Sudhir Srinivasan

Adhik Ravichandran’s cinema is a genre unto itself—it’s not so much a film as a rave party. And like all parties, some are more intoxicated than others. It’s not a space for nuanced conversations or emotional coherence. At any given moment, someone’s dying in slow motion, as we laugh and cheer or both. A moment later, the protagonist (AK, played by—you know who) is making soft, sorrowful eyes, while his wife makes the strange transitions between gratitude and anger. This isn’t a flaw with the film; this is its mood. Loud music, neon lights, stylised violence, dancing, homages—everyone’s high on one thing: stardom. Specifically, Ajith Kumar’s. If you should not really be one with the crowd, well, GBU, maamey.

It’s a character’s private world, their unspoken thoughts, the bulk of what makes their personality, what gives them life. When there is interiority, you begin to understand a character—truly. Their thoughts, their motivations; you begin to get them in theory first, but slowly, you begin to sync with them. This isn’t necessarily about attachment—it’s about emotional union, even with those whose decisions you might never make or agree with. I fear Test, for all its ambition, for all its commentary on obsession, for all its felt performances, still struggles to generate this crucial interiority. Perhaps that’s why Arjun, a fading superstar cricketer played by Siddharth, feels so unchanged, so incomprehensibly still—despite the storm around him. There’s a moment where he does something unthinkable, something deeply against his grain, and yet, the moment drifts past us. We don’t sit with his internal struggle, we don’t feel the weight of it. We don’t quite see him shake under it.

At one point in Dominic and the Ladies’ Purse, a classic Gautham Menon-esque heroine enters the world of Dominic (Mammootty). She’s cultured, performs Bharatanatyam, speaks a bit of Tamil and Malayalam, and the English too flows elegantly. Dominic, a middle-aged single man, seems drawn to her, and if you have seen Yennai Arindhaal, you know this isn’t unfamiliar territory for the filmmaker. Except. It is. Even if initially, this might feel like an indulgent distraction from the case Dominic is so fixated on, when a revelation is presented, everything changes. It’s perhaps the earliest sign that this isn’t a film keen to populate its world with characters or relationships as cursory additions. In this world, every element, every human, exists for a reason. Even a random stranger bumping into Dominic in the beginning, gets revisited. Or take an angle that’s more substantial, like the corporate organisation subplot: you think it’s a red herring perhaps, just a way for the film to buy some time to delay the reveal of the real culprit. Yet, it evolves into something transformative, humanising one character while driving another’s arc forward. It’s a film filled with such subtle, beautiful subversions.

Perhaps it’s the repetition of certain ideas, or perhaps it’s the undeniable power of Shankar’s hit cinema, but it’s impossible not to think of his earlier works—his heyday, shall we dare call it—while watching Game Changer. A road grinding to a halt due to governmental apathy reminds you of Mudhalvan. A government authority dismantling corruption? That’s from the same film. There’s even a self-aware reference to Kadhalan as Ram Charan’s shoes perform a little jig during a song. A love-meter reminds you of Anniyan. When the hero lands out of a helicopter, it’s impossible not to think of Sivaji, especially with Jayaram’s character doing the signature tap on the villain’s shaved head.

In Viduthalai Part 2, a film that leans more on thought than emotion, more on words than feelings, my favourite portion is a brief, tender exchange between Perumal (Vijay Sethupathi) and Mahalakshmi (Manju Warrier). They are united by their disillusionment with life and society. Mahalakshmi has almost adopted the appearance of a man (and we later learn why), while Perumal, when tentatively reaching out to her about the prospect of a relationship, stammers and stutters, unsure of himself. Vetrimaaran beautifully allows Mahalakshmi time to respond to Perumal’s proposal, time to think, time in which to give us a beautiful Ilaiyaraaja song. And when you hear his melody, love, expectedly, blooms.

Why do we like Pushparaj? He doesn’t care to look conventionally attractive. His shoulders are lop-sided, his hair unkempt, his speech brimming with contempt. His work? Smuggling red sanders. His retribution? A fierce defiance of systematic oppression, making him a figure of political utility. And his manner of retribution? Ruthless. As he says, he kills “without mercy.” In this sequel, Pushpa seems almost possessed, his machete slicing through limbs as though they were branches from a tree.

You know, it sometimes feels like films don’t quite appreciate the promise of their premise as much as we do. Miss You, for instance, teases a fascinating idea: a man forgets a significant period of his life after an accident—how does this affect his love life? It’s not exactly a groundbreaking premise; memory loss is a well-worn trope. But within this framework lie rich possibilities: repercussions on relationship dynamics, explorations of vulnerability, and the bittersweet beauty of rediscovery. We see this potential, but the frustration is in the film’s failure to do so.

You know, it sometimes feels like films don’t quite appreciate the promise of their premise as much as we do. Miss You, for instance, teases a fascinating idea: a man forgets a significant period of his life after an accident—how does this affect his love life? It’s not exactly a groundbreaking premise; memory loss is a well-worn trope. But within this framework lie rich possibilities: repercussions on relationship dynamics, explorations of vulnerability, and the bittersweet beauty of rediscovery. We see this potential, but the frustration is in the film’s failure to do so.