal love and fidelity to your significant other (and also, erase all evidence of sleeping around when said significant other is on her way to see you.) “So, Laxmi Rai in a bed-sheet is nice and all, but send her away, no?”

c. You’re mildly surprised that Thala has actually agreed to such scenarios, considering the fan-following he has and the image he obviously values, but this is the man who disbanded fan-clubs on his birthday, after all, and was the first to give up all claims to his title, “Ultimate Star.” The fact that fans still flock to see him as proof of his incredible mass power. Also, it’s nice that he isn’t apologetic about his nocturnal adventures. So, yeah, he’s not a good guy, but it’s a nice change, right?

d. Dude, please. So many other stars have done this act years ago and rocked the salt-and-pepper do like, man, Clooney. So, he drinks. And he’s sleeping with someone not his gf. So? This is supposed to make him, what, cool?

e. Yawn.Man.Bed. Girl. Not gf. Hey, does this place have Red Bull?

3. When Thala and Premgi Amaren are drunk, in a car, discuss heists, ask for booze from a random kadai and Thala eventually elbows his way into the heist, you:

a. Yell “He’s bad, bad, bad” and “Thala, {expletive} rocks!” or appropriate Tamil equivalent and wonder the bad guys have simply not stood up, saluted and handed over the money to His Awesomeness and why they have to actually plan anything and Thala obviously is gonna just blow everyone off and “Machan, XYZ theatre-la indha scene mudinjirucha?” and why is no one prostrate in front of him? “Money money money … Thala, da!”

b. He’s really going bad? Like, he’s going to rob stuff? With other people? OHMIGOD CANNOT STAND THE AWESOMENESS. So, when is he doing it? I mean, what are the plans and all? Did you notice the camera angle? Do you see the shadows and all, about how the shot suggests there are shadows in Thala’s character? Did you notice the shirt he is wearing and how he romanced Thrisha? Isn’t this like all the romance movies he did? Vaow, this is like having the old Thala back and girls are gonna love him. “Thala is back!!!!!!!!!!” But how will they end the movie? Like, he won’t be all bad, right? Or will he die because he’s a bad man and bad people always die in movies? NOOOOO!”

c. Nice. So he’s actually a bad man, you know, instead of just faking one. Definitely a change from the usual, and it looks like he’s enjoying himself. Not bad.

d. Okay, so they’re sitting around talking and Ajith keeps saying “Money money money …” That’s a punch dialogue? I say it much better. Got an accent too.

e. Yawn. Bunch of dudes plan a heist. Italian Job? Ocean’s Eleven? Hey, where’s the wiki on that one?

4. When Arjun makes a swash-buckling appearance; when Ajith refers to Arjun as “Action King.” Et al, you:

a. Scream, “Dei, Arjun da!” And he’s stylish, but not that stylish and he’s a cop and he’s hunting Thala and HOW DARE HE? Seriously? Whoever it is, they stand no chance against the superior incredibleness of Ajith and of course, Thala will kill him. Better yet, Arjun will hand over all the money because Thala is totally badass and Thala can just single-handedly smash through all the walls and vaults and fly away with the money. And we can have beautiful songs and super steps. Although, you know, Arjun might be there and all but careful, ok? Thala might call you Action King but doesn’t mean you really are one, ok? It’s Thala’s magnanimity that you are even in the film. You ever touch Thala and you’re dead. I will hunt you down and I will shred you.

b. Yell, “Ayyo, Arjun da!” Which is totally great because Arjun is good, but not that good and he may be Action King but he’s no match for Thala. But it’s a worrying thing that he’s a cop and Thala is the bad guy because who know what will happen, right? Cannot. Stand. The. Suspense. Ayyo, Venkat Prabhu, how you came up with such a great story? I cannot predict what will happen, it’s so cool and suspense-filled!” Frantic messaging simultaneously to various friends who are at various theatres. “Dei adutha scene enna? Solladhe, solladhe!”

c. Arjun is the cop. Again, nice. Nothing we haven’t seen before, but it should be interesting, this dynamic. Arjun is a reasonably well-established star and deserved his screen-space, although it’s not as much as you would like it to be. But, in an Ajith film, even this is good enough. Although, now you know Arjun is the cop and Ajith is the bad guy, you can guess the climax. There’s only one way this can end.

d. Yeah, yeah, yeah, cop. And he’s old. Older than Ajith looks which is such a surprise. And lots of running and walking and shooting and running. Very stylish. Next, please.

e. Yawn. Arjun? Old guy, right? Dude, that crane-scene is so totally Italian Job. Botched up. Amateurs!

5. When Ajith goes through the pre-intermission monologue and “knocks off” his co-conspirators in a supreme orgy of villain-ness, playing chess, you:

a. Sob, “THALA da! THALA da! Chess! Ayyo! Men dying! Ayyo! Gun-shooting! THALA! Slow-motion! THALA da!” (sobbing interspersed with mostly unintelligible words of which only THALA is heard right). “Podu Thala! Potru Thala! ADHU! MAN-GAAA-THA-DAAA!!!!!!!!!”

b. Watch, agape. Seriously, what incredible acting. What emotions! What evil-ness! Who knew Thala was capable of such power-packed performances? Who but Venkat Prabhu can come up with such scenes? How totally badass! Who has ever done this in the history of Tamil cinema? CAN {competitor-hero} do this? That too, with chess! “Money money money …” Premgi is so funny! He does that “EKSI line! So so funny! Everyone is so great! But Thala is the best! Ayyo, I cannot stand this suspense. When will the intermission end? I never noticed time going… also, this is supposed to based on some character called Joker? Who directed? Some Hollywoodguy-aa? No, no, they only copied from us. Thala already did this in Vaali, no?”

c. Um, yeah. Monologuing and all. Nice deviation from the usual but pretty spoofy. (and not really a patch on Nolan’s Joker, because seriously, who can match the awesomeness of Heath Ledger, but hey, I’ll take what I can get.) Also, Premgi’s not that funny. Enough with the repetitive lines, Director Saar. After a point it’s boring.

d. Okay, that was not bad, yaar. Kinda stylish and cool. Although all the villains running around was freaky. But I liked it.

e. Yawn. Totally ripping off of Ritchie and Tarantino, the stealing ^&$^%$! Find something original. What star power? This is supposed to be like Nolan’s Joker? Wash your mouth with phenyl.

6. When Thala says that he’s forty and not really young anymore, you:

 a. Shout, “NOOOO! Thala, you are always young, Thala, no one can say that you are old so please don’t say it – we also won’t let anyone say it! THALA ROCKS! THALA is always youth! MAN-GAATHAA da!” You are incredibly surprised that Thala can actually admit to something like this, that Venkat Prabhu actually wrote in lines like this and for a few moments, your fury rises beyond limits, and you would totally like to throttle the director. HOW DARE HE? “Machi, andhaalu address kudu, ennanu visaarippom.”

b. Shout, “Thala, you are always youth, Thala!” Frantic sms to friend: “Thala just said he was forty da! He doesn’t look like that, no? So handsome, so young and fresh, how can he say this?” Venkat Prabhu has come down rather slightly in your estimation, because, you know, age being what it is, no hero ever admits it, not on-screen. What was the director thinking? What will the watching crowds think? Besides, who cares if Thala is 40 or 100? His appeal is beyond such crass things!

On the other hand – who but our beloved Thala would ever even dream of making such a frank admission. That too, on-screen? Thala, you rock!

c. What, seriously? He actually said that on-screen? Dude has guts. Not bad at all.

d. Ew, he’s 40? Like, seriously 40? Dang. But, you know. He’s hot.

e. Yawn.Hollywood is full of heroes in their 50s. So what. Only here, age is such a big deal. If Thala wants to talk about being 40 years old, he can go right ahead.

7. When Thala utters the now-legendary phrase: “It’s my f**king game!” and also, when he offs the delectable Laxmi Rai and says: “She-who-sells-her-body-and-wanders-without-a-head,” in two utterly incomparable words, you:

a. Scream, by now beyond all restraint, “YES! Thala! Thala is the man! Give it to her! All women like this only! She deserves everything she got! She was such a b****! Rip her up into tiny pieces!” Yelling at Laxmi Rai: “Die! Die! You double-crossed Thala! How dare you! If I ever see you in the streets, I’ll cut you – after I do a lot of unmentionable stuff to you first!” So enamoured are you of the usually heroic Thala and his new, badass bad-word spewing persona that you can barely control yourself. Your fervour spills over from Laxmi Rai and onto other women; you glance at other female theatre-goers in the seats and wonder if you can possibly call them all the same bad words and get away with it, because you know, women are just, like that only. And besides, THALA DOES IT!

b. Think, “It cannot get any better than this. Totally Badass. Thala rocks! After so long and it has taken Venkat Prabhu to show Thala as the truly rocking person in the whole Ulaga cinema and thanks to him, now the whole world will also know. THALA da! Also, that b**** totally deserved it because she is going around with so many people and how dare she think she can double-cross Thala!. But be careful,Saar, because bad word and all is ok but too much and family audiences may not like it – but I will always be your fan Thala and MAN-GAATH-AA da!!!!!!!!!!”

c. Ooh, he actually killed her and called her words. Ajith is getting on. I’m not condoning the whole calling-the-woman-bad-words thing, but it works. Take a bow, man.

d. Ow, he called her a bad word. Badass! Hey, I’m, you know, sort of liking this movie. In a very, you know, totally time-pass way.

e. Yawn. Gordon Ramsey says more bad words than this. But for an Ajith movie, he totally delivered it. I’m not a fan or anything, but me like.

8.  Climax. You are:

a. Speechless. Catatonic state, hands clutching seat, nerves paralyzed. System is completely and totally in shock.

b. Speechless. Catatonic state, clutching seat, nerves paralyzed. System in shock, but fingers work enough to send messages.

c. Sit up from the mild boredom of previous minutes. The climax is totally expected (and no, it’s not just a random guess. Come on, you have Arjun playing a cop and Ajith a bad man, and you really expected that situation to stay the same until the end? Of course, they’re both after the loot!). But, still. It works.

d. Wow. That was – actually, you know, cool.

e. Yawn. Saw this a mile away. Like Ajith, though.

9. The much-vaunted behind-the-scenes montage arrives. You:

a. LOVE IT. “Ajith da. THALA da. MAN-GAATH-AA da!”

b. LOVE IT. “Ajith da. THALA da. MAN-GAATH-AA da!”

c. LOVE IT. “Ajith da. THALA da. MAN-GAATH-AA da!”

d. LOVE IT. “Ajith! THALA! MAN-GAATH-AA!”

e. Ok, that was kinda nice, you know? Cute.

10. When the film ends, you:

a. Don’t even stop to buy pop-corn or Pepsi, but simply check with friends and go right back into another show, preferably the same theatre. Cannot miss even a single minute of the life-altering experience that Mankatha is. Thala Rockzzz!

b. Don’t pause for pop-corn or Pepsi because you need to check with your friends, find out their statuses, update Twitter/Facebook/website/blog/Orkut about the totally kickass movie and when is the next show and what theatre do you want to watch it in? Because you have tickets for every show, every day, from August 31 to September 4 and you’re not gonna miss a single moment of it. Thala Rockzzz!

c. Kinda lame screenplay and Venkat Prabhu could have definitely done with some more substance. As it is, he’s just scraped through. The movie shines because of one person only. Thala Rockzzz.

d.  Ok, I thought it would be boring. And it was, sometimes. But at the end, it got better, you know? Thala, he rocks.

e. Yawn. I’m gonna watch The Man Who Murdered His Step-Mother’s Son’s Sister’s Daughter in The Night and Then Ate Her Intestines. Korean movie, folks. I don’t even need sub-titles.

And, we come to the end of this incredibly long-winded survey. Those who’re still with me, here are the points for each section:

1. If you chose a – 100 points
2. If you chose b – 75 points
3. If you chose c – 50 points
4. If you chose d – 25 points
5. If you chose e - 10 points

Points Tally: 

1000: Thala Veriyar. These people are beyond description. Also, they are the people I will keep away, if I’m walking down a street. Doesn’t matter if Thala disbanded his fan-clubs – they will not rest until he is PM ofIndia. Sometimes, even God doesn’t know what He’s doing, so the devotee has to step in.

750 – 1000: Hard-core Thala Fanatic. You’ve been a fan of his from Amaravathi, have watched movies like Dheena, Citizen et all 100 times, and you were almost delirious with joy with Ajith’s macho turn in Billa. Also, Nayantara’s bikini was too large. You believe in doing anything from dripping blood on your idol’s poster, praying at every temple in the area with karpooram on bare palm before a release, willingly carry sharp instruments to maul anyone who utters a word disparagingly about your star and will spend every paisa you possess in Ajith’s sevai. You were in ecstasies when Ajith made his now-famous speech at the CM function, and Superstar himself rose to applaud him. You cursed him when he said he was going to go race cars for a living.

You were completely and utterly devastated when he disbanded his fan clubs because these are a sign of how completely loyal you are, regardless of your family’s yells and curses. Earning and livelihood are foreign concepts, even if Thala himself says you need to take care of your family. It’s God’s duty to instruct you on how to live life, but as a serious devotee, you also reserve the right to show devotion as you see fit.

Sometimes, though, your conscience digs you about your devotion, when you see your contemporaries and peers getting on in life. Then, you shake yourself out of it. Millions of people live and die every day, but few have the privilege of being a Thala fan. Soon, the day will come when Superstar himself acknowledges Thala’s greatness, and he is crowned King of Cinema. You will then be anointed Most Loyal Thala fan. When Thala becomes CM/PM, or President of America, he will make you Secretary of State. Or you know, whatever.

Before Ayan, the one person you hated most was Thala’s biggest competition, Ilaya Thalapathi. Now, you and fellow Vijay fans have united to form a truce against that hated shorty Suriya. You get together on forums and post congratulatory messages and pat each other on the back, because Thala made Thalapathi biriyani on Mankatha’s sets. You also talk about how Thala and Thalapathi are each 50 films old and how Suriya is only 25-odd films old and is no match for the others, because his entire career is Vijay potta pichai, etc.  You like to argue that Suriya’s career is, in a roundabout way, Ajith potta pichai, as well.

You still hope your temporary friends are stewing in their juices at Mankatha’s fantastic opening. Also, you hope that when Velayudham releases, it sinks in seconds. Because you know, Vijay and his fans are your vendappatta virodhigal. But no hard feelings, machi.

Shalini will always be referred to with love and reverence as Anni or Madam, and anyone who dares to smirch her will be summarily dealt with. The same applies to Anoushka. [You have complete and unabridged albums of their love story, cut-and-pasted painstakingly from various magazines.]

You are the reason Ajith is the King of Opening. You are the reason he exists. And he knows it. As do you.

500 – 750: Ok, so you really like Ajith. You became a fan right from the time he was known as Ajith Kumar; have watched that rare movie that he and Vijay did together and are still in ecstasies about it. You shed tears of emotion when you watched Dheena, Kadhal Kottai, etc and are still a closet romantic-Ajith fan – you did, after all, fall for his fair-skinned good looks. Citizen et al made you very happy, and your affection for him has risen – and even though you’re happy at his success as a star, you keep hoping he’ll make a return as the smiling, romantic hero who stole your heart (This refers to both male and female fans).

For you, being a fan of Ajith means following his dictates, both on-screen and off. So you take care of your family, run errands work, play, love, just as your star says you should. You love him to death, but understand that movies are essentially an illusion. And that whatever role Ajith the star plays in cinema, he’s still a loving father to his daughter, a great husband to his wife, and provides for them. He takes care of his family, all said and done. You also understand that for all the bad words he spouts on-screen – he would never use it to his family. You respect him for essentially following his own mandate: find the right girl, fall in love with her, marry her, and stay with her.

You appreciate the fact that he is essentially self-made, has worked upwards without mentors and made it thus far on his own. He speaks his mind, damn the consequences, and follows his own heart. You respect him more for this, than for his films. This was the beginning of your real respect for him.

Whoever his movie-world competitors are, you understand that in the end, Ajith is his own real competition; that it’s not in anyone’s power to make or break him. You are his fan regardless of hits and flops, and though you are furious when another star’s movie wins, you know that Ajith’s time will come.

Congratulations. You are the kind of fan any star would be proud to have.

250 – 500: You’re the fan who happened to see Ajith in some movie and thought Hey, this guy’s not bad. You’ve watched his works, some new, some old, and understand what his talents really are. You don’t think much of his acting skills or machine-like dialogue delivery, but understand that certain roles suit him, and you enjoy them. The world doesn’t rise and set on Ajith, for you – but hey, that’s ok. You also look for logic and reasoning in films, which means that star-vehicles work only rarely, for you.

You’re also intensely amused by the rivalry between Ajith’s fans and other star fans, and often drop in, unobserved on their discussions, just to have an indulgent moment. You understand star-power and are more interested in its dynamics than Ajith, personally, and often watch FDFS shows because of the festive atmosphere. You understand the electricity, the pulsing beats, the sheer energy that envelopes any star-show. It is this that draws you in.

In fan-speak, you are also classified as a Neutralite, one who is not affiliated to any one star. When star movies are released, although hard-core fans go hammer-and-tongs at critical reviews, they will always turn to you, the Neutralite, because it is you who, as an unbiased observer, have a better idea about any film.

You do, however, envy the intense devotion of hard-core fans. It must be nice to believe in someone like that, totally.

This category also houses that unenviable personality: the Critic.

100 – 250: The bars are lower here. You probably saw Ajith in some random song and fell for his polished good looks (you also probably have a type: Aftab Shivadasani, maybe.) You have very little idea about his acting, his movies, his background and character traits, but he doesn’t look Tamil, and that attracts you. FDFS shows are puzzling, but you’re still game enough to risk them, just to see what all the fuss is about. And you like him just enough to watch them. But if there’s a toss up between a Salman or Shah Rukh film, Ajith won’t win.

100: Dude, what on earth are you doing at an Ajith film? Don’t. Just, you know, watch some obscure Korean/Japanese film that completely encapsulates world cinema, where people suffer endlessly and then die in a sewer, rave about the Golden Pizza Award it won at some International Pappoosa Film Festival. You don’t get it, and you never will.

Come to think of it – you probably hated Transformers too, didn’t you?

For some reason, Muni – 2: Kanchana seemed to bring out the worst in the people I spoke to, once they’d seen the film. Not very surprising, considering my own response to previous Raghava Lawrence films – or rather, abominations: Pandi and Rajadhi Raja, to name just a couple. I hadn’t classed Raghava Lawrence as a bad actor, but these films, especially Rajadhi Raja, made me club him with a set of actors who, besides not having made it big with solid acting – also belonged to the Smug Set: all gestures, actions and punch dialogues with attitudes to match, but without the talent or success to back it up. Aspiration to success is not at all a bad thing. Trying to get it through short-cuts, by-passing all the hard work put in by today’s icons – just plain lazy.

When Kanchana’s trailers were first shown on TV (I thought the blood-drenched, furious dancing woman was Khushboo – it looked like her, honest!), I decided that this was yet another of Raghava Lawrence’s ambitious, look-at-me-I’m-dark-like-Rajni-so-I’m-as-good-as-he-is movies that was all about him and nobody else. It was also a sequel of sorts to Muni – 1 (in which I liked Raj Kiran more than anyone else.). I had no great hopes for it.

I’m pretty sure trade analysts and critics were dumb-founded when the film actually began to not just draw people in, but turn into a super-hit (It’s now a blockbuster. On an aside, I wonder just how the makers of Deiva Thirumagal felt about this. Heh.). Rediff’s Telugu movie-critic had already reviewed it, so I didn’t watch the film. None of the reviews I read were promising in the least. One reviewer-friend, in fact, kept bugging me to go and watch the film so I could share in the torture. (I steadfastly refused and taunted him right back that I was spared the agony.)

Yesterday, I watched Kanchana. In the theatre. Of my own volition.

This post is, in fact, an explanation as to why I took on punishment voluntarily (as another friend messaged me, when I told him I was going to see it) – and why, despite the opinion of many intelligent viewers, I kinda sorta liked it. And why I think it worked.

Mind you, I’m no trade analyst and I’m not putting this across as an expert. This is just my opinion (which is why it’s on my blog).

Also, spoilers abound (I like to go into details, but good. You’re hereby warned.)

Why Kanchana worked:

1. Ghost-story. Come on. You know you can’t resist it. At least, I never could, and I’m guessing 90% of the average movie-watching public of the Tamil and Telugu lands felt the same. Knowing Raghava Lawrence and the kind of movies he makes, I’m guessing again that like me, many thought that this would be a reasonably mind-less entertainer, which meant they needn’t ponder over a) method acting, b) which scene might be ripped off from which movie, c) what dialogues were meant to send you into paroxysms of ecstasy (or vice versa), and d) whether it was in fact a metaphorical/spiritual/metaphysical/what-is-the-meaning-of-life movie and which you were supposed to praise even if it didn’t make any sense at all. (No, I’m not dissing such movies – but you do need to exercise your brain-cells to watch them.) In other words, time-pass. And therefore, paisa-vasool. (Mind you, this logic doesn’t apply to every masala movie that comes along, as you well know.)

They were right.

2. Raghava Lawrence’s return as a man terrified of ghosts. Yes, the first fifteen minutes of the movie do establish him as a stylish cricketer (oy!) and a guy who can bash up goons better than the master of them all, Rajni. I guess, considering what was to come, he simply couldn’t resist adding those star-touches.(Earlier it used to last the whole movie). But it looks like RL has learnt a few valuable lessons from previous failcounters: he returns as the man who can, as his friends say, take on anything, but is so terrified of ghosts that he climbs onto his mama’s (well, any female who happens to be nearby, regardless of her waist-size) waist.

Yes, it’s silly and has plenty of room for some sexual innuendo-coloured sniggering (which is the point, kind of), but thankfully this, like the cricketing and bashing up bad guys, is more to provide some breathing-space for all the ghostly horrors. There’s some toilet humour as well, which, thankfully, doesn’t go beyond once (even that was enough).

What worked, somewhat, for me, was the fact the RL was a hero who was afraid – actually afraid – of ghosts. So many of our heroes in ghost stories are all gloriously macho and afraid of nothing, which includes creaking skeletons, gory supernatural beings, vampires and human-eating katteris. Seriously? You’re afraid of nothing? That would freak me out more. Either you don’t feel anything (bad), or you deal with the supernatural on a daily basis (worse). And that can’t be it, because Dean and Sam Winchester battle monsters every week and even they get freaked out, on occasion. I like manly men, but I would also like it if they displayed a healthy fear of something you don’t really encounter in everyday life. ‘Cause, you know, that means they’re not just banishing ghosts, but beating their fears, and that actually makes the climactic battle more interesting. (Yes, happens in this movie, as well.)

Not many ghost-stories are made, in Kodambakkam – but whatever’s made is either coloured by Amman goodness (more the pious heroine’s territory) and the hapless hero is more a vehicle to display her Amman bakthi; or he’s Terminator incarnate and bashes through everything, man, ghost or freaking Megatron.

Short version of long point – yeah, I liked that RL was terrified of ghosts.

3. Kovai Sarala. Dude, what’s not to like? I’ve always felt that among Kodambakkam’s comediennes, Sarala was never really given her due (not that comediennes have that much clout where screens are ruled by male duos.) Madame Manorama pretty much made sure that the comedy-queen crown went to her, and Sarala, I suspected, despite her ability to perform well, had to make do with what she was offered. She has, however, just gone to town, here, I wonder if RL ever suspected that she would steal the thunder from him as much as she did (a la Nilambari in Padayappa – just to illustrate how a gutsy woman can outperform the obvious hero). Perhaps its because she’s not really required to be the central character, so to speak, so can relax and just let go. Her accent, the way she manages to combine common sense and irritability, everything comes together to form a character that’s almost too good for a movie like this. Every time she appears, the theatre collapses in laughter.

I foresee that she’ll now be flooded with offers to do exactly the same character, try it once or twice, be ripped up for repetition and then retire, again, gracefully from the lists.

God, someone give her a meaty role, already.

4. The members of the ghost-ridden household (including Sarala). Sriman, Devadharshini (even if its over-the-top), the kids, et al. They provide a sense of normalcy. Sarala’s and Devadharshini are two of Tamil cinema’s most friendly mother and daughter-in-laws, ever. And even though their dialect makes sure that you know they’re from different castes and backgrounds, I like it that it’s never stressed and that the two women, instead of being at each other’s throats, are comrades, obviously fond of each other. Much silliness abounds here too, and not much attention can be given to household matters when a freaking ghost shows up spookily in corridors, bathrooms and staircases – but hey, I still think their camaraderie worked.

Also, the characters might live in this huge, sprawling mansion with lawns and stuff (never understood the point of this, unless it was to remind you of yesteryear MGR movies) – but they are, in essence, ordinary people with ordinary tastes. There’s nothing uppity about them, their accent or body-language so you find it easy to laugh and groan with them, sloppy writing notwithstanding. (Remember that the household of 13 B/Yaavarum Nalam, despite living in a flat, was pretty up-market. Not many people could identify with that. The Hindi-ness quotient kind of worked against them too.)

5. This has been mentioned before, but I’ll say it here anyway: the fact that a Thirunangai is a part of the ghostly trio who haunts the house, and that her background story is touched upon, including her terrible past, beaten out of her own home et al. Even if the execution is shoddy, there’s a spark in it, a sense that this story really did happen – parts of it. There are moments like these, when in the midst of a so-so movie, you get these sudden moments of clarity, a sense of rightness, that actually adds some depth to otherwise masala proceedings.

There’s always something that tugs your heart-strings when it comes to lives cut short by the human mind’s instinct for extreme cruelty and particularly heart-wrenching when it comes to spirits that are forced to carry out the revenge they sought in life, just to move on.

Which means that Sarathkumar, even if not the greatest of actors, deserves applause just for walking out of his I-am-Heman comfort zone and getting into a sari.

6. The spookiness. Got to me. The special effects are nothing to write home about and it dissipates after the first half, but it kept my heart thudding. And that is the whole point, methinks.

Also, the loud “argument” between Narasimha and Kanchana – got to me. Yeah, I’m emotional that way.

Slainte, for now. Our cook has gone to watch Kanchana, so the evening’s repast is on me.

Note: I’ve mentioned absolutely nothing about Ms Lakshmi Rai. That, I think, says it all.

Vampire Teeth

“She’s a butter-toothed bride,” commented my cousin, from the other end of the sofa.

Vampire movies are all the rage these days, and as I’ve never been one to follow current trends, I’d decided to give in to my fifteen-year-old cousin’s many vociferous demands to watch this “awesome flick” as soon as possible. “It’s got this great-looking vampire hero,” she gushed, and I’d decided to indulge her. Hence our mutually movie-watching adventure, centred wholly and blandly, around Tales of the Vampire Crypt: She Sucks Like Hell. Or some such thing.

“Butter-toothed what?” I asked, eager for some distraction. The stale potato chips from our nearest bakery were almost gone, and I was seriously contemplating a run to the shops, pleading hunger. Anything to get away from vampires whose wigs fell off in every scene.

“Bride,” my cousin supplied irritably. “You know, the heroine. She has these – teeth.”

“Her teeth are worse. She has to keep adjusting it when she’s snarling.” Signs of a Z-Grade flick: even the actual movie looks like a collection of behind-the-scene shots. “What’s the point of having butter-toothed teeth if you can’t even snarl properly?”

I rightly put down this random remark to a distinct lack of the luscious Robert Pattinson. “You’ve got your teeth wrong. Butter-toothed doesn’t mean fangs. It’s –” I paused, wondering how best to launch into an impromptu English lesson. “They’re the two middle incisors in front of the upper jaw.”

My cousin leveled an incredulous stare at me. “So how come they were called butter-teeth?”

“People called them that when they became yellow. Or rotten,” I supplied. “Mostly bad hygiene. But sometimes, it’s used for people whose two front teeth stick out, like paddles. So, you know, they look good until they open their mouth, but then –” I shrugged. “Everything goes downhill. And brides who were unfortunate enough to have them were laughed at.” I caught my cousin looking goggle-eyed, at me. “It was pretty widely used around the 19th century, but it’s been proven it was in common usage as far back as
the fourteenth century.” I pointed to my book shelf. “James Orchard Halliwell wrote about it in his book: The Dictionary of Archaic and Provincial Words (Obsolete Phrases, Proverbs and Ancient Customs from Fourteenth Century). That was in 1847,” I supplied helpfully.

“There you go again, like you’ve gobbled the dictionary,” My cousin shook her head. “Fine, so she’s not butter-toothed. What else is she?” as the she-vampire uttered a hideous dialogue, shook her head vigorously, and a shock of hair fluttered to the ground. The hero-vamp promptly took the cue and proceeded to pull the rest of her hair off, as the orchestra took over. One last bang of the piano-keys, and the screen froze.

“Bald,” I supplied.

Today, this moderately prosperous city in Tamil Nadu boasts a smooth and tantalizing blend of old and new. Modern buildings try to touch the sky, competing with the olde-worlde charm of the Sarfoji palace. Shops and homes jostle for space even as the BrihadeeswaraTemple, a protected World Monument,India’s joy, sprawls over a huge complex, occupying every inch it was meant to since the day it was constructed, exactly a thousand years ago. And it has a strange life about it that threads itself through its people, who talk about their city with pride and nostalgia.

But then, Thanjai, as it’s fondly known, has always been a cultural hub. The arts have flourished there right from the very beginning; kings and princes have ruled from its royal seat for centuries. Witness its fledgling appearance in Tamil Nadu’s history during the days of Prince Arunmozhi Varman, later to attain considerable acclaim as Raja Raja Chola the First, circa 10^th century.

“In those days, Thanjavur was in its adolescence, burgeoning by the minute. Twilight was falling. Hundreds of lamps dazzled the streets. The pathways were teeming with people; some from parts of the Chola dominions; others from newly added territories. Many travelers had arrived from lands that spread out from the River Porunai to the River Palaru; from the Eastern coast to the West. People thronged like flies around stalls that sold sweetmeats such as adhirasam; bananas and other fruits lay in luscious mounds at other shops. As for the flowers, jasmine, and Shenbagha practically covered the stalls. Women buzzed around them like bees…”

~ Part 1, Ponniyin Selvan, Kalki R Krishnamurthy

Those are the words of master writer Kalki watching the famed city through the eyes of a poet , even as he describes the first sight of Thanjai as seen by his eternally optimistic hero, Vandhiyathevan. Kalki was so in touch with the past that it was, probably, exactly as he describes it lovingly, in his magnum opus.

In the meantime, time stops for no man; neither did it do so for Thanjai. Fortunately, it was in its growing phase; within the space of a generation it had attained the stature of a metropolis. How could it not, when Emperor Raja Raja the First was ruling from within it? There was another reason for its soaring prestige, too:

The Emperor stood with the chief architect and other sculptors, clutching a measuring stick in his hand. Panchavan Madevi waited for him patiently. Mews of her arrival was whispered into his ears; he put away the stick washed hands that had held maps and wands, and walked to her.

“What is it?” he asked.

“We have received news from Narathai Malai.”

“And?”

“A boulder was cleaved. It rolled down.”

“Was someone hurt?”

Panchavan Madevi was silent. She raised her eye-brows, as though asking how the Emperor could have known.

“If a boulder rolling away is important news, obviously it must have hurt someone. Isn’t that why it became news, in the first place?”

Panchavan Madevi wondered at his sharp intellect, but stayed silent.

“So, someone has died, has he?” asked the Emperor again. “How many?”

“Just one. The others are unharmed.”

“I see. Such things happen. The mountains demand blood. Didn’t we offer goats as appeasement?”

“We did. This has happened after our pooja.”

“Who was in-charge?”

“Sadha Sivachari.”

“A pity. He’s a good man, and will take this to heart. Give him prasadam from the Nisumba Sudani temple. Also make arrangements to distribute it to all the sculptors, there. Send a soldier at once.”

~ Part 3, Udayar, Balakumaran

The above conversation happens between Emperor Raja Raja the First and his favourite wife among the fifteen he married. Udayar deals almost exclusively with the tale of the Big Temple, and the pains the Chola Nadu went to, in seeing it raised. Watching a monument take shape in front of your eyes, political intrigues and obstacles included, is fascinating as are the glimpses of the man who envisioned the whole temple, circa 1010 AD.

More than a generation from this point, Thanjai has changed still more. It has now been three years since Emperor Rajendra Chola the First took over the reigns, and the capital city is as popular as ever.

“Leaders of armies, commerce and townships gathered hotfoot in the city: the Maathanda Nayagar of the Chola Armies and other superior officers arrived as well. This was the first such gathering, after Emperor Rajendra’s coronation, and it was held in style.

Elsewhere, Thanjai wore a festive look as its warriors prepared for their journey. Dust arose in the air as elephants stomped the ground; the air was thick with the presence of throngs of people. Young women poured flowers from balconies as trumpets and conches blew with enthusiasm …”

~ Vengaiyin Maindhan, Akilan

Akilan’s Sahithya Academy Award winning story had as its hero the Kodumbalur Prince Ilango who goes to Ceylonin search of ancient artifacts that will restore Chola glory. The characters of Ponniyin Selvan and Udayar have gone through a natural progression of age; they are now wiser than ever, more respected, and considered demi-gods. Thanjai itself, though still the capital, shows signs of a transition; in later years, Emperor Rajendra Chola transferred his capital to Gangai Konda Cholapuram.

Yet another subtle factor in both Udayar and Vengaiyin Maindhan is that Kalki’s work was considered a sort of golden base, from which the older version of many characters were inspired.

Centuries down the line; it’s now the time of the hoary Marathas, and Thanjai has undergone a sea-change.

The story of its transformation circa the 18^th century AD begins innocently, with descriptions of the sun, streets and the roadside PillaiyarTemple, before turning to a conversation between two monkeys on a sand-lot.

“Which do you think was better? The rule of the Nayaks or the Maharastrian kings of today?” asks one of the other.

“Both are good; the previous kings placed us in their flag; today’s kings placed us in temples.”

“I’ve got bleak news. We’re going to be invaded by a race that will stuff us in their intestines!”

 The scene turns to the sight of two white horses racing towards the Thanjai fort. They enter the fort whose walls have been lavished with lime and sathilingam by the Nayaks. The Eastern Gates have been decorated with white shells; there’s a huge moat and a draw-bridge across. The city’s officer, the Killethar and Subedhar welcome the guests.

Inside the fort, towards the left goes a path that leads to the Mama Sahib Moolai. Spinach and curd-sellers throng the streets. The esteemed people of Thanjai do not have watches to confuse them; they tell time by the eight bells that toll every jaamam: Thirumuraippaari, Manimurasappaari, Chinnamelam, Veeragal Bavanippaari, Veenaippaari Manimurasappaari and Kaavalpaari.

Asaiyaatha Thanjavur Vaazhi,

Aramvaazhi Sathirangalaru samayam Vaazhi

~ Ponni Vanathu Poonguyil, Kothamangalam Subbu

Thanjai flourishes still; its streets are still clogged with poets and musicians; its kings and princes still eager to patronize them. The days hark to the rule of one of the greatest Maratha King, Prathapa Simha, who ruled wisely, earning a distinct name in history.

We return slowly to the future – to 1971, to be very exact. Writers Chitti and Thi Janakiraman, both completely in love with the Thanjai landscape, undertake a journey that traces the River Kavri from its source, to its destination. They do not touch upon Thanjai the city itself – but their passion for the entire landscape and the noble people who once lived there, is obvious.

“Karikalan, Paranthakan, Rajarajan, Rajendran, Kulothungan – so many kings!

 Ilango, Kamban Ottakoothan, Kalamegam, Pattinasthar Thayumanavar – poets!

Arunachala Kavirayar, Gopalakrishna Bharathiyar, Oothukkadu Venkata Subbaiyar, Thyagayyar, Muthuswami Dheekshithar Syama Shastri – singers and musicians!

Narayana  Theerthar, Sadasiva Brahmam, Pothenthrar. Dharmapuram, Thiruvavaduthurai, Thiruppanathal monasteries.

Kaveri’s history is the history of the lands of Thiruchi and Thanjai. The history of all the various tributaries that split from one glorious mother and over-run the land.

Kaveri’s waters enrich Thanjai. From the Kaveri’s right banks, Vennaru’s regulator provides the water for the Kallanai Canal, which is 70 miles long, and cuts right through Thanjavur. The River Vadavaru splits from the River Vennaru.”

~ Nadanthai Vaazhi Kaveri, Chitti and Thi Janakiraman

“Bees drunk with honey buzz around Kaveri, who dances along, attired in flowers, with eyes that bloom like lotuses. Oh, mighty river! – You who give your lifeblood that the children of these lands may live – may you prosper!”

~ Silappathigaram, Ilangovadigal

No matter what the time and place, no matter its status as a capital city or a straggling township, Thanjai was, and always shall remain as one of Tamil Nadu’s most prominent cultural hubs. This was the seat of kings, after all – and through its rich tradition, it still does manage to retain its royal aura.

 Text and Translations: Pavithra Srinivasan
 (Originally published in Eves Touch, October 2010)

During the Chennai Lectures speech on Madras Baashai and Chandrababu, by actor Mohanram, I learnt a great deal more about the man behind the mask – and here, credit must undoubtedly be given to the speaker who’d done tons of work in getting together material and slides from colleagues, members of Chandrababu’s family and others to put together a mesmerizing show. In doing so, he took me (and others) straight back in time, to the birth, growth and steady rise of a star, the likes of which Tamil cinema has rarely seen. It was as though a portal had opened and we’d been thrown back in time, watching events unfold. I watched, remembered, enjoyed and realized just how much I’d never known about Chandrababu – and how much it helped me put things in perspective.

The speech began with a slide of a wikipedia entry on Madras Baashai – about its antecedents, how it entered everyday vocabulary in the 50s through the efforts of one lanky, grinning comedian who gave it a suave touch unheard of, at that time – and a collection of slides which supported all that evidence (starting from the evergreen dialogues from Kaasethan Kadavulada to Sabaash Meena and today’s artists). It set the mood wonderfully.

One particular clip was of a scene from Sabaash Meena, where auto-rickshaw driver Chandrababu (henceforth to be called CB) meets with Sivaji. The two run into each other, a sort of mock-altercation develops and CB suddenly lands a slap on Sivaji’s face. Mohan ram explained that this slap had been unrehearsed, and the shot is actually cut there; it resumes, and CB lands another slap on Sivaji, who, after a stunned look (“Did he just slap me again?”), just turns right back and decks CB. At which point, CB offers a very heartfelt apology as Sivaji stomps back, irate. Allegedly, CB made it a serious apology on-screen, for having taken pot-shots – and the whole incident made it to the film, only slightly edited.

After this tidbit, it was back to the purpose on hand: the life and times of Chandrababu – possibly the most misquoted, misunderstood and misinformed man ever to exist.

The Beginning

Mohanram traced the beginnings of CB the man, right from his father, who happened to be Joseph Pichai Rodriguez (and not Fernando, as wrongly reported elsewhere. Fernando actually happens to be CB’s brother’s family name, which somehow made it to CB’s name itself.) CB himself was actually christened Panimaya Das Rodriguez, and was born in Tuticorin on August 4, 1927 (yet another legend was born on the same date two years later, in 1929 – Kishore Kumar Ganguly). CB’s father was a freedom fighter in every sense of the word, participated in the Salt Satyagraha. It was during this time that he made the acquaintanceship of Satyamurthi; CB and his daughter Lakshmi were quite close as youngsters and spent time in Kutralam, under the mentor-ship of one K Kamaraj (yes, the Kamaraj), This is also why the latter often came to the help of CB, when it was most required – the sake of a long friendship.

CB’s father received land-grants in Walajabad, recognizing his services to the country – and he turned around and simply donated them away to Vinobha Bhave. He was exiled to Sri Lanka, at one point, which meant that CB spent a good part of his young life in Colombo. Later, amnesty was given to exiles; CB and family returned to Tamil Nadu, Mirasahibpet, to be very exact, and established themselves. It was here, in Meesappettai, that CB picked up the language of autorickshaw-pullers and incorporated it into his own vocabulary, eventually polishing it into perfection on-screen. But all that came later.

Song and Dance

One particularly bizarre habit of CB’s was to sit in front of his home (a one-roomed residence) and sing at the top of his voice from around 10 pm to 3 or 4 am, and then drop off to sleep at 11 am. He’d go to the India Coffee House for a bit of a snack (“I think it was on top of the India Silk House,” said Mohanram, at which point he was interrupted by a chorus of people chanting, “No, it was the Bata shop!” What memory, eh?). CB was usually the life and soul of the party at such outings and kept his impromptu audience so entertained that someone invariably ended up buying him something to eat and drink. It was around this time that CB met and made friends with people like Vedha, music director, strolling around the Santhome area, and soaking himself in music, filmi and otherwise.

CB’s father had no great hopes for his son. His was a large family, and it was all he could do to support them; a son who reportedly sang, ate snacks and wandered around town wasn’t much of a help. “Tharithiram!” was a name he frequently used to whip CB into some show of responsibility, along with other choice epithets, and CB was so frustrated that he called out for divine help, asking “When will you relieve me from this?” He even had a vision of Lady Fathima, around this time.

And divine help, suddenly, did seem to arrive.

Suicide and Others

CB got a call from his friend Vedha to sing a Sinhala song. His first break was in the film Dhana Amaravathi (B S Ramaiah) – the film flopped. CB hoped that this film, despite not being a roaring success, might be his calling card, and tried to get a meeting with Gemini S S Vasan, who was making waves with his movie ventures around that time. It was not to be. Vasan did watch CB’s work, but beyond a “Not bad, that guy,” didn’t really seem to want to do any work with him.

CB tried again and again to set up a meeting, with no results. Finally, desperate, he walked to the Gemini canteen, downed poison, wrote a plea-filled letter and collapsed in full of view of everyone who happened to have gathered there.

What happened next has, apparently, been described in three different versions:

Version 1: CB was rescued by several onlookers and admitted to hospital.

Version 2: Yes, he was rescued by onlookers, one of whom happened to be an R Ganesh, then employed with S S Vasan in production. Yep – he later became the famous Gemini Ganesh. GG has written, in his own book, that he and his friends took CB to the hospital.

A third version (S S Vasan?) describes his own experience of having heard about the poison incident, and being appropriately horrified about it. Reportedly, CB was produced in court, where the magistrate promptly chastised him for trying to take hi own life. When asked for why’s tried to commit suicide, CB replied that he was vastly talented, but had no one who would let him exhibit it. The magistrate asked him to perform then and there, on the docks; CB promptly obliged – with a Shakespearian soliloquy!

The magistrate was impressed with his performance; CB certainly deserved better than this, and must, on no account consider suicide.

And CB did begin to get work, very slowly. But it says a lot for how exactly he worked, considering he did 5 films in the first 5 and last 5 years of his career, and 50 films in the middle 25.

An accusation hurled frequently at CB’s head is that he didn’t care for his family and did nothing to support them in their hour of need. Not true. J P Jawahar, CB’s brother, informs us that CB was the one to personally approach the CM to obtain a liquor license  t(possibly the first one), setting up a pen-shop, and manifestly didn’t throw any of his family members out when they needed help.

CB and the Dancing Composer

Those were the heydays of legendary music director Subbiah Naidu. CB, a lanky young man came in for a voice test, which was conducted by the music director’s assistant. When Subbiah walked in and asked about the progress, his assistant replied that it was a no-go. CB simply didn’t have a singing voice.

Of course, fate is at its most perverse in the face of such statements – and CB proved to be a very unique singer, captivating audiences with his style and comic timing; he was now a much-feted comedian. In due course, his path and that of the music composer’s assistant converged – in the studio of blockbuster-in-the-making Gul-E-Bhagavali (The Rose of Baghdad), where the assistant, now a music director in his own right, was composing a song. The comedian listened to it once; the memory of an old rejection surfaced. “What kind of a tune is this? Do something else.”

The music director, well aware of their previous spat, argued in favour of the tune in vain. CB was not appeased. The composer grimaced, and took a sudden decision. He wound up his veshti, commanded his orchestra to play the tune – and launched into an impromptu dance. Always having cherished dreams of acting, he now put his talents to good use. “See, doesn’t this tune suit a dance like this?” he asked, panting.

Years of hurt vanished from the comedian’s heart as he watched how far the music director was willing to go, to get to his point. His anger vanished, and laughter bubbled up. “Fine, we’ll have it,” he acknowledged, and a friendship was formed between J P Chandrababu and M S Viswanathan over Pappala Pala Pattukale … which stood the test of time.

CB also holds the record as the first Indian singer who yodeled in a movie (and this was before the years of Sound of Music!). Yes, it’s commonly held that Kishore was the first to – but CB beat him to it with his performance in a film called Chinnadurai (directed by T R Mahalingam, released on 22^nd August, 1952. Interestingly, a youngster who originally started out as TRM’s gofer, later became a production assistant, and much later, a production manager. He morphed into one of cinema’s best known producers: B R Panthulu.), where he yodeled very convincingly for a song called “Poda Raja podinadaiya …”

Kishore’s yodeling effort has been credited to the film Kaneez (courtesy his biographer Vishwas Nerurkar), where it’s mentioned that he did a lot of “sounds,” and voice acrobatics for a song, yodeling amongst them. (Mohanram mentioned that he heard the song repeatedly, but found no yodeling in it.). Safe to say CB got there first.

Singing to the Stars

By this time, CB was getting to be rather well-known for his singing abilities, and was asked to sing for other actors on-screen. Particularly notable are the songs he sang for Sivaji Ganesan (Kalyanam Panniyum Brahmachari, 1954, a B R Panthulu production), and for S Balachander (Penn, 1954, M V Raman) – but in a very bizarre twist of events, even though he sang a song for Sabaash Meena, he had Sirkazhi Govindarajan singing playback for him in the same film!

It’s commonly held that there may have been some sort of quarrel between the makers and CB, or maybe they just felt they were doing something unique.

If you’ll notice the songs where CB sings playback for Sivaji and S Balachander, though, one thing becomes apparent: both actors imitate CB’s own mannerisms as they lip-synch – for one moment, you might be forgiven for thinking that it’s CB himself on-screen, and not someone else.

(On an aside, Mohanram also mentioned that he’d heard Kishore’s Hindi version, Shaadi – and that it couldn’t hold a candle to CB’s version. I thought he might be biased, but when both clips were played back-to-back, I felt he was right: there’s a certain joie-de-vivre in CB’s voice that simply can’t be replicated by anyone else.)

Man of the West

There’s a certain suavity to CB that simply cannot be missed in his performances – he himself made sure he epitomized the western influence by wearing coats, suits – and was so inordinately fond of ballroom dancing that he incorporated it into his work whenever he could. It’s thought that his years in Colombo might have contributed to this – and its even more bizarre that CB always wore western costume his own way: suits without ties, coats without slippers, and even the odd dinner jacket.

In fact, so enamored of western music was he that, when he got his salary of Rs 200 for work in  R Mahalingam’s Mohanasundaram, (his father was then working in Dinamani, and the whole family was happy about the soon-to-arrive money, having their own list of needs to be met), CB simply walked into a shop and bought a gramophone and 60 records, set it up in the middle of the house and began playing his favourites. Its said that he developed his taste for western music, learnt yodeling and a knack for western singing, this way. For a man who never trained to sing, quite remarkable.

CB is also credited with bringing the baila style of singing (popular in Sri Lanka) to films: he first used this in the film Manamagan Thevai (17^th May, 1957). Though the music’c credited to G Ramanathan, it was Babu who came up with the concept, so to speak. In fact, a good deal of today’s gana songs trace their origins right back to his style – the way he combined life and its little everyday pleasures, tragedies and deep, dark philosophy into merry little songs, haven’t quite been replicated, so far.

He also had a penchant for western dancing (as mentioned earlier); he’s done two dance numbers in movies. One of them, Konjam Sindhikkanum (Kadavulai Kanden), was with yesteryear youngster and today’s grandma Sukumari. She looks impossibly youthful in the song, all perky and bright and a very enthusiastic dance partner, while CB himself is all suave charm.

But there’s more to come – especially the story behind his classic “Kunguma Poove, Konjum Purave …”

(To Be Continued …)

Warning: No review of a film is complete without hashing it out in great detail, I feel – but as a critic, I don’t think I have that liberty except in my personal space. Here there be spoilers, so those of you who’re reading it (if there are any) – be warned. Also, I haven’t covered the technical aspects (that’s been complimented enough.) Everyone agrees that Raavanan is a beautiful movie. Its the script that got my goat.

For once, considering that this is a Mani Ratnam film (henceforth called MR), I went with low expectations, despite the fact that I liked the music. It had a certain other-worldly quality that appealed to me. The trailers did not. There were explosions, an ethereal Aishwarya Rai and a Vikram who yelled “Pathu Thalai Raavanan!” in a voice so hoarse it took me aback. Surely this could not be an MR film, known for its subtlety, with even the slightest nuances captured, no matter how fleeting, adding a whole new dimension to a movie-watching experience. And yet, it was. I went with mixed feelings. And it was exactly how I thought it would be.

The story (if you haven’t seen it, or read the myriad reviews, by now), is simplicity itself. Bad guy Veera (Vikram), a native of Vikramasingapuram, has 60 cases pending against him, and has committed atrocities no one can even bear to talk about. He’s the hero – riding bikes nonchalantly, sweeping tattered bedsheets across his back (even as his face is splashed liberally across the title cards) and is a sort of Robinhood like hero to his people, who all look like they’ve transported to Tamil Nadu from some tribal region up in the far reaches of the North.

Enter Ragini (Aishwarya Rai), wearing a flowy yellow salwar-kameez (with cleavage), floating like a princess on a small boat, gazing, entranced at a wild bird (indicative of Raavanan, perhaps) – when the real thing arrives in a bigger boat and simply smashes into her. End happy lazing about; begin horribly torturous captivity which she tries to escape with some spirit. And is the very reason for Veera to fall for her.

Cue for Dev (Prithviraj) who practically dashes into the scene, brandishing guns. He’s an encounter specialist with 28 successes to his credit and is bent on nabbing Veera, when his wife is kidnapped.

The scenery is truly beautiful -lush, green, and you can almost feel the water (its always raining, or there’s a waterfall nearby) on your face. My kind of place (and many others, judging by the unanimous approval), with mists floating, mountains rising in the distance – if if ever there was a heaven on earth it is this, it is this, it is this.

And there the magic ends.

The story is as linear (to use jargon) as a pole. MR’s movies – the ones I loved – have redefined boundaries when it came to subtlety in Tamil cinema; viewers still quote scenes, word-perfect, from his classics. I found no such thing in Raavanan.

Aishwarya Rai is dazzlingly beautiful – no two opinions on that. Her grey eyes glitter with the effect of light; the camera (and by the same token, MR) capture every movement of her limbs with loving care (the scene where she falls slowly from the tree into water, for example). Understandable - the trouble the actors have gone through, especially Ash, who had to do everything twice, is duly appreciated. But, er – does that automatically grant you full points for execution?

Ash is furious that she’s been kidnapped. She’s also, supposedly, terrified. Instead, she mouths random verses like “Jeyamundu Bayamillai Maname!” – which draws a response from Vikram (supposedly to tell you that he’s no ignorant lout). If this is meant to reinforce the idea that Ash is a sensitive dancer/teacher/singer/whatever stereotype the heroine generally conforms to – sorry, it falls so far down that I can barely hear the thud. To listen to an ordinary woman who’s completely divorced from the idea of personal violence (her husband might be a cop, but she lives in an ethereal world of her own which involves the finer things of life, like wine during candle-lit dinners!) go maniacal on a tough forest brigand who cares two hoots about the lives of any but his own people, is laughable, to say the least. Ash’s clothes (when she’s captured, at least), show off her body far too generously to feel that she’s a petrified, defenseless woman, and make you wonder why Veera hasn’t pounced on her yet. I can understand ordinary directors falling prey to the compulsion to show the heroine as “glam,” even if she’s being imprisoned in virgin forest by evil captors (like Minisha Lamba who went through intriguing costume changes in Kidnap, while she was held captive) – but for MR to make the same mistake is unforgivable. Ash is always Aishwarya Rai, a slightly bruised beauty queen – never Ragini, wife of SP Dev, languishing in prison, waiting for her husband to stage a dramatic rescue. Yes, she wears tattered clothes, her hair is carefully disheveled (brushing gently across her gleaming face as it dries out) and there are interesting bruises on her face – but somehow, she manages to look untouched, even more beautiful, if possible. Now, that wouldn’t be bad – few people can look that good when they’re battered – but her dialogues make her hideous. Courtesy Suhasini. Dear Madam – what were you thinking?!

Having Ash scream staccato lines exhibiting her courage, and scraping away the mud around buried officer Hemanth, all the while berating her captors for their inhuman behaviour is so far out that its comical. Even more jaw-dropping is the fact that Veera, having hardened his heart into capturing a defenseless female, falls for her spirit (because, of course, there are no spirited women among his own people – men and women who follow him like he’s God, making a hand-to-mouth living among craggy cliffs), and doesn’t lay a finger on her. Even more inexplicable is his behaviour, once the reason for Ash’s capture becomes clear: Veera’s half-sister Vennila (Priya Mani) was captured and collectively raped by the police for refusing to give away her brothers’ whereabouts.

Its a catastrophic event, no doubt – but Veera’s reaction, a man who’s hardened to society’s iniquities, is bizarre.

Quite a few have opined that the story is layered with subtext, that MR has laced the screenplay with such exquisite  sensitivity that others (including reviewers) have missed the plot altogether. Their reasoning: this is not Ramayana. Its stupid to expect a director like MR, known for his fine movie-making sense, to conform exactly to that epic, and to take his characters straight out of it. Anyone who thinks MR will make a story in such a straight line isn’t thinking straight.

Fair enough. Problem is – no one who’s seen MR’s body of work so far would think that he would take everything from the Ramayana and make a film. That would be beyond juvenile. What MR has done, in fact, is reverse sterotype.

That’s it? You turn Rama into the villain, Raavanan into the hero – end of story? I must be really dense, because I really don’t see where any subtlety comes into play, here.

So Dev and Veera (*not* from the Ramayana, by the way – come on, we even put huge freaking disclaimers, see?) have a history – very obviously established right from the first frame. Dev’s voice-over explains Veera’s background; Veera even demolishes a few cops in brutal fashion – obviously getting back at the police for something (come on, he’s not Hiranyakasipu, killing cops just for the heck of it. Yes, there’s a reason. Yes, he’s getting his own back. Duh!) His capture of Ash is only another in a long list of crimes carried out for retribution. Dev vs Veera – score one for the bandit. Subtlety? You’re kidding, right?

So Dev gathers a motley crew of aides (a lot of people cringed at Karthik’s obvious monkey-god antics – but to me, that was the only thing that worked, subtlety be damned) and goes in search of his wife. Again, only part of the reason for his search for the brigand. He’s always wanted to capture Veera – again, obvious, the way he bends all his energies into it.

One reason for why you automatically realize that Dev is intent on capturing Veera for the sake of Veera himself, is the lack of chemistry between Ash and Prithvi. Sure, they twine around each other with wine-glasses in hand – but sorry, it just doesn’t work. They’re beautiful people on their own (Prithvi, especially, looks cool – quite an achievement considering who his “wife” is), but they’re in love? Nope. Affection? Yes. Kandavudan Kaadhal, “Till death do us part” romance, the kind that defined the real Ramayana – oh god, no. Seriously, no. He’s a husband, whose wife has just been kidnapped. Yes, he does want her, but he’s furious that it was Veera who kidnapped her, and bashing his head into the ground for going against him, Dev, is of paramount importance. Case in point: the way he clinically dispatches Sakkarai (Munna), Veera’s brother, who comes to talk peace. He’s not afraid to use his gun – these are enemies, who need to be put down. There’s no question of being soft.

Considering Veera’s heinous crimes (remember the 60 cases? Exactly what did he do? Something terrible, to set the entire TN police force on his heels. Fine, no details necessary – but how does that make Veera good, and Dev bad? ) and the way he rules his area, its rather hard to see how Dev can be considered the villain. His role, as a cop, is to bring Veera to heel. He’s the villain because he hunts down Veera ? (when Veera cuts his brother-in-law’s hand and lets him hang for hours, bleeding to slow death, because he ran away?) Okaayyyy. So why is Veera the good guy, the rough man with a heart of gold?

Because he doesn’t lay a finger on Ash. He’s the hero because he loves the heroine (whom he’s captured in retribution to his sister’s rape and suicide). She looks like every guy’s wet dream – and he, the brigand, just gazes at her, heart brimming with the purest of emotions. Oh wait, maybe he hesitates because she’s someone else’s wife? Gak.

Mind you, I like pure love, myself. The whole mental-not-physical romance is every girl’s secret dream. And done right, it can transform itself into a beautiful work on-screen. Come on, even MR has done it – witness Mouna Raagam, Nayagan – all classic examples of love better than lust and all that jazz. So why doesn’t it work here?

A) the reason for Ash’s capture. Unlike the Ramayana, (which was, face it, at least realistic: the real Raavanan has his good points, but surrenders to a moment of lust/love when sees Seetha), Veera doesn’t capture Ash for her own sake. She’s the bait that will reel Dev in. B) He’s a hardened brigand – the locals say women have a “thing” for him – he’s that attractive to them. And he falls for a cop’s wife. Why? Because she jumps off water-falls. Its not the attraction that’s difficult to believe – its the love.

The so-called back-story, when its revealed, makes things worse. Leave alone obvious gaffes like setting Priya Mani’s wedding in some North-Indian village and having a marudhaani party – MR has been known to indulge in such things before (Ex: the weddings in Alaipayuthey, Bombay). On an aside, Vennila works as well – possibly because its Priya Mani who’s playing it. Now there’s convincing acting, if you want some. She would have made a great Ragini.

But though Veera’s anger is explained, to claim it as right – is ridiculous. It would have been right if he were blameless in other respects. He’s not – except to his people, and they’d support him through massacre (which they do, by the way). That’s no excuse. So he’s captured Ash. Then he falls in love with her. Then, in the climax bridge-fight, he actually tells Dev that his wife is burnished gold – and “take her away before I change my mind.”

I half expected a saguni-like twist, at that point. If Veera had told Dev those words just to get back at him – a real psychotic devil; those words would be guaranteed to make Dev see red and suspect some hanky-panky between Ash and Veera (and besides, they do have a history, right?) – ah, but now, Veera won’t do that. Because he’s not a villain, right? So he’d never say something like that, even when confronted with his mortal enemy, when the temptation to wound him is terrific. He even saves the guy (whom he once saw as the direct cause of his sister’s death).

You might argue that he was, in reality, trying to protect Ash’s virtue; giving a guarantee that he didn’t touch her. That makes it even more silly.

Honestly, I’d have been surprised if Dev didn’t suspect Ash. After all, Veera has practically confessed that he has a “thing” for Dev’s wife. And she, for him. He asks Ash for a lie-detector test (seriously funny) and she walks out in full view of him, and zeroes in on Veera, the brigand that no one can find, like a homing pigeon.

Subtlety and subtext, where art thou?

The last ten minutes, when Veera meets Ash and confesses his feelings for her – these are the only moments worth watching. The mist wafts gently in the background; Ash is in virginal white, looking like a heavenly creature in the midst of the green, rolling hills. She’s so alluring that you can see Veera’s heart catch at the loveliness of it. And she’s come back – for him! Her love redeems him, and he willingly embraces death, knowing that he’s finally met his nemesis. Those are the only moments you see the MR of yore. And you see what the film might have been – shorn of Veera’s insane, schizophrenic gestures, distinctly un-subtle moments and glaring gaffes. You wish all of Raavanan had been that way. A really beautiful romance amidst blood, gore and betrayal. Now that would have been something.

The real villain here is MR – not his team of actors/technicians who, by and large, have worked their butts off (barring Ash, minus the rock-climbing.). I wish he’d take  a long break, get his golf, whatever, and then come back with a masterpiece.

We know that he can do it, after all.