Prathyush Parasuraman

In 1957, in Kerala, the world’s first democratically elected communist government took shape. They instituted land reforms that set the landscape bleeding red. The Church was peeved. They saw the Communists as the very embodiment of Antichrist, encroaching on their land. Dijo Jose Antony’s Pallichattambi is set in these ensuing years, where the Christians in the fictional village of Kaaniyaar, on the border between Kerala and Karnataka, strap up, hiring a goon to protect them.

Neelira takes place over one night. There is a note at the end of the film, text on screen, that transcribes the long, arduous journey, from Sri Lanka to Europe, that now lies ahead for one of the characters—Vasuki. That text, pregnant with odyssey, suddenly made the film come alive for a brief second. Then, the film ends. Set in 1988, in Northern Srilanka, Neelira, the first Tamil feature directed by a Sri Lankan Tamilian, begins with the preparation for Vasuki’s wedding—including the logistics of getting permission from the Indian Peace Keeping Force (IPKF) and the Sri Lankan army, though we don’t see a scene with the latter. Have they ceded control to the IPFK in this narrative?

If the film’s story is a skull, Members of the Problematic Family, set in Red Hills, a suburb in North-West Chennai, smashes that skull, and trying to glue it back together, revels in its failure to do so. It is simply one of the most distinctive if disjunctive films to come out of India, filled with a fractured irreverence and putrefying rot, where scenes have the inertia of a hiccup and the texture of filth—liquor breath, burning vomit, spit, blood, and that eternal sheen of sweat. There is a funeral. There is the spectacle around it—which last year, Rohan Kanawade in Sabar Bonda imbued with gentle irony, which debutante R Gowtham here, instead, dials up by sticking microscopically close to the action, the dead body being passed around, held aloft, undressed and dressed, oiled, soiled with ash, garlanded, paraded, the nostrils being pressed close by a child, and eventually, caked in cow dung and hay, and even a smattering of alcohol, burnt to ash.

Prabhendu (Nivin Pauly) is an atheist. Belonging to a Namboothiri family of priests, he abandoned this life, along with the sacred thread and its material comforts, to become a dirt-poor musician. Directed by Akhil Sathyan, Sarvam Maya (Everything is an Illusion) puts a quandary to him—what if he sees a ghost? Will he, then, believe in god, believe that things which cannot be sensed can exist and apply pressure on our lives, regardless?

One of the strange symptoms of our current climate is an inability to distinguish between ironic and unironic love. When I ask friends who have paid for and partaken in Himesh Reshammiya’s Cap Mania concert, if they are enjoying the music or the performance of a collective exercise in irony, the answers confuse me, because the distinction seems hard to make. The question of what to do with celebrities of irony is itching, because they are people who become known for their upfront, unapologetic silliness. We enjoy their audacity. We cringe at the expression of it. Why do we love Rakhi Sawant? Urvashi Rautela? What primal instinct for trash do they accomplish? Perhaps, trash has a street credit that Satyajit Ray simply cannot compete with, a counter-canon kind of joy that insists on and prides itself in being outside of what is considered tasteful and tactful.

With big, puppy dog eyes and an angular nose that could crater dimples into cheeks, facial hair that hoods over his lips, nimble legs that slip into skinny pants, a bicep wide enough to hold a strange tattoo of his dead mother as a mermaid, and a mop of hair so thick and wild, it requires its own continuity supervisor, actor Harish Kalyan finds the pitch of his character in Diesel, Vasu or Diesel Vasu, somewhere between the charming boy from a romantic film and the vengeful hero from an action one, between the lithe dance movements of Vijay and the handsome, brooding anger of Surya, not quite either, not quite both.

Maybe the Polish poet Czeslaw Milosz was right—“When a writer is born into a family, the family is finished.” Artists look at their past as grist they can reframe on their terms. And this anxiety of re-writing one’s personal history sometimes shines through—the best memoirs are, after all, shameless and transgressive, and timid are those that cave under the weight of this trespassing anxiety. or writer-director Anoop Lokkur’s debut Kannada feature Don’t Tell Mother, which had its world premiere at the 30th Busan International Film Festival, this anxiety has been swept aside and muscled under by nostalgia. Set in Jayanagar, Bangalore in the 1990s—a significant Brahmin bastion—the film follows two siblings, Akaash (Siddharth Swaroop) and Adi (Anirudh P. Keserker), young boys inching towards self-hood, as they make space for their childhood alongside punctures of parental influence and interference, school-day routines, classmate cacophony, and the sudden calls and catfights with neighbourhood friends. They live next to a mosque, so the azaan becomes part of their life’s sounds—one the film makes forceful, by cutting to images of the chanting minarets. (In a post-Babri 1990s, when the Infosys IPO is being launched, you feel the film will say more about this, but it doesn’t, and lets these images, like that of Muharram, puncture the proceedings as a form of spectacle without discourse.)

A weepy gay man is a genre unto himself, moping throughout, a smile as though kryptonite, whose relationship to life is mediated by melancholy and self pity, a melancholy and self pity that gushes from the wellspring of his wounded sexuality. Valid or not, this misery is templated. Writer-director Rohan Parashuram Kanawade’s Sabar Bonda (Cactus Pears), the first-ever Marathi-language feature to premiere at the Sundance Film Festival 2025 as part of their World Cinema Dramatic Competition, both deploys and destabilises this genre. Here, the melancholy of Anand (Bhushaan Manoj), the queer protagonist, is actually grief — his father passed away, and it is under the shade of this grief that the story of his sexuality stretches itself in a quiet, twilled yawn.