Naan Kadavul (Aham Brahmasmi)

Surviving, as we barely manage (cinematically speaking, that is) with our sensitivities numbed by the mainstream movies here in this country, it is indeed with unbounded joy that one would welcome any film that breaks through the barrier of the mundane, elevates movie-watching experience to hitherto unexplored levels and, heaven forbid, makes us think. Unfortunately, Naan Kadavul does not belong in that category. Setting itself up for lofty expectations with the title and the marketing buzz and its director’s iconic status it had going for it, Naan Kadavul ends up dishing out mom’s apple pie (ok, amma’s tayir saadam). One would expect that Bala would have truly played with the gift of ambiguity that was given him by two potentially great themes in the movie – Advaita Vedanta and the Aghora philosophy (Opposites are illusory. Everything in creation is Shiva’s perfection.) – both of which are rich in interpretation and representation possibilities – but, no. Naan Kadavul draws unambiguously clear lines distinguishing the good from the evil, and for extra measure, paints the bad guy stereotype with lavish additional coats of black to ensure that thinking is not a mode the viewer even accidentally steps into. In essence, the potentially rich themes remain sadly untapped, awaiting better handling hopefully by some other, more adventurous, director in the future.

The characterization is laughable. Rudra, the protagonist (played by Arya) as an Aghora baba, looks ridiculously out of place with his corpulent physique and his Garnier coiffured, wavy locks (don’t miss the highlights!) and beard trimmed to perfection (hello! Ever heard of dreadlocks? Matted hair? Shiva?). The director seems to have him needlessly looking angry at the world all the time and speaking in some animalistic growl of a voice. Poor Arya might in fact have a good actor sulking deep in him, but Bala’s handling of him doesn’t seem to provide any exit routes for that in this film. Bala’s signature scenes of dark, musty, subterranean corridors strewn with live human bodies in varying degrees of degradation is a constant refrain and starts to get old fairly quickly (we have seen pretty much the exact same scenes starting with “Sethu” many times over now). A hodgepodge assembly of the other characters such as Rudra’s parents, Nair from Kerala, some seemingly hideous villain from somewhere else etc., don’t help the loose script much. Ditto for Pooja’s character - the blind beggar girl, Hamsavalli.

Much needed comic relief in the film is provided quite ably by one of the beggar boy characters (“ivuru periya Ambani” - “yaaru pa inda Ambani?” - “chel pone vikkara aalu – unakkellam teriyadu”) and the comic dialogues are truly funny and light and delivered with excellent timing. While the background score tends to overdo the drama bit (much like the movie itself), the tracks are fabulous – trademark Raja stuff.

So, should you go watch Naan Kadavul? My recommendation would be (notwithstanding the rant above) yes, you should – it’s not very often you see mainstream Indian cinema trying to peek outside through the keyhole. Even if, as in this case, the keyhole appears to have been closed by some errant kid’s chewed-up bubble gum, just the fact that someone’s trying to look, is reason enough to patronize. So, go and discover your inner rant.

Iravukku Munbu Varuvadhu Maalai (short story by Aadavan)

Would it that Aadavan's words were rendered in film, every frame would be a study in intentional anachronism, exaggerated for extra impact. So ill-fitting are the thoughts and actions of the characters and so seemingly misplaced are the props. But of course, to the writer himself, there would have been no intention of anachronism, considering he did in fact write the story back in the time it was actually set in.

இரவுக்கு முன்பு வருவது மாலை (Evening Is What Comes Before Nightfall) can only be described as fantasy fiction, for its visible detachment from reality, or at least how I understand reality to have been in the 60's and 70's in New Delhi, both place and time I cannot stake too much claim on true understanding of.

If the protagonist was a figment of the author's imagination, the insights into and observations of the patriarchal mind is definitely real and hits closer home than comfort would like.

Whether it is in describing the existential angst of the self-proclaimed rebel that is constantly seeking validation of his rebellion from the same mainstream that he believes himself to be in the fringe of (ராஜசேகரனுக்கு சற்றே ஏமாற்றமாகக்கூட இருந்தது. சமூக இயல்பிலிருந்து மாறுபடும் ஒரு மனிதன் தன் சொந்த விருப்பத்தினால் - சொந்த நம்பிக்கைகள், தீர்மானங்கள் காரணமாக - தவிர்க்க முடியாமல் தன்னைத்தானே தனிமைப் படுத்திக் கொள்கிறான் என்றாலும், இந்தத் தனித்தன்மை தன்னால் நிராகரிக்கப்பட்ட சமூகத்தினரிடயே ஒரு சலசலப்பு ஏற்படுத்த வேண்டுமென்றும் அவனுள்ளே ஏதோ ஒரு மூலையில் ரகசிய விருப்பமொன்று இருக்கத்தான் செய்கிறது.), or in laying bare the unambiguous understanding of the patriarchal ego (இந்தத் தருணத்தில் அவரைத் தொடர்ந்து பேச விட வேண்டும். அதே சமயத்தில் ஜாக்கிரதைப்படுத்திவிடக் கூடாது என்று நினைத்தவளாக, "எனக்குப் புரியவில்லை" என்று மிக வெகுளித்தனமாகவும் மன்னிப்புக் கேட்டுக் கொள்கிற, இரக்கப்பட வைக்கிற பாவனையிலும் கூறுகிறேன்.) or in creating a vivid imagery of our middle class fears (அவள் முகத்தில் அபூர்வமானதொரு கிளர்ச்சியும் பரவசமும் தெரிகின்றன. அந்தக் கணம் ஒன்றே அவளுக்கு நிஜமாக இருக்கிறது. அந்தக் கணத்தில் மனதுக்குப் படுவதும், அதைச் செயலாக்குவதும். தன்னைப் பற்றிய உணர்வு - வெளியுலகத்தைப் பற்றிய உணர்வு, இரண்டையுமே வென்றுவிட்ட அல்லது மறந்துவிட்ட ஒரு மெய்மறந்த நிலையில் அவள் இருக்கிறாள். எனக்கும் அந்த நிலையை அடையவே ஆசையாக இருக்கிறது. ஆனால் என்னால் எப்போதுமே அப்படி முழுமையாக என்னை இழக்க முடிவதில்லை. ஒரு 'பில்ட் இன் டிஃபெக்ட்'. மதுவருந்தும்போதோ எதிர்பாலாருடன் கிடக்கும்போதோ, தியேட்டரிலோ, ஃபுட்பால் ஸ்டேடியதிலோ அமர்ந்திருக்கும்போதோ புதிய பிரதேசங்களில் பயணம் செய்யும்போதோ என்னுள் ஒரு பகுதி ஒதுங்கி நின்று என்னைக் கண்காணித்தவாறு இருக்கிறது. என்னை நான் இழக்க முடியாமல் தடுத்தவாறு இருக்கிறது. நிரந்தரமான என்மேல் திணிக்கப்பட்ட சில சிந்தனைத் தடங்களும் உலகாயுதமான ஜாக்கிரதை உணர்வுகளும் என் யதேச்சையான இயல்புகளையும் உந்துதல்களையும் முழுங்கச் செய்து விட்டதை நான் சோகத்துடன் உணர்கிறேன். இந்தச் சோகத்திலும் என்னால் என்னை இழக்க முடியவில்லை.), Aadavan’s clarity of thought and expression is downright scary.

In fact, along the way, Aadavan seems to force the reader out of the peripheries doubtless drawn by the reader initially (time, language, geography...) and mercilessly whips their (the reader’s) attention to focus only on the human intellect, transcending the preconceived notions – a feat not normally observed in vernacular literature, contemporary or classic.

The writing style itself is no less experimental than the thoughts it conveys. Aadavan’s characters slip easily in and out of their skins – now in the first person, now in the third. Now in true (?) character, now in a completely assumed role. My doubts (fears?) as to whether this level of edginess can truly be sustained get abundantly allayed as I read the last page of this short. How exactly? Go find out for yourself. But I will tell you this – there is hope yet :)

PS: A big thanks to Velu for making the introduction.

PPS: Yes, I do realize this is a post about a short story in what was supposed to be a cinema blog.