Aditya Shrikrishna

Vikarnan Ashok’s Mask begins in chaos. Not of the good cinematic kind. It’s not a film with a handful of characters overwhelmed by their own endgames. It’s not the cinema where chaos is orchestrated to give the audience a high, one where so many things happen so fast that we hold our breath in unison, only for that single moment to strike when we let loose. Mask inadvertently orchestrates chaos. It has a narration voiced by director Nelson Dilipkumar. It has overlapping dialogues, layer over layer, along with this narration. It also has GV Prakash’s incongruent score. We witness a loot, Money Heist style but with MR Radha masks and then Nelson introduces us to a host of characters, chiefly Velu (Kavin), who has caused two deaths thanks to his paramour Rathi (Ruhani Sharma), and Bhoomi (Andrea Jermiah), a philanthropist who saves children from human trafficking but she might also be into the flesh trade and probably moonlights as a power broker. Confused much? Mask is one such hurriedly put-together meal of different cuisines with no flavour profile.

Cinematographer-turned-director Sraiyanti’s Auto Queens begins with a bird’s-eye view of Chennai and comes to rest at a safe distance above the bustling city’s coast when we hear two voices munching on fish and talking. “The worries of the world fade away at the beach,” one says. They are Mohana and Leela Rani, women auto drivers of Chennai who are here to buy a peaceful minute away from the roads of a rough city, one that is hostile and sceptical about carving public space for its women.

The opening credits of Selvamani Selvaraj’s Kaantha play over behind-the-scenes photographs of classic South Indian cinema from an era when films were mostly made in Madras and a handful of studios produced all movies. These were Modern Theatres (based in Salem), AVM, Gemini Studios, Vijaya Vauhini and Prasad, and the artists and producers tied to these studios made films across Tamil, Telugu and even Hindi. Kaantha creates the fictitious Modern Studios headed by a young second-generation producer, Martin Prabhakaran (Ravindra Vijay), and borrows the “Thiruchengodu” from the real-life Modern Theatres founder TR Sundaram and gives it to its protagonist TK Mahadevan, played by Dulquer Salmaan. We enter Kaantha in media res, the dramatic stakes already high at the epicentre of the conflict. Ayya (Samuthirakani), a modest filmmaker, is still waiting to make his shelved magnum opus ‘Shaantha’ — a horror film based on his mother — and the current sensation (and Ayya’s apprentice turned nemesis) TK Mahadevan’s willingness is all it takes to get it back on the floors. After a quick conversation in Martin’s office with Ayya, Kaantha starts off on day one of the shoot with Ayya and Mahadevan’s hostility fresh and glistening.

Rahul Sadasivan has a thing for singular settings. His genre can often be defined as chamber horror. In Bhoothakaalam, the film that announced him, it is the dysfunctional domestic abode that is both the place and the protagonist. In Bramayugam, a 17th-century mana belonging to a Namboothiri, shot in glorious monochrome, makes us wonder if it is haunted or is the object that haunts.

THE GAME: YOU NEVER PLAY ALONE is ominous not only in its title but also in its inaugural stature as Netflix India’s first Tamil original of the year. So far, Netflix has mostly dabbled in anthologies in Tamil; web series are a rarity. The world of web series is slow to take off in South India owing to factors like budget constraints, the scepticism about streaming within the film industries, and operational reasons from writing to production. It’s still at a nascent stage, even as OTT platforms introduce new series in several south Indian languages, and streaming itself is undergoing a churn in how it is viewed and operated. At this time comes The Game, a Tamil series starring Shraddha Srinath and Santhosh Prathap, written by Deepthi Govindarajan and directed by Rajesh M Selva. It takes long form’s trusted entry-level genre — thriller — and encapsulates it within a game developer’s world where digital objects become as much of a minefield as real life.

In Neeraj Ghaywan’s new film Homebound, Vishal Jethwa and Ishaan Khatter play Chandan Kumar and Mohammed Shoaib Ali, respectively, two best friends whose identities bolster their interpersonal dynamics as much as they make them precarious in their relationship to the rest of the country. Shoaib comes from a Muslim family in India’s Hindi heartland; his father is a farmer in his last legs, quite literally. His knees are done, and he is unable to tend to his field. Chandan belongs to a working-class Dalit family; his parents are laborers, and his sister, not the chosen one for education, cleans after the children in a local government school. These factors that make up the length and breadth of India’s fault lines don’t come between Chandan and Shoaib or their families. Still, two decades into the first century and almost seventy years after independence, they determine everything from the quality of daily life to their future.

In Athiyan Athirai’s sophomore film, Thandakaaranyam, the eponymous forests become a MacGuffin that is forever out of reach of the protagonists. It’s a story that’s ostensibly about the fault lines and simmering tensions between the state, comprising a nexus of the police, paramilitary forces that collude with politicians and conglomerates, and the tribal population that is given the unqualified title of Naxalites. The forests remain in the margins in Athirai’s film (his Irandam Ulagaporin Kadaisi Gundu remains one of the best debuts in Tamil cinema of the last decade); they are not landscapes for conspiracy, separatist forces or ambushes — it comes across as a conscious decision. The forest is more life and livelihood, one that is as one with the self as skin. But the forest security offices and the training camps, the locations where injustices truly roost, are the places of interest.

In Varsha Bharath’s Bad Girl, the eponymous protagonist keeps returning to one question that hovers over her life like a single dark cloud obscuring the galaxy of stars beyond. “Naa yen ipdi irukken?” (Why am I like this?) The girl is Ramya, a name that is so commonplace in South India that it could be its own Jane Doe for half a country. For a whole generation that grew up between the 1980s and the first decade of the 21st century, the name bears no real characteristic. In a certain class of society, it is as regular as music class after school or the insistence to speak in textbook perfect English outside of the classroom. Bad Girl begins around the mid-2000s — a generation that was sneaking mobile phones into school and beta tested Orkut before the exodus to Facebook; so probably the last to stick to a name like Ramya. And yet, there are three Ramyas in the classroom. Bad Girl’s Ramya (Anjali Sivaraman), daughter of a teacher (Shanthipriya as Sundari) in the same school, is so feral that she strives to be the main character in her life, a life of banality according to her. The life of all Ramyas.