In an adventurous mood today I set out to the PVR cinemas at AMPA Skywalk with the intention of watching the first cinema for which tickets were available. Fortune, and apparently Kalaignar Karunanidhi, favor the brave. What I was gifted with was a ten rupee ticket to Mani Ratnam's latest in Hindi - Raavan. Spondylosis inducing front row seats, but seats nonetheless. I had safeguarded my senses from the publicity onslaught and so went in largely unbiased.
As I walked out nearly two hours later I was left largely with a sense of what could have been. It goes without saying that this film is not for anyone who doesn't have a rudimentary introduction to the Ramayana. And Mani makes as much clear through Sanjeevini Kumar, his Hanuman standin. The only explanation he offers for wanting to accompany the SP into the forest is "So it is written" (roughly translated). And from there on the first half of the film sets an aesthetic of Hegelian proportions where beauty and darkness are blood brothers. The forest with its color and creatures, all in seemingly bacchanalian revelry, become an allegory for Mani's title character and his schizophrenia. He is at once savior and unsavory character, Lord and looter extraordinaire. In short he is every character Mani Ratnam has ever obsessed over. At times the film even speaks an unfamiliar visual language. In particular the scene we see Beera sitting in a circular boat staring into the rain only to flicker away as police raid his village caused a moment of cognitive dissonance.Faced with this I began to settle into a rhythm that expected the larger narrative to be, at best, a perfunctory portion of the film. Well, it wasn't to be. From then on the film searches for its identity taking small detours to character driven drama and even musical along the way. But along the way there are several sweet spots (BehnE dE being my favorite).
Some characters come off exceptionally well defined and the ones who benefit the most are SP Dev Sharma and Mangal. For all the 10-head baiting dialogues for Beera it is Dev who comes off as the person with the most shades. Just as in real life, it is quite difficult reconciling the metrosexual in Khili Re - cooking with wine and setting the riverside table for his dancing wife - with the ruthlessness of a police officer who would kill even a harbinger of peace. The fundamental difference in this telling of the Ramayana are the pre-ordained destinies of Beera and Dev. Having arrived purely to rid his jurisdiction of Beera, Dev'c clash with Beera was inevitable. Ragini becomes purely a deus-ex-machina, and an expendable one at that. And slowly but surely as the story unfolds I could only see Raavan as the railing of Ragini against the lack of control - the cries of a woman stuck in a completely misogynistic story. Dev's dharma is to kill Beera and Beera's is to oppose his oppressors. And they would do this Ragini or no Ragini. This ensconced brilliantly in the lyrics of BehnE dE. I began to see the song as the voice of someone seeking deliverance from constraints. The two female characters of any significance in Raavan (and quite possibly the Ramayana) exist purely to facilitate the men achieving their "destinies". What use does a woman have for the morality of such a world? If she must choose between order and abandon why not choose abandon? It is in presenting these questions in parallel to the main conflict that Raavan succeeds. It is also the saving grace of an otherwise, largely, schizophrenic film.
Showing posts with label Mani Ratnam. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mani Ratnam. Show all posts
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
The Forgotten - 1
Where I hope to chronicle small roles that loom large in my memory.
If you're a chennai denizen and worthy of being addressed as such, you've heard of and have an opinion on Mani Ratnam's films. And if you've had a friend named Chandramouli, you've never let go an opportunity to channel Karthik from that famous scene in Mouna Raagam. In spite of a borrowed premise, be it the bard's Taming of the Shrew or Mahendran's Nenjaththai Killadhey, this movie is vastly more popular than the original and features one of Tamil cinema's most celebrated cameo's. But this post is not about Manohar.
An obviously conflicted Divya sits on the roof of her house - is it still even her house any more? - as her mother tries to talk her into participating in that most well designed of awkward situations, the first of many nights to be spent with someone you barely know. The archaic ceremony that had taken place earlier in the day, something she had been emotionally blackmailed into, had done nothing to change her apprehensions. Her mother repeating banal statements, the understanding of which is predicated on unquestioningly buying into tradition, just serves to aggravate her further. It is the purpose of youth to disrespect age and the bane of the aged to forget their youth.
It is here that Rathnam's writing stood out to me, demonstrating a considerable understanding of the inner workings of a joint family. Divya's sister-in-law (brother's wife), in all probability realising that the argument would hardly solve anything, asks to speak to her privately. The next scene has Divya facing Chandrakumar in a room. Implied is the fact that the sister-in-law succesfully talked Divya down off the roof. What exactly transpired between them is of no importance, because the average Tamil cinema viewer already knew the outcome. The genius in the writing is how this foregone conclusion is engineered. And who better to do it than a character who probably faced similar apprehensions not long enough ago to have forgotten them?
If you're a chennai denizen and worthy of being addressed as such, you've heard of and have an opinion on Mani Ratnam's films. And if you've had a friend named Chandramouli, you've never let go an opportunity to channel Karthik from that famous scene in Mouna Raagam. In spite of a borrowed premise, be it the bard's Taming of the Shrew or Mahendran's Nenjaththai Killadhey, this movie is vastly more popular than the original and features one of Tamil cinema's most celebrated cameo's. But this post is not about Manohar.
An obviously conflicted Divya sits on the roof of her house - is it still even her house any more? - as her mother tries to talk her into participating in that most well designed of awkward situations, the first of many nights to be spent with someone you barely know. The archaic ceremony that had taken place earlier in the day, something she had been emotionally blackmailed into, had done nothing to change her apprehensions. Her mother repeating banal statements, the understanding of which is predicated on unquestioningly buying into tradition, just serves to aggravate her further. It is the purpose of youth to disrespect age and the bane of the aged to forget their youth.
It is here that Rathnam's writing stood out to me, demonstrating a considerable understanding of the inner workings of a joint family. Divya's sister-in-law (brother's wife), in all probability realising that the argument would hardly solve anything, asks to speak to her privately. The next scene has Divya facing Chandrakumar in a room. Implied is the fact that the sister-in-law succesfully talked Divya down off the roof. What exactly transpired between them is of no importance, because the average Tamil cinema viewer already knew the outcome. The genius in the writing is how this foregone conclusion is engineered. And who better to do it than a character who probably faced similar apprehensions not long enough ago to have forgotten them?
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