Anjali

A rainy weekend prompted a viewing of Anjali. The downpour probably reminded me of the opening sequences. The usual suspects greatly enhance the re-view quotient of the movie. Shamili still brings that ever-familiar lump to one's throat. During every introduction scene for Anjali, the back of the frame, from where she enters, is invariably over-lit. Couple that with the translucent white gown she is perennially clad in and one is forced to believe that Mani and Madhu Ambat wanted to convince the audience that we were definitely viewing a cherub descending to earth. Raaja is his usual glorious self - equal parts poignant and playful in both the soundtrack as well as the BGM. The performances, particularly Revathi, Raghuvaran and the little child who plays Anu, are all excellent. If Revathi holds fort in the latter half during her sequences with Shamili, Raghuvaran is brilliant in his silent suffering in the initial stages. There are a couple of seconds where he shares screen space with Revathi, unable to answer her (rather justifiable) question after slapping his daughter, during which his eyes are brimming, not with tears but with pain. Serves to remind you that there is skill and then there is talent.

Anjali, as with most Mani saar films, is well written and designed. There is great consistency in character description (the daughter has this little quirk - repeating kaNNellAm thaNNi after saying someone is crying - that repeats throughout the movie) and motivation. But there is one specific aspect that revealed itself to me during this viewing that actually enhanced my understanding of the charm this movie held for me as a child.

As a child, answering the telephone as quickly as possible came to be an unconditioned reflex. Even when most often the person at the other end would peremptorily request to speak to someone of more importance within the household, because I was just a kid. In the world that Mani creates in Anjali however, an Assistant Commissioner of Police doesn’t think twice before informing Arjun that his father’s life might be in danger because a ruffian baying for his blood has just been released on bail. There are no “just kids” in Anjali. They are accorded the respect of post-adolescents, if not full-fledged adults. They have their own tribe, initiation rituals and bonding patterns. The knee-jerk reaction to adversity (Arjun being confronted by an older kid when they walk in with the vegetables) is one of machismo, not the familiar run-and-hide-behind-authority or propriety. The kids take an active part in getting their pregnant mother to the hospital and are even allowed the freedom to speak out of turn and call adults out on their inadequacies. Mani’s biggest success was creating a world were children are afforded as much respect as their guardians and in doing so he was able to connect with the need of every child in the audience to be taken seriously.