Sudhir Srinivasan

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.

The situation isn’t entirely new for a Tamil film: a Tamil man, Mukund (Sivakarthikeyan), enters a Malayali household to seek the hand of their daughter, Indhu (Sai Pallavi). In Tamil cinema lore, such scenes often signal trouble. In Autograph, Cheran’s character faces a quick rejection, a violent ejection. In Vinnaithaandi Varuvaayaa, Simbu’s character meets a similar fate. But in Amaran, the hero cannot be quickly insulted or rejected, for Mukund arrives cloaked in the authority of an army uniform, a symbol that tempers resistance with respect. Where once Indhu’s father opposed the relationship, now he’s disarmed by the unspoken reverence for a man in uniform. This scene is restrained, absent of cinematic exaggeration; instead, director Rajkumar Periasamy allows these moments to revel in soft, unspoken gestures, where relationships get organically forged.

In among the best stretches of Vettaiyan, the friend of an accused—both hailing from the slums—is being interrogated for his assistance in facilitating the latter’s escape, and the police eagerly slap their biases on them. Director TJ Gnanavel quietly, and subtly captures the indignation of these two young men at various times, as they square up to the police forces. It takes a great line about friendship from Athiyan (Rajinikanth) to restore a bit of faith in the young man’s eyes.