Vishal Menon

Right from the casting of the delightful Nithya Menen as Shriya, to the picture-perfect houses; from AR Rahman’s youthful score to the way these songs are shot, coded in shades of red and blue; there’s a dotingly recreated design in Kadhalikka Neramillai that is meant to evoke Mani Ratnam’s O Kadhal Kanmani (2015). Like the 2015 romance, Kiruthiga Udhayanadhi’s film also is set around two hyper-individualistic protagonists, each with their own sets of rules and quirks. If OKK was about a couple that was marriage-averse, Kadhalikka Neramillai is about two people who do not believe in commitment. But what if you add an extra layer of conflict into their midst by throwing in the idea of having children? That is what makes Kadhalikka Neramillai a cultural update of O Kadhal Kanmani, like a thought exercise that was born when someone mooted, “What if Tara and Aditya from OKK met, but later, when they are in their 30s?” It’s this bit of tweaking that makes for a more complex film. In a casual breakfast scene set at Shriya’s house, we see her correcting her mother (lovingly called Kanmani!) when she assumes Shriya to still be a virgin. This isn’t a movie about glossy love-at-first-sight moments or syrupy meet-cutes. Well into their adult lives, both Sid (Ravi Mohan) and Shriya (Nithya Menen) have been through enough heartbreaks to realise that love is… a matter of time.

Sundar C’s long-delayed Madha Gaja Raja is not the sort of film you enter expecting complex interpersonal relationships or technical finesse. Even if we’d watched the film in 2012 — when it was originally set to release — we may still have found its scenes dated or objectionable. It’s as though we’re forced to remind ourselves that this film is a product of its time, urging us to be kinder because none of us knew any better. Simpler times we no longer have the patience for; like that scene that follows when Raja (Vishal) learns that his friend’s wife has misplaced her gold necklace. Instead of launching an investigation, Raja offers his own gold chain and urges his friends to pool in to make up for the lost necklace. Or the other scene in which Raja deliberately loses a race, just so his rival feels respected in his hometown. Or even the over-the-top nobility with which Raja moves to Chennai to get a corporate honcho to return ₹ 52,20,350 to his broke bestie. It’s all sickeningly sweet, but you’d be shocked at how badly we want to buy into all this.

There is a 10-minute-long sequence in Identity, in which an important character explains a medical condition called prosopagnosia—a rare cognitive disorder where damage to a particular part of the brain affects the patient’s ability to identify faces. The scene itself is loaded with exposition, almost like a TED Talk, but it is effective in explaining the condition of the film’s most important character. As a detail, it sounds just about right to make the character appear mysterious, vague and, of course, human. But on a screenplay level, it forms a solid base to explore the unreliable narrator trope—where the only person whose observations matter, is the one who cannot be relied on at all.

Bala probably forgot that he is Bala. Why else would a director with an obsession for the same pet themes begin a film with a song like ‘Irai Nooru’? The song composed by GV Prakash, isn’t the issue. It’s another one of those mirthful songs about a brother and the unending love he feels for his sister. They have fun, they go to the beach, they go to temples, they go to church, and they are obviously very happy. The year is 2025 and by now, we have a 100-year history of movies telling us that something terrible is going to happen when a film begins with such a lazy, happy montage. And then we must remember that this movie is being made by Bala, a man who has built his brand around tragedies. The remaining runtime of Vanangaan, then, isn’t so much about what’s going to happen and why, as much as it is about how many people are going to die and if we will care when they do.

In the first part of Viduthalai, you’d remember the long trek Kumaresan (Soori) undertakes to reach the camp where he is posted as a police constable for the first time. Even for a story that takes more than five hours to unfold, you’d remember the slow pace with which he treks across terrains, water bodies and hills to finally get to the top. Until today, I felt the pacing was intentional because we needed to understand how remote and challenging it was going to be for Kumaresan to work there. Narratively too, it was important for us to register the hostile terrain everyone in this movie was fighting over, right from the locals to the police and the mining corporation that wants to set up shop there.

The blood begins to flow even before the first scene in Marco. For a film about a bastard son avenging the murder of his adopted brother, it’s appropriate for even the opening credits to show his family tree in the form of a (literal) bloodline, as blood flows from one generation to next. Haneef Adeni, after the unwatchable comedy Ramachandra Boss & Co, returns home to a world he is most familiar with, in Marco. All his obsessions return too, including the Biblical references, Christian symbolism, Malayali men dressed for black tie events in peak summer, and the cringiest of English dialogues that are too lethal even for TikTok.

In Aashiq Abu’s Rifle Club, manliness is next to godliness. It’s set in a hyper-violent world with no room for peaceful resolutions or around-the-table diplomacy. An eye for an eye is the only diktat, and it’s the meanest, most frenetic Western you’re likely to see from one of our Southern-most states. It takes place in 1991 and this gives the film a pre-woke recklessness that’s rare in a film set in today’s time. Instead, the film’s allegiance to machismo is so on-the-nose that it doesn’t even try to hide the many phallic symbols that “rise” from subtext to text. In a chilling scene, when an outsider asks Itty (a killer Vani Vishwanath) if he can speak to the man of the house, she forces him to look down, pointing at her loaded pistol. This is not your average household in which women are valued based on their looks or their ability to cook. For members of the Rifle Club, what matters most is the ability to shoot, gender notwithstanding.

There’s a tiny, two-minute stretch towards the end of the cloyingly sentimental Miss You, when we finally get a semblance of an idea that’s actually worth one’s time. Until then, Miss You is about Vasu (Siddharth), a man who cannot remember two years of his life, including his unhappy marriage. But as the film resolves Vasu’s battle with amnesia (albeit conveniently), he gets a call from a movie producer who approves of a script he had narrated a year ago. He’s been through so much during this period that he no longer remembers what he pitched and begins to frantically look for the forgotten idea. Getting a project greenlit, as we all know, is so close to impossible that we quickly sympathise with Vasu. Imagine looking through all your notes to piece together a script you’ve forgotten. Imagine having to trace your steps to go through the emotional and creative journey that made you a writer in the first place. Like learning to play the violin again, or trying to remember the recipe to your signature dish, there’s so much one can do with the concept of a man with amnesia. But Miss You is entirely satisfied chasing the one aspect of it that every single film before this has already addressed…love.