Aditya Shrikrishna

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.

Dominic Arun’s new superhero film Lokah: Chapter 1- Chandra has a lot of merits but one of its boldest swings is the philosophy behind its villain. After all, every superhero needs a super villain. You take ubiquitous folklore like Yakshis which is bread and butter of every kid and every family in Kerala, so much that it is welded into its literature and pop culture (the iconic Srividya’s role in Kadamattathachan briefly appears in the film). And then when you need a villain to go against this Yakshi-as-a-superhero, you go for the latest but eternal bugaboo of the Indian state. The ideal man of the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS), the practicing Hindu, fit and prim, following the sang’s defined code of Hindu culture, skeptical of every liberal idea, every free spirit, and sexist, misogynist, casteist to the core. How Dominic Arun and co-writer Santhy Balachandran craft him as this sneering pureblood mad man is one of the greatest aspects of the film.

Sandeep Balakrishnan (Mohanlal), a successful cloud kitchen owner from Kochi, possesses a generous heart. His tenants are three aspiring filmmakers who eat in his kitchen for free, and he treats them like his own children. They narrate their script to him, an ultra-violent revenge story that disgusts him to the point of disowning them. Even their insistence that “violence is trending” doesn’t change his mind. This scene, from Sathyan Anthikad’s new film Hridayapoorvam, is a comedic aside, but it also conveys the self-awareness of this film. It’s quintessential Anthikad — light on its feet, airy and like a warm beverage on a rainy afternoon, but now such a film wants to reinforce its merits. The saturation of high-octane mass entertainers has pervaded Indian popular culture so forcefully and brazenly that even a Malayalam film feels the need to acknowledge, course correct and advertise. But, no complaints, it is indeed nice to stay in a different zip code than whatever is trending.

“You don’t know anything about postmodern narrative”, bemoans the Malayalam writer, ghost writing a novel for a small-time, but battle-hardened, world-weary gangster from Thiruvanchipuram. The gangster is narrating his admittedly short but eventful story of adult life, his criminal escapades with four other friends. Crime wasn’t the choice they made. It was a byproduct of all their attempts to legitimise their lives out of oppression, a ticket out of their matchbox-sized slums. Arikuttan, charmingly played by Sanju Sivram, sits across writer Maithreyan, veteran in spirit (played by Jagadish) as well as pedigree, and tells him to go easy on the colourful digressions that the writer plucks out of his imagination. But Maithreyan wants that postmodern flourish, that bite of a story that functions as an adventure with an immediate judgment call laced with irony. It’s not surprising. The writer and director is Krishand, and the Sony LIV web series Sambhava Vivaranam Nalarasangham, or The Chronicles of the 4.5 Gang, has his stamp all over.

After five films, Lokesh Kanagaraj’s staples are now well known. His films teem with men embodying varying degrees of macho masculinity, vulnerability and identity crisis. Reluctant heroes drawn into battle against their will, their current pedigree not betraying their past or their abilities. The men of Maanagaram were only looking for love or an IT job or both. We don’t know what Dilli (Karthi in Kaithi) was doing before he went to prison. We meet JD (Vijay in Master) as an alcoholic college professor with no motivation to live for himself, much less for others. Vikram (Kamal Haasan in the eponymous film) retired to a life of geriatric parenthood and then he lost his son. Even Vijay’s Leo with his history of violence found a new name, new identity and an entrance into annals of the happy Indian family. And then shit happens. To all of them.

Over an hour into 3 BHK, director Sri Ganesh stages a scene in a restaurant that is completely disconnected from the rest of the film. It occurs out of nowhere and sticks out like a stray limb out of a burning pyre. Prabhu (Siddharth) and his sister Aarthy (Meeta Raghunath) take their parents, Vasudevan (Sarath Kumar) and Shanthi (Devayani), to a fancy restaurant for their wedding anniversary. The restaurant is way out of their middle class means. As a flabbergasted Vasudevan looks at the menu and his surroundings, Prabhu turns to him and says “kaalam maari pochu (times have changed)”. It is a regular aphorism, but it is also the title of a popular 1996 film from the stables of V Sekar, the ‘90s kingpin of middle-class family dramas. Dramas that might be lowbrow on the surface but have a remarkable level of honesty and clarity. They shoot straight and are seldom disingenuous. That moment really clicked into place what is not working with 3 BHK, ostensibly a similar film but one that takes itself way too seriously and has very little authenticity to deserve our attention.

It’s always cause for celebration when a quintessential arthouse film that did everything right from its inception to production tours the world of festivals, earns accolades, and finally finds a theatrical release. No matter what happens, a public exhibition in the theatre is one of the greatest joys both for the audience as well as the filmmaker. Subhadra Mahajan’s Second Chance had its world premiere at Karlovy Vary International Film Festival 2024 as part of the Proxima Competition. After the premiere, the film travelled to Dharamshala for its India premiere at Dharamshala International Film Festival followed by, among others, International Film Festival of Kerala in the Indian Cinema Now section. Shot in monochrome by cinematographer Swapnil S. Sonawane, it is a gentle document of a young woman finding hope and solace from the utter brink in the mountains. , as Mahajan has said in different interviews, bridges two worlds — the privileged, upper-class world of the protagonist Nia (Dheera Johnson) and the lives of Bhemi and the indigenous people in the mountains, one that is as simple as it is physically and emotionally exhausting. The film gets a theatrical release in select cities on June 13.

It is not prudent to use business terms for art but as this concerns mainstream commercial cinema anyway, here we are. Usually, a Mani Ratnam film promises minimum guarantee. No matter what the film has in store — it works, meanders, dips or is politically dubious — there is always something cinematic, something inspired scattered here and there. Something you can take home, something you can watch in isolation years later. A shot, a stray scene or line or exchange that we can search on YouTube long after the release of the film. Kadal has some exquisite kinetic shotmaking. Guru is magical in some of its interpersonal dynamics. Thiruda Thiruda, for all its vacuousness, is a great ride and rarely a slog. Kaatru Veliyidai at its core has a wonderful premise that is lifelike and probed with intent even if timidly. So far Chekka Chivantha Vaanam was that odd one out with hardly a Mani Ratnam stamp. But here we are: as celebrated as Nayakan is and will remain forever, Mani Ratnam’s weakest film, for now, is his second collaboration with Kamal Haasan — Thug Life.