Thani Oruvan

It was a time when Mysore Sandal and Pears were considered ‘premium’. Maruti 800 was the car we aspired to own. And that’s when Arvind Swamy wooed us amidst all the ‘pudhu vellai mazhai’. Overnight, he was the man women fancied. Premium, with a capital P. Mouna Raagam’s Karthik was displaced, like yesterday’s leftover rasa vandi. The man was all class. His voice was smooth and sharp, at the same time. Like the fictional but unforgettable Hattori Hanzo sword. His Tamil pronunciation was right. He spoke English with finesse. No one cared if he could flex his muscles or flaunt a six pack.

And then, he left. But every film of his was cherishable. We never stopped admiring him. Never was he forgotten. Remote controls paused when the random 24 hour music channel played Kaadhal Rojave… Engae nee engae.

I don’t watch many movies. I watch maaaaybe 2 movies a year. On a good year, that is. And recently, I vowed to change that. So, I caught Thani Oruvan recently. And I fell for Arvind Swamy hook, line and sinker. I focussed on little else.

The film joins a long list of ‘could have beens’. The story is awesome. Awesome, not just for a Tamil movie, as people tend to say when they describe Thani Oruvan. It doesn’t look plagiarised. A brilliant antagonist who doesn’t like getting his hands dirty is something we rarely see in Tamil Cinema. The last time I liked the antagonist in a Tamil film was in Udhiri Pookkal.

A classy man on screen is awesome. We have seen the Sanjay Ramaswamys. A classy man with a past in Chennai slums, a scientist who understands the intricacies of local politics and power struggles is beyond awesome. Arvind Swamy as Siddharth Abhimanyu doesn’t throw his shirt off and get into fist fights. He doesn’t dance to masala numbers with his girlfriend. He spends his time in a lab! And gets people assassinated with the press of a few cellphone buttons. I decided to like the movie in the first ten minutes, when a young Palani (yet to become the Joker of his Gotham) discusses political leverage and loopholes in juvenile delinquency laws.  

The intelligently woven story makes up for the goofs- the protagonist dabbles with vigilante justice before becoming an IPS officer. The firang lady who’s thrown a stunning welcome is referred with her first name alone. Ravi struggles to pronounce names right. Jayam Ravi’s Mithran is revered a tad too much by his batch mates. And worst of all, in this day when women’s emancipation is to be handled responsibly, the director falls into Tamil masala formula. It irks us when Mahima(Nayantara) clears her civil service examinations and then gives it up because of love gone sour. Enna kodumai? Formula wise, Nayantara in uniform would have been a stunner, Raja! And don’t even get me started on the ‘righteous’ hero doling out advice to the female lead on kulchur.

Tamil Cinema is stuck on their women and men playing hard to get. Thani Oruvan is no exception. And Mithran ‘realising’ his love for Mahima is baseless. Nevertheless, the film redeems itself with Mithran professing his love with a whiteboard and marker. Oh yes, it’s a Tamil padam and it’s an unwritten rule that the scene has to be followed by a song set in scenic tropical islands with fluttering duppatas.

Jayam Ravi is almost alright, for the role. He’s no Anbuselvan IPS. Mithran, the cop who knows it all and does everything right has the voice of a cornered mouse. Recently, I watched one of Ajit’s initial attempts at acting- Aval Varuvaala. I guess the movie was a hit because of Simran’s hotness factor. ( Remember the racy number ‘Jannal veccha jacket podavaa’?). Anyhow, Ajit’s voice back then is weird. Reminds you of castrated choir boys. Fast forward to Yennai Arindhaal: Satyadev IPS is the whole package. His voice is perfect for the role he essays. In stark contrast is the voice of Arvind Swamy. You actually sit up and take notice when he utters words and phrases like ‘Imbecile’, ‘Love at first sight, kill at first betrayal’. The man’s Tamil uccharippu is a major turn on! 

You could argue that the ‘hero’ himself gets only secondary screen presence and that it is only natural that his sidekicks get less than that. But why get a bunch of hotter-than-Ravi dudes like Ganesh Venkatraman and waste them?

Another gem in the movie is Thambi Ramaiah who plays the Siddharth Abhimanyu’s Supandi-ish father.  Overall, I am happy I watched the movie. And would love to watch it again. Minus the lame punch dialogues like, ‘un edhiri yaar endru sol, nee yaar endru solgiraen’, Mithran’s righteous-snob dialogues, the film would have been much, much better. And the script strays far from reality when it shows IPS officers taking a personal interest in felling individuals. Vigilante justice sheathed in uniform?

What stays in my mind, long after watching the movie is Arvind Swamy going to the CM and turning the tables with an Ennamma ippadi pannreengalae maa. Splendid! 

Flirting with the fulcrum of sanity

Digging into posts from the past. This is from early 2009.

A day of melancholy. Rather, a day of ‘wanting’ to stick to melancholy, while life spirals out beyond grasp. And the reigns that control its centripetal velocity are not in familiar realms.
Listening to Uravugal Thodarkadhai back to back. Again and again. ‘Ini ellaam sugame’ keeps ringing in my mind. And for some strange reason, I seem to need the assurance. Reassurance. I keep pressing the play-again button. Whether it really is ‘Ini Ellaam Sugame’, I don’t know. Don’t have a clue about it. Of course, the Goat born in the fag-end of December does not believe in fairy tale endings.

I’m moving away from the past with a pace that startles me. There are no sketches and route maps to future. I have no visions about future. And the present is spent in strange motley of emotions. Strangely, I am associating myself more with Vaanathi than with Poonkuzhali. A transition that strangely offers no qualms, no identity crises. Contention?

Kalyani or Kaikeyi?
All I need, is a premature short-term first installment of second childishness. And a weekend trip. An hour long foot massage with some Senchurutti or Neelambari playing on the iPod. N no. of laps in a pool, until I tire out completely, tire so much that it requires too much of an effort to think. All ye, grey cells, you find your way to the arms of Morpheus.

I’m least alarmed, but would this steadfast sanity drive me insane? Worth a thought.   Clarity that glares back at me. Doesn’t intimidate me, though. I don’t refuse to take questions, it is just that it’s insane to expect an answer. Moving, moving... Light-years ahead of the previous fuel stop. I stopped keeping track of the map, nor do I care to look at the speedometer. Vedhanthamaa Siddhaanthamaa...

Whatever it is that I am taking, with reckless abandon, neither is it getting me on a high, nor is it making me sleep. And the glass gets more potent with every successive round. Yet, my fingers hold the stem steadier than before.

A palpable mirage?

OK Kan Mani.

Mani is back on track. Pun intended. I guess there is someone who loves trains than does Sheldon Cooper.

I admit that I found the initial animated game sequence a little bleh. But the film redeems itself after the initial hiccough. So does the director after two back to back flops where no one understood what he tried doing.

Dulquer Salman is hot. He is all set to become to the Madhavan of this generation.  I know I sound like Shobha De gushing over Raghuram Rajan. So, pardon all the joll. He’s slick, suave and his almost-non-existent-but-definitely-there Malayalam accented Tamil is sexy. Reminds me of Mamooty in Mounam Sammadham. He is not larger than life like most mainstream heroes today. No six pack! He looks real in his Jockey tracks or boxers. Forget that he’s the son of a rich and well educated hero of the yesteryears. Forget that he’s from Sishya, that elitist school in Chennai where kids flaunt their BMWs more than they do, their grades. Dulquer manages to fit in as the middle class West Mambalam lad whose nationalised bank employee family had to run from pillar to post to get him into PSBB. Strikes an AR Rahman chord with the PSBB reference.

Droolquer.



Nithya Menen is what Indian cinema needs. She’s not the size zero lass who shakes a leg and smiles here and there. She looks like she eats more than lettuce leaves and celery stalks. We have seen that Mani has always chosen women with personality. Nithya reminds you of Revathi from Mouna Raagam and Shalini from Alai Payuthey. Her clothes are vintage Mani Ratnam. Earthy and Indian handloom chic.  Nalini Sriram again? Silver earrings, buttoned and asymmetric skirts, a riot of Indian colours, fabrics and craft processes…  feast for the eyes! The uber expensive luxury bag (Louis Vuitton?)Tara’s mum presents Tara screams the difference between mom and daughter. Old money, Coimbatore, Gounder, Mill owner, private jet, Race Course Road Residence, board meetings versus the artistically inclined, free willed architect who wants to live life in her own terms. Mumbai is just the right setting for that. Gateway to freedom from nosy parents!

As I mentioned earlier, I thought the movie was going to suck, thanks to the animation sequence and Dulquer Salman’s crazy I-want-visibility-with-the-boss scene. Seriously? Sounded like he was high on pot. Now, when I think of that particular scene, I am reminded of veteran Nagesh, playing the raconteur, in Kadhalikka Neramillai where he thrills Balaiah and the audience with his thriller story.  I mean, DS is no Nagesh but the scene reminded me of KN. A colleague of mine has to jump in and steal every show with long lectures on stuff he had just chanced upon on the internet. He does nothing, but talks in every meeting and makes sure the boss notices him. I repeat, he does nothing and but goes places in the organization. Yes, we all hate him. Adhi reminded me of that kiss ass colleague.

I understand drunk one night stands in movies. I understand passion that stems from days of togetherness. But I fail to understand it when Tara and Adhi hop into bed after half a dozen scenes. Am I just too old to understand this? But I guess it makes sense in some warped world; they admit it is a relationship without strings and perhaps that is how it is. And ohh, it is surprising and very unreal to find that an Ahmedabad lodge that looks dingy from the outside houses an architectural marvel of a room inside. The swing, the poster bed, the detailed partition… ITC Grand Chola doesn’t have such rooms, I bet.

I don’t like Bombay. There, I said it. I find it dirty, congested and too full of people and matchbox sized apartments with peeling layers of paint. Balconies become bedrooms and bedrooms become full-fledged apartments. But the Bombay shown in OKK seems nice. Adhi and Tara take you to old Bombay haunts in their very Chennai Royal Enfield.

I know most people have said this. And I have to say Amen. Prakashraj and Leela Samson steal the show from Dulquer and Nithya. Leela Samson, Y U NO play more movie roles? I fell in love with the couple the moment I saw her call her husband, ‘Ganapathi’. She looks very convincing as the Carnatic musician in Bombay. Clad in Ikat blouses and sarees, she makes a statement. And I loved it that Mani has portrayed Ganapathy making rasam and ‘manning’ the kitchen. How often do we see movie husbands in their 50s and 60s shelling green peas at the dining table? They are generally seen having their kaapi with a newspaper spread in front of them.

I remember from B Rangan’s ‘Conversations with Mani Ratnam’ that Charu Haasan, Mani’s FIL lost his memory in London and that his daughters sang to him in an attempt to revive his memory. In OKK, Bhavani has memory lapses, thanks to Alzheimer’s. Aadhi’s request for Tara move to his room is shot down by Ganapathi , his landlord. He is sure that his wife would also refuse. In her rare bout of sane moments, she calls her husband old fashioned; he’s the kind of man who would lower the window and put his hand out, in addition to switching on the car indicator, she says. Tara renders a wonderful Carnatic number and gets her passport to Bhavani’s heart and home. Ganapathi submits to that. Ganapathi and Bhavani seem to have great taste: their flat seems wonderfully and tastefully decorated. Very Madras, in the heart of Mumbai. It fits in with Ganapthi’s statement that it was only natural for a Kumbakonam guy from Indian Overseas Bank to gravitate to Mumbai’s Carnatic scene. Hard to swallow that an IOB employee and Carnatic musician can afford that in Bombay.

Music is no Alai Payuthey. But it is OK, Kanmani. And interestingly, I like Mana Mana Mental Manadhil more than I like the Behag composition.

About the many glitches in the movie I felt they were largely because Mani Ratnam has tried hard to ‘connect’ with the current generation. Skype calls, iPad apps, Loopy, video games, animation… the overkill was with the unrealistic, orchestrated attempt to sound net savvy- ‘go to makemytrip.com , get the cheapest flight ticket to Chennai, get BP tablets from the airport pharmacist and meet me at home; your live in girlfriend’s mom is here with her fancy cars and relatives’. And is the very obviously gay colleague character one of the attempts to look cool? Epic fail!

While Mani weaves magic with the romance between Ganapathi and Bhavani, interspersed with handwritten love letters and Carnatic music, he leaves us confused with the romance between Tara and Adhi.  The movie suggests that the pair want a fling and nothing else. The ‘love’ word is not used in the movie. Understandably. Appram, enna kalyanam mattum venum kadaisila?  And while they are ready to move in and live together, why do they seem to need a marriage certificate in the end? Feeling insecure, Adhi and Tara? And yet, I fell in love with the scene where Adhi says, ‘Paris po, Keeris po.. aanaa enna kalyanam pannindu po’.

Did I like the movie? Yes. I watched it after a hiatus of two years. I wanted to watch THIS movie. And it didn’t let me down. My money is on Mani. Welcome back.