Some films are impossible to review in themselves: such is their impact, so thorough their influence, that when one re-visits them, even if after a deliberately long lapse of time, one is unable to view them afresh, for in them the film as it must have been back when it was released is only dimly discernible, and the prism of the film’s history and what it has come to mean almost the only vantage point that affords a view any longer. Almost. For the great film (like the great book, painting, or any other work of art) is not merely reducible to the history of its reception, even if it is inextricable from it.Mani Ratnam’s Nayakan (Tamil; 1987) is such a film, and it would be no exaggeration to cite it as the one Tamil film that even Indians who have never seen any Tamil film are likely to have heard of. Yet its status as one of the seminal works of Indian popular cinema rests on more than this, on more than the fact that it was commercially successful or that the film arguably represents the high point in the storied career of its lead actor, Kamal Haasan, on more even than the sort of acclaim that saw it win a place in Time magazine film critic Richard Corliss’ list of the 100 greatest movies ever. Nayakan deserves its place in the annals of Indian film history because it changed what we came to expect from our movies, and thus in time came to change how movies were made. Whether the industry is Hindi, Telugu, or Tamil, the film Parinda, Pattiyal or Company, the director Mukul Anand, Mahesh Manjrekar, or Ram Gopal Verma, the representation of crime and criminality (and the problematic glamorisation of the same), of the life and death associated with India’s mean streets, heck of Mumbai itself, that seems normal to us in Indian film, is unimaginable without Nayakan.

Underneath it all is the story of Velu Naicker (Kamal Haasan) – rumoured to be modeled after the legendary Tamil Mumbai don (and folk hero to “his own”) Varadaraja Mudhaliar – who while yet a boy kills the policeman who has murdered Velu’s trade unionist father and flees to Bombay, in time becoming a basti hero in Dharavi and ultimately an underworld don. Along the way the police kill his foster father, rival gangsters his wife, a criminal mishap his son, and his daughter ends up appalled at and alienated from his worldview. The film ends as all Indian gangster films after Deewar must, with the death of Velu himself, shot by the retarded son of the first man Velu killed in Mumbai. In the end, Velu’s karma catches up with him.

Nayakan is not an especially profound film, and does not to my mind offer any new insight into the nature of power or of criminality; as in Bombay from a few years later, Ratnam’s politics are fairly conventional (that is to say genteel bourgeois), and certainly nothing in this film matches the visionary cinematic mode of Iruvar a decade later (still the best Indian film from the last twenty years that I have seen). But in the context of Indian cinema Nayakan is the more important and influential film, and rests on a number of assumptions that have irrevocably marked Hindi and Tamil cinema, mostly for better (though, in the hands of unthinking filmmakers, also for worse). The most important of these is the refusal to condescend to the viewer, and for the film to at all points take its audience’s intelligence for granted. This meant that not every detail of the inner life of Nayakan’s characters needed to be spelled out, leading to a more suggestive, more nuanced way of filmmaking for those who have followed Ratnam’s lead. Obviously not everyone has (and I certainly don’t mean to suggest that everyone should), but it would be no exaggeration that the majority of the more intelligent popular films have tended to appreciate the virtues of this approach over the last two decades.

A second and related feature was Ratnam’s insistence on making a film that could be very Indian, very rooted, without necessarily hewing to a formula. Thus Nayakan has no parallel comedy track, and no hero/heroine song and dance sequences. And that’s not because Ratnam is embarrassed by his cinematic heritage, far from it: Nayakan has a number of songs, but most of them are superbly situational, and are inescapably part of the experience of watching this film. Songs are one of the singular pleasures of mainstream Indian cinema, and Ratnam accords them the respect that is due by ensuring that in Nayakan they do not seem forced into the narrative. The lesson has not always been learned well (witness the recent Pokiri or Dhoom 2) but it has been learned by many, and by filmmakers as diverse as Bala, the Rakeysh Mehra of Rang de Basanti, the Ashutosh Gowariker of Lagaan, not to mention the usual suspects like Manjrekar, Vidhu Vinod Chopra, and even Ram Gopal Verma on occasion (ironically, the later Ratnam’s excellence at song videos has been similarly, though often unfortunately, influential, leading many a director and viewer to conceptualize songs as breaks in, and hence removed from, the film of which they are part, something that no Ratnam film I have seen is guilty of, barring Agni Natchathiram, although no doubt in the later Ratnam the songs often become more abstract than the film around them). This too is part of the filmmaker’s respect for the audience, in that “the people” are to be conceptualized democratically, as thinking beings who may be counted on to appreciate a film on its merits, not a mass who will simply react to stimuli presented according to a certain formula. The Nayakan way certainly doesn’t guarantee commercial success, but it does lead to more engaged viewers (and in any event I would argue that the surprising degree of success achieved by a Raja Hindustani or a Pokiri or Dhoom 2 suggests that something other than formulaic repetition is at work, since mere repetition is inconsistent with such exceptional success).

No discussion of Nayakan would be complete without a word about Kamal Haasan’s performance, which is both one of the most overrated performances in Indian history and at the same time nothing less than a superb and ineffably memorable showing by Kamal Haasan. Haasan – who deservedly won a National Award for his role here – is not responsible for the former, and acquits himself faultlessly when it comes to what he was responsible for, namely incarnating a Velu Naicker that would be true to Ratnam’s vision. The result is one of Indian popular cinema’s most iconic performances, and a perennially fashionable one if the slew of post-Nayakan “down home” gangsters housed in “ordinary” homes in “regular” clothes is anything to go by. And this is about more than “ethnic chic”, reflecting as it does a democratic India where power — political and street — is increasingly being assumed by those once summarily dismissed as “vernacular.”

Kamal’s performance may be divided in two, but not necessarily by Velu’s age. Rather, I see Velu prior to his coronation as different from the later Velu, the former’s combination of sullenness and naivete giving way to an unshakable confidence and resolve. The former is impressive (one can see more than a few traces of it in Madhavan’s own wonderful performance as the “bigtime” writer early on in Kannathil Muthamittal), but it is the latter – showy, obvious, and oh-so-compelling – that makes the role for me. One might cavil that Kamal’s turn lacks the nuance and refinement of Mohanlal’s matchless turn in Iruvar, but that ignores the fact that Velu is a far more uncomplicated being than Anandan. Velu is a stubby, direct, and forthright man, one who traffics in brute facts more than anything else. And Kamal Haasan is perhaps the ideal actor to essay this role, of a man who simply does what he feels right (a similar line crops up in Sarkar, in the context of which film it was a statement not of simplicity or correctness but of naked power, reflective of the different concerns of Ratnam and Ram Gopal Verma, respectively). Kamal fits in seamlessly with the relativism of Ratnam’s vision: as the famous confrontation scene between Velu and his daughter makes clear, Ratnam is aware of the problematic nature of an ethical code that is purely personal, but he is equally aware that judgment can be presumptuous in the extreme given that who one is amounts to a great extent, in the final analysis, to what has happened to one. This scene is frankly reminiscent of one of the two famous “confrontations” between Amitabh Bachchan and Shashi Kapoor in Deewar (there the third in the frame was their mother; in Nayakan it is Velu’s friend and right-hand man Selva), but where the urgency of Bachchan’s charisma and resentful claim draws the viewer firmly to his side, Ratnam and Kamal resolutely refuse to do so, making clear that they are not going to go down the Deewar way (perhaps because if one seeks to replicate that inimitable film as a formula, one might be left with the neo-fascist flirtations of Sarkar as the only real possibility). Velu is not wrong vis-a-vis his daughter Chaaru, but he is not right either.

Finally: Dharavi; that is, the set erected in Madras for the film is one of the most impressive I have ever seen in any film, so vivid it fits in seamlessly with Ratnam’s on-location shots of various Mumbai landmarks, and so memorable that the city would never again be the same on celluloid, as attested to by Parinda, Satya, Company, and even Black Friday. Ratnam does not efface the ramshackle reality of the slum, but he is uncompromising in his insistence that beauty, song, life in the fullest sense, exists here too. He is aided in his efforts by a superb soundtrack by Ilaiyaraja, one that does not seem stale even two decades later, even for those who were first introduced to snippets of it in bastardized form from Feroz Khan’s unfortunate remake Dayavan. Besides Thotta Tharani, who won a National Award for Art Direction, the anonymous (to us) technicians and workers who constructed the set are among the true heroes of Nayakan, and while we will never know all of their names, Ratnam’s incorporation of their work in — indeed the centrality of their work to — Nayakan is a permanent memorial to their efforts, and, like all else about this film, a great one.

[Original post at qalandari.blogspot.com]

Virumaandi was making news even prior to release, its working title, “Sandiyar” not going down well among certain Dalit outfits, and presumably their constituents, for the implication that Haasan’s film was glorifying notions of caste pride and an ethos that Dalit activists held responsible for violence against Dalits in rural Tamil Nadu; the protests and outcry led Haasan to change the title, but some of his critics were not appeased, and calls for a boycott dogged the film even subsequent to release (it’s unclear if these adversely impacted the film’s box office performance, and at least one critic has suggested that they might have helped). Once released, the film garnered good reviews, mainly from liberal and left-leaning sources for its anti-death penalty stance, but in general from cinephiles happy to see a quality film that by any yardstick was one of the more notable films India had produced over the course of the ongoing decade. Amid all the discussion it was easy to forget that underneath the story that Virumaandi became lay a masala film, and one of the most intelligent and hard-hitting ones in recent years.

The film begins with television reporter Angela (Rohini) who is making a documentary on conditions inside a jail, where something truly appears rotten, what with a sleazy cop, mysterious prisoner deaths, and protesting families. In short order the reporter focuses on two of the jail’s more notorious inmates, Kothalla Thevar (Pasupathi) and Virumaandi (Kamal Haasan), the latter sentenced to death, the former to a life term, for their roles in the massacre of twenty four people. Thevar gets to tell his side of the story to the reporter first, the story of two villages with a history of enmity between them, degenerating into violence despite Pasupathi’s best intentions, mainly due to the vainglorious and ultra-violent Virumaandi, who even rapes and kills Annalakshmi (Abhirami), Thevar’s niece — or so we are told. But there are as they say two sides to every picture, and when Angela coaxes Virumaandi to speak, a second, “true” flashback results, and Thevar is revealed in all his villainy, as is the tragedy of Virumaandi, cursed by virtue of owning the only plot of land in the area with access to a ready supply of water, and by film’s end left bereft of his only living relative and his lover. The second flashback culminates in a jail riot in the film’s present-time, and an opportunity for Kothalla Thevar and Virumaandi to settle scores amidst general mayhem, and some of the most superbly shot onscreen violence I have seen in an Indian film in recent times.

Much has been made of the film’s supposed structural similarity to Akira Kurosawa’s Rashomon, but the parallels are overblown. Director Kamal Haasan gives us a nod to the Japanese master’s classic, but no more; and this is as it should be, given the very different philosophical perspectives of the two films. In Rashomon the truth is unknowable, an epistemological problem that is the condition of (our?) existential derangement; in Virumaandi the Janus-like structure — which ultimately privileges the version of reality offered by the film’s hero, to the extent that the initial story told is revealed to be a lie proffered by the villain — dovetails with the film’s avowed aim of arguing against capital punishment. Haasan’s point is not that the truth is unknowable but that there are truths the law cannot begin to fathom, or — at a minimum — that the law is an imperfect instrument for determining the truth. Cinema might well be a better calibrated instrument to that end (better not only than the law but also than other institutions that purport to present truth), and the film’s overture offers a number of visual cues to make the point, as the viewer is led to see the world through the TV cameraman’s lens, the editing room monitor, and even through the gate’s sighthole at the jail where Thevar and Virumaandi are being held. The director’s camera, of course, at one step removed, takes it all in, and as a cinephile it is hard not to be seduced by this vision of cinematic omnipotence, so very in keeping with Haasan’s tremendous self-regard. The man has never been known to be lacking in chutzpah, and in the blustery world of the Sandhyars in rural Madurai district, Haasan has finally found a setting that fits his instincts like a glove.

Virumaandi is not without its flaws: in particular, the director tries to ride two horses, striving to do justice to both Haasan’s anti-capital punishment ideology and to the blood-soaked revenge drama that every masala instinct in the film strains toward. The task is a difficult one, never more so than when Muthulingam’s epic lyrics pace Virumaandi’s jailbreak to words evoking the imagery of a god emerging from his cave to wreak vengeance, a deity who may not be restrained by any law. How does this wanton bloodfest fit into the anti-death penalty schema? None too seamlessly, but it’s so enthralling one ends up not caring in the slightest. For make no mistake Haasan is a gifted director, and holds the viewer spellbound not only by virtue of his thorough knowledge of the conventions of masala film-making but also by his ability to evoke the world of the rural Madurai district. The attention to detail is impressive, as is the casting of virtually all the characters, especially of Pasupathi as Kothalla Thevar, who makes for one of the most memorable villains in years; Abhirami too shines in her spunky portrayal of Annalakshmi, and in her Haasan to his credit gives us that celluloid rarity, a spirited young rural woman. Kamal is himself earthily enthusiastic and authoritative in the title role, although his acting solidity cannot make up for the fact that he is just too old to essay this role, and I found myself wishing for the lesser acting talents (but voracious screen-hog persona) of Vikram — I suspect that change might well have helped this film at the box office, although Virumaandi apparently had a welcome run at the box office by the standards of Haasan’s recent fare. Finally, Ilaiyaraja’s music is superb here, rustic and addictive in several tracks, and melodious in the love songs.

I don’t mean to cavil: for this is a fine directorial effort, and Kamal Haasan is to be commended for his willingness to take risks, and for his uncompromising insistence on taking Tamil cinema to new frontiers (with Kamal himself cast in the role of messiah, of course). All in all, this film means that I eagerly await the man’s next directorial offering: for Virumaandi is one of the best Indian films I have seen in the last two years, and one of the few that takes the intelligence of its viewers for granted. That alone makes Kamal Haasan part of a select group of mainstream filmmakers; may the man continue full steam ahead.

[Cross posted at qalandari.blogspot.com and Naachgaana.com. Editor’s Note: Please welcome Qalandar, a new contributor to this blog!]

Some time after Hey Ram released and sank, we heard about it being used as subject material in the University of Iowa. I came across a site titled philip’sfil-ums on the university’s Web-site, maintained by Philip Lutgendorf, with contributions from Cory Creekmur. It’s an amazing site with reviews of Indian movies (mostly Hindi) ranging from Amar Akbar Anthony to Yuva. The syllabus for Popular Hindi Cinema is put up, along with a list of recommended movies and also a fantastic collection of posters.

Here are excerpts from the Hey Ram review, which provides a fantastic perspective on the movie which the Indian audience didn’t quite appreciate. Despite being a foreigner, Lutgendorf displays a deep understanding of Indian history and culture.

Ultimately, one’s response to HEY RAM will depend on a perception of the plausibility of Saket Ram’s eleventh hour conversion from Gandhi-hater to Gandhian, which in turn hangs on a momentous surprise reunion with Amjad in the twilit lanes of Old Delhi.

…Amjad’s wounding by a Hindu mob caused me to viscerally relive, with Saket Ram, his own wife’s suffering, thus erasing the boundary between One’s-own and the hated and feared Other. From that moment, I was entirely in the thrall of the film’s gut-wrenching vision, and indeed wept throughout its last quarter hour. Movies seldom do this to me, and so I take my hat off to the courageous and cocky Kamal Haasan.

HEY RAM is an important and must-see film, a visceral and visionary experiment in mainstream Hindi cinema.

…Kamal Haasan’s daring and controversial meditation on the violence of Partition and its lingering traumas — a subject virtually taboo in commercial cinema for half a century. While retaining the look and sound of the Bollywood blockbuster…Haasan’s cinematic epic ventures deep into the terrain of communal conflict, examining the process by which human beings create and destroy their intimate “others.”

The film offers an unprecedented portrait of a traumatized survivor of events that others seek to forget, and reopens some of India’s most painful wounds — though ultimately pointing toward a barely-imaginable redemption.

The right-wing BJP party tried to have it banned as an “anti-Hindutva” film, while some Congress Party leaders denounced it as “anti-Gandhi”—the BJP’s reading appears, to me at least, to have been the more astute and certainly more in line with the director’s stated intent. Some leftist intellectuals, however, complained that the film’s refusal to demonize Hindu communalists and its “seductive” use of their imagery entirely subverted any progressive ideological agenda. If nothing else, such glaringly bi-polar interpretations at least suggest the intentional complexity of this courageous and groundbreaking film about individual and collective madness.

As a meditation on Gandhi (albeit one in which he seldom appears on screen), the film offers us a humanized Bapu who is cranky, humorous, and not always sure of himself—a portrayal that I, for one, much prefer to the flat and pontificating Mahatmas of Richard Attenborough (Gandhi 1982) and Shyam Benegal (The Making of the Mahatma, 1996)—whose every utterance appeared ready to be set in granite.

Such realistic strands of identity, within the fabric of Haasan’s fiction, give special meaning to the director’s own ironic subtitle for the film…: “an experiment with truth.”

The film’s Ram, like the epic’s, is traumatized by the loss of his wife and sets out on a quest for revenge that eventually carries him across the length and breadth of India. In the film, this journey includes a second marriage, albeit half-heartedly contracted, with a spirited girl named Mythili (“the girl from Mithila,” a favorite epithet of the epic’s heroine Sita), who, like her namesake, unsuccessfully urges her husband to abstain from violence.

This sequence is accompanied by the most memorable of the film’s five songs (all of which are sensitively inserted into the storyline, and reflect the versatility of famed south Indian composer Ilayaraja) — an anthem strongly critical of communalism…

The assassination scene in the garden of Birla House, though actually shot in the South Indian hill station of Ootacamund, was so exhaustively researched and convincingly recreated that the actress playing Amjad’s mother—who, in fact, had been an eyewitness to Gandhi’s slaying as a girl of twelve—was reportedly overcome with emotion, necessitating a halt in shooting.

Check out the review interspersed with meaningful shots from the movie and laced with interesting tidbits.

Image courtesy: Philip Lutgendorf, University of Iowa.

Vaettaiyaadu Vilaiyaadu is out and so are the reviews. Expectations seem to have been met.

Sify.com possibly came out with the first review, as usual. IndiaGlitz also came up with a review. Both seem fairly unbiased, if you consider their overall assessment.

Excerpts, as usual:

• …what gives you goose flesh is the finely calibrated performance of Kamal as DCP Raghavan. You just can’t take your eyes off him as he laces his portrayal with dignity, grace and dry wit.
• Verdict: Go for it
• …when you have somebody like Kamal who can get into the flesh of any character and Gautham Menon, who knows how to set up the right ambient mood and field, what you have is two and half hours of sustained and quality entertainment.
• Kamal’s strength is that he can shine in even lonely roles (even when he can’t feed off from somebody else’s intensity). Kamal understates and underplays the cop character with remarkable discernment. The narrative simply unfolds from him.

Update on Sep. 2: Rediff.com review says “Kamal Haasan is brilliant…”.