The film begins with the standard disclaimer: “All scenes and characters depicted are fictional.” Yet what followed felt like a deliberate, pointed portrayal — not of fiction, but of ideological venom. The first fifteen minutes of the movie depict a village being burned down in 2002, clearly hinting at real-life communal violence. A disturbing scene shows a young Muslim boy calling for his father during an ambush, only to be brutally beaten to death by a Hindu man. This is followed by a group of Muslims seeking refuge in a Hindu household, where they are attacked once again culminating in a horrifying moment where a Hindu man rapes a pregnant Muslim woman. 

These scenes were not only excessive but were filmed with a narrative that clearly paints an entire Hindu Community in a vicious and villainous light. It was deeply troubling to see such depictions presented with such intensity and bias, especially by a celebrated actor-director duo like Prithviraj and Mohanlal. This isn’t just fiction, this is a narrative choice, and a deeply polarizing one. 

The film continues to propagate this agenda with the storyline revolving around a prominent political party merging with a pro-Hindu party. This, according to the director, is shown as an event that distorts Kerala’s culture and politics, a dangerous and divisive message, hinting at real-life political propaganda against the BJP. 

One of the most bizarre and baseless moments in the film is when a villain affiliated with the pro-Hindu party resembling Prime Minister Narendra Modi states that “Kerala, with its 600 km coastline, can be used to smuggle drugs and psychotropic substances.” Where Prithviraj sourced this outrageous claim remains a mystery. Adding to this absurdity is a shocking reference to a bomb being dropped on a dam an unmistakable nod to the Mullaiperiyar Dam, laced with unnecessary fear-mongering and sensationalism. 

The political undertone of the film turns darker in the climax. The pro-Hindu leader clearly resembling the image of Prime Minister Narendra Modi is killed. His allies are gunned down, while the ones standing victorious alongside Prithviraj and Mohanlal are portrayed as foreigners. The implication is chilling a subtle suggestion that the Prime Minister of India could be eliminated with the help of foreign forces.

From a cinematic perspective, the film is a disaster. Technically weak, poorly edited, and unnecessarily stretched, Empuraan struggles even as a work of fiction. The camera work is subpar, with random angle choices that make no visual or narrative sense. The much-hyped “OTT-quality shot” that the director bragged about during an interview is nowhere to be seen unless he meant the third-rate visuals that populated most of the film. 

Though titled Empuraan, the movie narrates the story of Zayed Masood, played by Prithviraj, with Mohanlal’s character seemingly irrelevant and underutilized. For a Lalettan fan, this felt like a betrayal. The film wasn’t about him. It was about pushing a political ideology and settling ideological scores, not telling a story. 

This is not the first time Prithviraj has pushed an anti-Hindu agenda. His previous film Jana Gana Mana carried similar undertones. And now, Empuraan joins a growing list of Malayalam films that seem to follow a disturbing trend Kuruthi, Kappela, The Great Indian Kitchen, and now this all produced or associated with a particular nexus involving Prithviraj, Suraj Venjaramoodu, Roshan Mathew, and producer Listin Stephen. Each film, in its own way, subtly or overtly vilifies Hindu traditions, beliefs, and institutions. 

What could’ve been a grand cinematic journey turned into a politically motivated hit job. Empuraan isn’t just a bad film, it’s an attack on faith, on political plurality, and on the very soul of balanced storytelling. 

Abhijith Radhakrishnan Nair is a political consultant.

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The post Empuraan: A Disturbing, Divisive Tale Disguised As Cinema Where Commie Propagandist Prithviraj Fetishes The Killing Of PM Modi Look Alike With The Help Of Foreign Forces appeared first on The Commune.

“L2: Empuraan,” unleashed on March 27, 2025, was billed as Mohanlal’s triumphant return, a sequel to “Lucifer” meant to hoist Malayalam cinema into the stratosphere. Instead, it’s a grotesque propaganda vehicle, steered off a cliff by director Prithviraj Sukumaran and writer Murali Gopy, with Mohanlal as Khureshi Ab’raam/Stephen Nedumpally reduced to a pawn in their sanctimonious game. What could have been a cinematic triumph is instead a shameless assault on Hindu sentiments, the BJP, and Prime Minister Narendra Modi, delivered with the finesse of a drunk uncle ranting at a wedding. Much like Rajinikanth’s trash film “Kaala” which blatantly peddled anti-Hindu and anti-BJP propaganda, “Empuraan” swan-dives into the same cesspool, dragging Mohanlal’s legacy down with it in a spectacle of political posturing and betrayal. If the entire review has to be summarized in a single line – Empuraan is worth nothing except for the meaning you get when you misread the name in Tamil. For a detailed analysis read further.

Kaala:Rajini::Empuraan:Mohanlal

In Kaala, the anti-Hindu streak is blatant and unapologetic. Ranjith casts Rajinikanth as a Dharavi slum leader, a dark-clad “Ravana” figure pitted against Nana Patekar’s white-clad, Ram-worshipping villain, Hari Abhyankar, the leader of Navbharat Nationalist Party (a BJP stand-in). The film flips the Ramayana on its head, glorifying Ravana as a Dravidian hero while mocking Rama as a symbol of oppressive Hindu hegemony. Hindu rituals, like Ganesh Chaturthi, are sneered at, and the antagonist’s devotion to Krishna and Rama is framed as a jibe at Hindus. The messaging is clear: Hindu traditions are tools of the elite to crush the downtrodden, with Dalit and Muslim characters lionized as victims of this savarna savagery. It’s a sledgehammer approach—crude, in-your-face, and dripping with Ranjith’s disdain for anything saffron.

Empuraan, by contrast, takes a slicker, more insidious tack. The fictional Akhanda Shakti Morcha (ASM), a Hindutva party, is a thinly veiled BJP proxy. It’s the BJP and RSS in all but name, cast as barbaric vandals tearing apart Kerala’s “secular” soul. Prithviraj and writer Murali Gopy don’t just stop at political critique—they caricature Hindu karsevaks as violent thugs, while their foes, including Mohanlal’s shadowy protagonist, emerge as morally superior. The film’s symbolism, like burning crosses and collapsing “L”s, subtly mocks Hindu iconography, but it’s less about rewriting epics and more about painting Hindu nationalism as a modern-day plague. The reference to the 2002 Gujarat Riots where the Hindus are shown as merciless villains while Muslims are shown as the poor hapless souls, you know what this trash film is all about. Where Kaala screams its Hinduphobia, Empuraan smirks through a polished lens, cloaking its contempt in a veneer of sophistication.

Anti-BJP Stance And Secular Sanctimony

Both films frame the BJP as a villain, but their battlegrounds differ. Kaala ties its anti-BJP stance to Tamil pride, pitting the Navbharat Nationalist Party (a BJP stand-in) against Rajinikanth’s black-clad, tricolour-defying hero. The party’s lion symbol (a nod to Gujarat and Modi) and saffron imagery are ridiculed as alien impositions on Tamil soil. It’s a regionalist middle finger to BJP’s national ambitions, amplified by Ranjith’s blue-flag-waving Ambedkarite defiance. The film thrives on this us-versus-them clash, reveling in its rejection of Hindutva’s electoral dominance outside Dharavi.

Empuraan takes a broader, more sanctimonious swipe. The ASM’s infiltration of Kerala is less about regional chauvinism and more about a moral crusade against BJP’s communal politics. Prithviraj’s narrative oozes Kerala’s self-righteous secularism, casting the BJP as a predatory outsider disrupting a utopian social fabric.

The real threat to Kerala is from the Islamists who have made Malappuram a hot bed of radicalization threatening the unity and sovereignty of India. Love Jihad is a dreaded reality affecting both Hindu and Christian families in the state. Radical Islamists have carved out Pakistan-like enclaves for themselves. However, this ‘peaceful community’ is never shown in bad light but the film goes out of the way to slander vocal Hindus.

Propagandist Prithviraj

All this propaganda is thanks to Prithviraj, the self-styled auteur whose fingerprints are all over this debacle. His direction reeks of a smug, elitist disdain, turning a potentially gripping tale into a soapbox for his thinly veiled political biases. He’s not just a filmmaker here—he’s a pontificating crusader, using “Empuraan” to flex his woke credentials while thumbing his nose at Hindus. The ASM’s every sneer and saffron symbol screams anti-Modi venom, a cheap ploy that’s less subtle than a brick through a window. It rails against division while wallowing in its own stereotypes, reducing Kerala to a melodramatic cesspit for clout. Prithviraj’s posturing as a progressive darling is laughable—he’s less a visionary than a sanctimonious hack, peddling divisive tripe under the guise of art.

The visuals—jungle fights, Mohanlal’s grand entry—are undeniably slick, a testament to technical prowess that briefly distracts from the rot. But it’s lipstick on a pig. Prithviraj’s heavy-handed messaging turns every frame into a lecture, alienating ardent Mohanlal fans. His political grandstanding doesn’t elevate the film; it guts it, leaving a hollow shell that’s neither entertaining nor insightful.

Mohanlal Stoops Low To Become A Rajinikanth

Mohanlal’s fans are left reeling. After a string of flops, this was his lifeline, but Prithviraj’s insufferable agenda has turned it into a millstone. The superstar’s charisma shines through, yet he’s shackled to a narrative that betrays his roots, a man who was admired by people across the ideological/political spectrum has turned himself into a propaganda pawn now complicit in trashing Hindus.

A Propaganda That Should Be Trashed 

In the end, “L2: Empuraan” is a dazzling disaster—a propaganda-soaked mess that sacrifices art for ideology. Mohanlal’s star power can’t save it, and Prithviraj’s insipid political posturing only deepens the wound. Both Kaala and Empuraan wield anti-Hindu, anti-Modi, and anti-BJP propaganda. Like Kaala, it’s a film that spits on Hindu identity, demonizes nationalism, and grovels to anti-Modi dogma, all while its director preens like a self-righteous martyr. It is a shame that Rajinikanth and Mohanlal, titans of their industries, lend their stardom to these agendas.

A legacy tarnished, a fanbase betrayed, by becoming the pawns of pompous frauds.

Vallavaraayan is a political writer. 

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The post Empuraan Review: Mohanlal Stoops Low Like Rajini To Peddle Anti-Hindu, Anti-BJP, Anti-Modi Propaganda appeared first on The Commune.

First, this movie needed to be made. Chhatrapati Sambhaji Maharaj was a Sanatani hero, a man who did not give up on his faith to save his life. What little I had heard of him earlier made him out, unfairly, to be a wastrel and not a patch on his illustrious father. That needs to be rewritten and disseminated to the upcoming generations.

Vicky Kaushal IS Sambhaji. He exudes that confidence and aura that one would expect from a king.

The man who really does steal the show is Akshaye Khanna, as Aurangzeb. If you didn’t know that he had played the role, you wouldn’t have figured it out. His transformation is stark and that brooding menace, malevolent, yet turning increasingly defeatist, is well done.

The costumes are well made and seem pretty authentic. The sarees worn by the women are gorgeous and, as my wife assures me, are reflective of those likely worn by Marathi women of that day and age with Benaras silks and Paithani sarees predominating.

Now for the bits that bothered me.

Every historical depiction I see on screen in India, I automatically compare to the serial from the 80s, Chanakya. And EVERY single one of them falls short, including this one.

The screenplay is very amateurish. The dialogues are stilted. The fights all appear the same after a while. The repeated screaming by Vicky Kaushal with closeups of his clenched jaws or wide-open mouth can only be appreciated so many times.

The characters all seem to be caricatures, barring Sambhaji and Aurangzeb, maybe. The guy who is seditious, is shown with nervous, shifty eyes. It seems more like theatre with the exaggerated facial contortions than cinema.

Continuity is another problem. The story spans a number of years, but you wouldn’t know it from looking at the actors. Rashmika Mandana looks pretty but never seems to age even as her kids miraculously seem to grow up, with Rajaram growing up to become a 7-8 year old. Even Shambhaji doesn’t seem to age during that time. These are simple issues, and I am not sure why our filmmakers do not pay attention to them.

And the music. Oh God, the music. Loud, jarring, insistent, incessant. Orchestral hits are great for key moments. But if the entirety of the music is a never-ending stream of clashing cymbals and loud brass sections, it gets very annoying. I just looked it up, and am stunned that the music director is AR Rahman. I mean, what????!!!!! It was as amateurish an attempt as me playing on the keyboards with the “orchestral hit” setting.

Actually, if anyone wants to make a historical film, please just give it to Ilaiyaraaja Ayya. He would have done a fabulous job. If you couldn’t him, then give it to Atul-Ajay.

ARR perhaps forgot that pauses are good. EVERY SINGLE scene has music. Whether it is Sambhaji or Aurangzeb or any other character speaking. They all appear unspeakably noble or unspeakably villainish and the music will beat you over the head to make sure that you understand who is depicting what aspect!

Overall, I expected better. I am glad the story has been told, and that people will now dig deeper to understand who Chatrapati Shambhaji was and about his courage and valour. For that I am grateful.

But just as a movie? Disappointed.

Arun Krishnan is the author of Battle of Vathapi: Nandi’s Charge.

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The post Chhaava: The Tale Of Sambhaji Maharaj – A Heroic Story Lost In Poor Filmmaking appeared first on The Commune.

Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj is well-known across the country but there is very little that we Indians know about his son, Chhatrapati Sambhaji Maharaj. Not many Tamils know that Chhatrapati Sambhaji Maharaj, or Shambhu Raje as he was dearly addressed, played a great role in restoring the Nataraja idol to Chidambaram Temple. Displaced during the Bijapur Sultanate’s ransacking in 1648, the idol was hidden and temple rituals halted. Sambhaji, with his Guru Muthaiya Dikshitar and official Gopala Dadasi, retrieved and reinstalled the idol, renovating the temple. A Tamil verse on a copper plate commemorates this event, marking Nataraja’s return in the month of Karthigai after 37 years.

After Shivaji Raje, Sambhaji Raje holds a significant place in the hearts of Marathas. His history was never told the way it should have been – be it his burning thirst to fulfill his father’s dream of Hindavi Swarajya, the barbaric torture he faced at the hands of the tyrant Aurangzeb, or how he refused to convert in order to save himself while being tortured.

The Film

Chhava, the film starring Vicky Kaushal (of Uri and Sam Bahadur fame) in the titular role with Rashmika Mandanna playing Maharani Yeshobai offers a powerful performance – bringing to life the characters they are playing. Vicky Kaushal looks like a lion all through the film, he roars (a lot, yes) but that can be forgiven. In fact, every single cast in the film has done an amazing job and has elevated the film – so much so that people were seen leaving the theatres weeping. The film, while not so tight in its story, portrays the Marathas in a fabulous light – that they truly deserve. The fight scenes, the iconic guerilla tactics of the Marathas, and the legendary scene where Maharaj fights a lion, have been portrayed exceptionally well. The film also shows us a glimpse of how talented Shambhu Raje was – he speaks in English in one scene with a British officer and we also get to see how rich the empire was, the grand Rajyabhishek and how prosperous our country was in those days.

The story does not include too much about Shambu Raje’s life but given the time limit, the makers try to do as much justice as they can. Some of the negatives include the heavily Urduized dialogues, the lack of Maratha accent or dialogues in the film, and the fact that Aurangzeb praised Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj at the beginning of the film and does the same when Shambhu Raje passes – this bit particularly felt a bit off. There is history of Aurangzeb calling Shivaji Maharaj a “mountain rat“, but whether he praised him is kind of baffling. For a tyrant who found pleasure in killing and torturing people, no matter how great the enemy, would he have praised him? I think not. 

In the film, they also do not show much of the torture that was meted out to Shambhu Raje – the peeling of the skin, the beheading, the display of the head in public, the mutilation of the body and such. In my opinion, it was kept clean for family audiences and today’s generation of moviegoers are unable to stomach what had happened in the past.

The first half is a bit slow, and the real action starts in the second half. The film truly hit the core of the audience’s hearts the moment Shambu Raje and his camp came to know of the betrayal by his own relatives which leads to the Mughals catching them unprepared for war. The way Raje fights singlehandedly facing a thousand Mughal soldiers – that moment you see the real Sambhaji Maharaj, the way he fights on despite knowing he has been cornered, and his captivity and subsequent death are only moments away. You are left in awe of the hero that he was and the respect he deserves from us. From the time he is chained and brought in front of Aurangzeb till the last minute of the film where he is shown to die, is what takes the film to another level. Maharaj’s interactions with the Chandogamatya Kavi Kalash in the climax leave you with a lump in your throat.

Deplorable Music By A So-Called ‘Legend’

While Aurangzeb killed Shambhu Raje in real life, it was “legendary music composer” AR Rahman who killed the film and the majestic hero in reel. AR Rahman was the biggest misfit in the film, and he destroyed what could have been an epic that would have remained in public memory for a long time.

Rahman’s music for Chhaava was a shockingly below-average and out-of-tune soundtrack for a period film that deserved so much more. Rahman’s work here isn’t just disappointing; it’s downright pathetic, and it single-handedly kills the soul of what could have been a powerful historical epic.  

No Marathi Touch

Let’s start with the most glaring issue: the music feels completely disconnected from the Maratha culture and the 17th-century setting. For a film rooted in Maharashtra’s rich history, where was the regional flavor? There was absolutely no hint of traditional Marathi musical essence in any part of the film, maybe a Dhol Tasha in the passing just happened by mistake.

What we got to listen to was a bizarre mishmash of Arabic tunes, Middle Eastern beats, and jarring electronic elements that feel like they belong in a 2010s rom-com or a Spanish fiesta, not a period drama about Chhatrapati Sambhaji Maharaj. The background score is so out of place that it actively distracts from the film’s narrative, pulling you out of the experience every time an ill-fitting tune kicks in.  

Did the filmmakers not update AR Rahman that the film was about Sambhaji Maharaj and not Aurangzeb?

Why Does Rahman Even Sing?

Let’s take Aaya Re Toofan which was supposed to be a powerful, anthemic track to rally the spirit of Shambhu Raje and also the Maratha warriors. Instead, it feels like a half-baked attempt that lacks the punch and grandeur it needed. Rahman’s decision to sing the song himself is baffling, especially when someone like Sukhwinder Singh could have elevated it to another level. The song tries to tick Marathi music checkboxes but does so in the most forced and unconvincing way.

We are forced to compare this to Malhari from Bajirao Mastani, which effortlessly captured the Maratha spirit and became an instant classic. Aaya Re Toofan falls flat, and its inability to resonate with the audience is a testament to Rahman’s failure here.  

Then there’s Jaane Tu, a song that feels like it was plucked straight out of a mediocre rom-com with its piano crooning in the background. The tune is forgettable, the lyrics are uninspired, and even Arijit Singh’s voice can’t save it. This is supposed to be a moment where Maharani Yesubai (played by Rashmika Mandanna) worships the return of her warrior king, but the song lacks any emotional depth or cultural authenticity. It’s a far cry from the kind of music that should accompany such a poignant scene in a historical drama.  

And guess what, you even get to hear a rap song! Imagine being this disconnected to the soul of the film!

Mughal Movie Or Maratha Movie?

Rahman’s background score is equally atrocious. The moment Akshaye Khanna, playing Aurangzeb (he nailed the role beyond perfection), delivers his dialogue, you’re suddenly hit with a Middle Eastern tune that feels more suited to a desert caravan than a Maratha court. And then, out of nowhere, electronic elements creep in, completely ruining the mood. The sound design is so inconsistent and jarring that it takes away from the film’s otherwise well-executed action sequences and visuals. The war scenes, which should have been elevated by a rousing score, are instead undermined by Rahman’s insipid compositions.  

Moments that called for an upbeat, rousing BGM were instead met with sounds that felt completely out of place. The moment where Shambhu Raje sees the betrayers deserved another fitting BGM that would move audiences to tears and fury, but we hear nothing. The horror of the barbaric torture is not brought out well by the background score – it seems to fit a film on the Mughals, rather.

Could Someone Else Have Done A Better Job?

It’s baffling why the filmmakers didn’t opt for the sons of the soil, Ajay-Atul, who have repeatedly proven their mastery over Marathi music and larger-than-life soundscapes. Their work in films like Sairat and Natrang showcases their deep connection to Marathi culture, and they could have brought the authenticity and grandeur that Chhaava desperately needed. Even a bad film like Panipat, which had its flaws, managed to deliver memorable songs like Mann Mein Shiva that resonated with the audience. In contrast, Chhaava’s soundtrack is utterly forgettable.  

Lazy Attempt & Trashy Music

Rahman’s inability to capture the essence of the period is even more glaring when you consider the cultural richness of the source material. Rahman’s music fails to transport you to the 17th century. Instead, it feels like a lazy, half-hearted attempt that lacks proper historical research and cultural sensitivity. Rahman seems to fit in only with Mughal period films, middle Eastern origin/desert cult stories may be his forte. Being from the south, he has absolutely no inkling of what stature Shambhu Raje had, and his place in the hearts of the people – maybe Rahman must stick to his favourite Sufiyana style music.

Shameful

The film itself has its merits – brilliant performances, astounding cinematography, well-shot war sequences, costumes, etc. But all of this is overshadowed by Rahman’s disastrous music. For a composer of his stature, this is nothing short of shameful. Chhaava deserved better, and so did the audience.

A man who was the lion’s cub, a king who worked towards Hindavi Swarajya, the man who prayed for his stempmother’s wish to unseat him to come true, the man who refused to let out even a squeal of pain when tortured in the most heinous and barbaric methods, the man who refused to convert in order to save his life despite being skinned alive, the man who refused to give in to the most dastardly tyrant that ever lived – Chhatrapati Sambhaji Maharaj deserves greater respect and a magnificent portrayal and even more thunderous music to showcase his lived history – that AR Rahman utterly failed to do justice to, even by an inch or rather, a note.

A.R. Rahman’s lifeless, out-of-touch-with-reality compositions are the biggest disservice there ever was to the Maratha legacy and to Shambhu Maharaj and a slap in the face to anyone who expected better from a composer of his caliber. This isn’t just a disappointment; it’s a betrayal of the trust audiences have placed in Rahman over the years and for killing Shambhu Raje once again. 

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The post If Aurangzeb Killed Sambhaji In Real, AR Rahman Kills In Reel With His Trash Music appeared first on The Commune.

Kadhalikka Neramillai – a lighthearted film on the surface that espouses the Dravidianist question of – “Is marriage really necessary?”

Directed by Kiruthiga Udhayanidhi, the film has a “puratchi pudhumai penn” (a revolutionary modern woman) at its helm, and yes she is not a random girl, but a TamBrahm.

An analysis:

This rom-com has Shriya Chandramohan as its central character – she has a boyfriend, registers her marriage months before the engagement – (WHY?), drinks, has premarital fun, doesn’t know how to wear a saree, smokes after a breakup, etc.

In summary, a modern-day career-centric, jolly good woman. No issues. But is she a “random” modern-day woman? Nope.

In egalitarian EVR (read Periyarist) land where there are no caste surnames, the film portrays her family as TamBrahms with no hesitation whatsoever.

Shriya finds out, days before her “official” engagement, that her legally wedded husband is cheating on her.

So, in a case of role reversal, she drinks, and tries smoking in an attempt to move on, like “men”. Her father is sort of cool with it. Her aunt (played by Vinodhini) jokingly hints at having “properly” smoked before.

Just moments before, there’s a deliberate scene where the aunt calls Shriya’s father “Athimber” (a word used by Dravidianists to mock TamBrahms). But why this depiction of community is necessary? Read on.

Even though Shriya is modern and calls off her engagement, her family members are upset, and yes, they are rituals/Shastra-obsessed “regressive” folks who think that education makes women arrogant.

The subtle implication: TamBrahm mamas would blame women’s education for becoming cultural degenerates.

Now it starts to make sense why her caste was represented transparently.

Dejected, Shriya just wants a kid without marriage, so she gets IVF treatment in Chennai, from an anonymous sperm donor (who is Jayam Ravi).

While pregnant, she uses her relative’s contact to break hospital rules (!!!), retrieves details about the sperm donor, and travels to Bengaluru to find out details about the “dad“.

But it is a dead-end, as Jayam Ravi had faked his name and gave a fake address of a pub as his own. In Dravidaverse, this logic applies. Anybody can donate sperm by mentioning pub addresses as your own and the sperm banks don’t bother verifying at all. They don’t even verify your name. It is cinematic liberty certified by White Dwarf (pun intended), you see.

In a chance encounter at the Bengaluru pub, she meets Jayam Ravi (whose community is not mentioned) for the first time and his 2 friends – the gay Vinay called Sethuraman, (a half Malayali), and Yogi Babu – who is named Gowda. Just Gowda.  

Implication: Why can’t you Kannadigas learn from the egalitarian TN?

In the real world, if a girl just meets a stranger guy and his 2 friends at a pub who offer dinner at the guy’s place, what would the girl do? Politely excuse yourself or…?

But no, Shriya is a happy-go-lucky TamBrahm woman – she not only goes to Jayam Ravi’s home with his 2 strange friends in a car, but she also dines at his place and gives a certificate for how good a fish Jayam Ravi’s dad has cooked.

Only if you believe all this will you get your 200 bucks. Will you eat it or…?

The second half cuts to 8 years later, where the independent, career-oriented single mom Shriya who lives with her aunt raises a boy child, admirably well.

In a happy coincidence, Jayam Ravi and Shriya’s paths cross again, where Jayam Ravi fills the missing dad role in the son’s life, without realizing that he’s his biological father. It all ends well with both Shriya and Jayam Ravi getting together without ever realizing their shared secret.

Sethuraman gets married to his male partner, in a Christian-style wedding (they also have a girl child – born of Sethu). But, in the very next scene, the straight Shriya says she doesn’t want a “marriage” with Jayam Ravi, as their companionship suffices. Oh, the irony.

While on the surface this looks like a “feel good” rom-com, it actually espouses the Dravidianist question of “Is marriage really necessary?” – a question asked since EVR times, and repeated by Dravidianist ideologues like Vairamuthu, etc.

While they are free to make films espousing their ideology (however hypocritical/dangerous they may be), what is the need to identify the community of the heroine?

Irrespective of your political inclinations, ask this question: Why are all feminist, revolutionary women in Tamil films represented from this comm alone? Don’t Dravidianists have any admirable feminists among them? Asking this question is the starting point to understand Dravidianism and Dravidianists.

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The post Kadhalikka Neramillai: The Casteist Dravidianist Fantasy That Deliberately Uses A TamBrahm Heroine For ‘Revolutionary’ Experiments appeared first on The Commune.

In a time when cinema claims to mirror society’s evolving values, Kaadhalikka Neramillai attempts to embrace progressiveness but falters in ways that are both baffling and frustrating. What starts as a celebration of modern ideals spirals into a chaotic portrayal of questionable decisions, misplaced priorities, and unrealistic social dynamics.

The post Kaadhalikka Neramillai Review: Kiruthiga Udhayanidhi’s ‘Progressive’ Take On Relationships Is Actually Regressive That Defiles The Sanctity Of Marriage And Family appeared first on The Commune.

Viduthalai pretty much falls into the territory of the series of movies on politics of downtrodden made by the influential three – Vetrimaaran, Pa Ranjith and Mari Selvaraj. Depending on how a viewer sees this or how the filmmaker sees them, it can fall into the category of Dalit Politics, Victim Politics, Politics of Downtrodden or Caste Politics. After I watched the movie (both the parts), my immediate thought was how this movie wants to match upto phenomenal Asuran and searing Karnan. It neither reaches the content and character depths of Asuran, nor makes you empathise with the rage of Karnan.

The film terribly falls short on multiple counts – the film making, the story, the politics behind the story and what not.

Promoting Maoistic Violence

Significant part of the movie is being spent on showing the central character, Perumal Vaathiyar, taking to violence as a remedy to all social ills – both real and perceived. There are lengthy conversations around whether violence is the righteous path to address the challenges, and you’d find that the dialogues are heavily in favour of the violence. Perumal Vaathiyar character justifies the violence. All his immediate subordinates justify the violence. His wife, Mahalakshmi (played by Manju Warrier), who is shown to be a voice of reason, and have significant influence over Perumal Vaathiyar’s action, and is consistent in backing all the violence.

In a sequence involving retribution over the killing of KK, Perumal Vaathiyar’s mentor, she pushes for the murder and killing of the sugar mill owner and his son. People who have not watched the movie will not understand the gravity of her push, since the sugar mill owner is her father, and his son is her own brother.

Anurag Kashyap does a cameo of a leftist from northern India, and his action and dialogues are pretty much indicative of violence as a means to an end. The only inference that I could get from his presence was that he is a Naxal from Northern India, known for all their violence against their own community.

Frankly, I have never seen a movie which has been this explicit in glorifying violent Maoism.

The Irony of Peacenik Re-incarnation of Perumal Vaathiyar

In the second half, there are again scene after scene, where Perumal Vaathiyar seems to have a change of heart, and dissuading his team from violence. All these scenes seem to be Vetrimaran’s slow realisation that his movie is preaching violence. Remember, lot of these scenes seem to happen before the climax portion of the first part, which in itself had bouts of violence from the Makkal Padai, the organisation of Perumal Vaathiyaar.

Just when I thought irony had died a slow death, the lead up to the climax served yet another display of this contradiction. In a lengthy shoot out in the mist-clad hills, after scores of death on both sides (police and Makkal Padai), another bunch of lengthy dialogues from Perumal Vaathiyar about the need to pursue political solution and not violence, and even as he speaks, we see 5 or 6 guys being shot dead. For the group which not just respects Perumal Vaathiyar, but deifies him, all it would have taken was one firm instruction to stop the shooting. But then, Vetrimaaran probably wanted irony to die twice, since it is a two part movie.

Dravidian Ideology in a Communist Glorification

The constant references to the communist ideology as panacea for all social ills can be understood to a great extent considering the periods in which the film’s story is set (and by extension, I am ignoring its irrelevance in today’s context). I don’t understand the need to refer to “Karuppu Sattai” as an ally of “Sevappu Sattai”. Seriously? Are the film makers betting on people not recollecting Kilvenmani Massacre and EVR’s explicit support for the Gopalakrishna Naidu? Wait? Did Vetrimaaran actually forgot that he made a movie called “Asuran” in that backdrop?

And more importantly, when exactly have the Dravidian ideology have fought for the welfare of the downtrodden and labourers? It was always about opposing “Aryans” (a.k.a. North Indians), more specifically peddling hate against Brahmins.

Another scene right at the beginning involves actor Ilavarasu, portraying a minister, saying that they (Dravidian Politicians) had to lay their heads on railway track to get benefits (education?) for the officers in the room. Upfront, I thought it was a sly attack on the D-Stock, till there were more favourable reference to Karuppu Sattai.

The film’s storyline had no need to build or showcase the Karuppu Sattai in any light, be it good or bad. My personal thought was that it was forcibly pushed inside to suit the present day ruler’s agenda. Considering that this movie could end up becoming a loss making proposition (which, it will, for filmmaking reasons detailed later), and that it is distributed by Red Giant movies.

Freudian Slip Anyone?

In one of the scenes involving KK Thozhar (Actor Kishore), where he explains what is “Left Wing Ideology”, he goes about referring to the French Revolution, saying the obvious historic fact – Left Wing were the political group who sat to the left of the Presiding Member’s chair in the French Parliament, and they had opposed the Monarchy and associated veto privileges, and were by extension for “voting and democratic rights”.

In today’s scenario, the principal political group in Tamil Nadu i.e. DMK has rarely embraced any inner party democracy and runs on one family’s writ, the exact opposite of the original “Left Wing Ideology”. If ever there was a ranking of Freudian slips, this takes the Gold.

Film Making Aspects

Lacking in Character Building & Messaging

There are a bunch of scenes that happen in a certain sequence –

1. Group of police officers and civil servants discussing bringing in Amudhan as an Officer In Charge of Special Operation, because he is a good guy, who is now in a camp.
2. A lecture happening in the camp (Major Madan Cameo) detailing among other things, the significance of human life and the need to avoid human rights violation.
3. Cut to the climax, the same officer, Amudhan, who was considered as good by the powers, and who is being trained on human rights, ends up killing the “accused” (Perumal Vaathiyaar) who raises his hands, unarmed and is surrendering.

What exactly is the messaging here? Amudhan is the good guy or the bad guy? That character was shown to have some conscience in the first part, and shown to be without any remorse in the second one.

Jarring Viewing Experience – Overspeaking and Editing

One of the recurring themes with Vetrimaaran’s movie is the overspeaking i.e. where the actual dialogue mouthed during the shooting is entirely different from the one that comes in the final version after dubbing. You’d notice that the words spoken and the lip movements don’t even sync well. I can understand this jarring experience when you watch a dubbed movie or even when a non-native actor does the role, with a native speakers voice being used to dub his or her portion. Vetrimaaran seems to shoot the movie with one set of dialogues and during dubbing changes the dialogues. I experienced this jarring episode even while watching Asuran, and Viduthalai Part 1 and this movie. In addition, there are additional dialogues are spoken after the re-recording and dubbing is also over which sticks out pretty sore.

The editing which used to be pretty good in ensuring continuity and consistency is also terrible here. Every movie watcher will have the confusion on the timelines. In one scene, KK Thozhar dies, and five scenes later, he comes back alive. It is understandable that all these are from the past, but it does not add to any cohesiveness.

My final conclusion is that Vetrimaaran is the same as he was 10 years back. The deterioration in the film making is telling, and he has lost his filmmaking marbles in chasing politically influential storylines and dialogues. From the crystal clear voice that his movies used to carry, it is more of a drunken slur.

Loose Ends

For the bunch of build up the first part had about Soori’s romance with Bhavani Sre, you don’t get to see her for more than a 30 second scene. The first part pretty much ended with police atrocities on the villagers, including punishing them by making them stand nude, and the second part pretty much no references to that or any closure to that atrocity.

Good Things Any?

There are many – the locations, the acting performances, the background music. And it is not the point of this article, and I’d leave it to the bigger group of people who’d orgasm at the smallest good thing in the movie.

Conclusion

To say that this is Vetrimaaran’s weakest movie is an understatement and does not capture my immediate thoughts on this movie. This is inarguably his worst, in all aspects – story, story telling, character depth and film making.

G Saimukundhan is a Chartered Accountant.

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The post Viduthalai Part 2: An Epic Bore That Glorifies Maoist Violence And Forces Ideological Propaganda Through Lectures appeared first on The Commune.

When a filmmaker like Vetrimaaran unveils a movie, expectations naturally skyrocket. His track record, starting from Polladhavan, has cemented him as a creator of masterful, gripping narratives. The story may be simple, but Vetri’s writing and screenplay make it extraordinary. With the high benchmark set by the first part of Viduthalai, audiences anticipated another cinematic triumph in its sequel. While the film delivers in parts, it falters in parts due to its attempt to preach political ideologies.

A Tale Of Two Perspectives

In Viduthalai Part 1, the story is told from Kumaresan’s perspective. His journey grips the audience, evoking empathy and emotional investment. The sequel shifts gears, focusing on Vaathiyar’s backstory, which begins with promise. Ken Karunas’s episode is a standout moment skillfully executed. However, the narrative soon meanders, overwhelmed by an overreliance on dialogue and heavy-handed political discourse. While these elements reflect Vetrimaaran’s penchant for bringing politics into his films, they come at the cost of emotional depth and character connection.

Furthermore, the narrative glosses over the nuanced historical and ideological distinctions between the Dravidian and communist movements, offering an oversimplified portrayal. Red shirts and Black Shirts are hailed as saviours, and the Dravidian movement’s negative effects, such as high political corruption, are given a free pass. Just to establish that Perumal is a rebel, there are scenes after scenes and dialogues after dialogues to drive home this point.

Vaathiyar’s transformation into a revered figure lacks the emotional punch needed to make it impactful. This disconnect hampers the audience’s ability to fully immerse themselves in his journey. The interval sequence, which could have been a high point, feels underwhelming due to the lack of narrative weight and a poorly matched background score.

The film regains momentum in the second half, returning to Soori’s perspective and delivering more compelling scenes. These moments bring some much-needed emotional gravitas and narrative closure, albeit not without leaving some threads untied. Notably, the fate of Thamizharasi, whose beautifully depicted romance in the first part was a highlight, is frustratingly sidelined in the sequel. This oversight feels like a missed opportunity to tie up one of the most resonant aspects of the story.

As expected, Vetrimaaran’s craftsmanship shines through in the technical aspects. The cinematography and set design immerse viewers in the film’s world, but the makeup and hairstyling fall short, at times feeling amateurish. Ilayaraja’s music is a mixed bag; while the songs are commendable, the background score struggles to align with the film’s tone, particularly during pivotal moments like the interval block.

The performances remain the film’s strongest asset. Vijay Sethupathi and Soori deliver nuanced portrayals, while Chetan, as in the first part, steals every scene he’s in, earning the title of MVP. Ken Karunas, despite limited screen time, leaves a lasting impression. Additionally, a surprise cameo from a familiar face in Tamil Nadu’s digital media landscape with an army background adds an intriguing layer to the film.

Verdict

While Viduthalai 2 has moments of brilliance and compelling performances, it often veers off course, prioritizing long-winded political ideology over meaningful storytelling. The result is a film that feels more like a lecture than an engaging narrative, leaving the audience disconnected and yearning for the emotional depth and tight focus of its predecessor. It falls short of the greatness typically associated with Vetrimaaran’s work. The film’s ideological heaviness takes a toll on the film and pulls it down weighed down further by excessive exposition and unfinished arcs. It’s a worthwhile watch, but not Vetrimaaran’s finest.

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The post Vetrimaaran’s Viduthalai 2: When Political Preaching Overshadows Storytelling appeared first on The Commune.

Imagine a scenario of the Indian cricket team chasing a tricky target of 200 runs in 50 overs, and those who have seen Dravid and Sehwag’s batting styles know how both would approach the game – eventually both are match winners but the style and attitude make them distinct. Wonder why I am talking about a cricket match in a movie review, read on till the end to find out why.

I might have been in my teens when the Godhra horror happened, and maybe I do not have a very clear picture of what happened (Though I have a vague memory of the overview of what happened and why) so I was genuinely interested to see what’s been told in the movie, The Sabarmati Report.

I will start from the end – the lead actor makes a statement – can anyone tell at least 3 names of those who died in the attack and burning of the train? To be honest, unfortunately, I would say 99% of our people won’t know the names, that’s the tone of the movie – how the biased and sold-out media at that time suppressed the truth of the horror, the film shows how media confused and kept the public ignorant of the truth by creating 2 false narratives blaming the passengers.

It is not clear who the film portrayed as the media mogul – maybe NDTV or India Today, it is not clear.

The makers have also tried to make sure the suspense, thrills, punch lines, and twists are present at all possible junctures to keep the audience hooked and they succeed to a larger extent in this effort.

The movie starts with a court scene where a Hindi journalist is under trial in a defamation suit filed against him by a media house. The story unravels and revolves around this Hindi-speaking journalist, very maturely and nicely played by Vikrant Massey. In fact, he shines through the film.

The movie doesn’t hold back when it wants to convey how media houses were used by politicians back then to spread news of their choice, the “media legend” in this movie is shown to define what’s news. “News is the truth that you want to tell to the public” – If they want the public to believe a particular ‘truth,‘ then that becomes news. Their journey from a one-room studio to a large empire is often built by being hand in glove with the ruling government.

The Sabarmati Express Arson

The film very graphically depicts the Godhra horror where Coaches S6 and S7 of Sabarmati Express are burnt down when on their way from Ayodhya to Ahmedabad with 200+ karsevaks in 2002. This is also interspersed with actual footage. When the star reporter goes to ground zero, she notices something else which points to sabotage, but she is directed by her boss to twist the truth and portray it as an accident. The Hindi journalist Samar Kumar however is unable to digest his “hero” showing an opposite picture of it. When he tries to push the truth to his bosses he loses his job, gets jailed, gets blacklisted by other media houses, and becomes a drunkard while the channel grows to become a very big name in the industry.

About 5 years later, there comes the newbie journalist Amrutha, played by a composed Rashi Khanna, who is given the task of creating a report on the 5th anniversary of the Sabarmati train burning. Being a newbie, she gets her hands on the truth and joins hands with Samar to expose the truth to the world.

The film’s plot is framed as an investigative journalism narrative that appeals to the audience. There are some scenes where the movie clearly exposes how the particular community celebrated India losing a cricket match with Pakistan back then and how that’s changing now. Some other major pluses of this film include – showing the perpetrators as the ones from the “they who shall not be named” community – which is the truth is commendable.

In toto, this is a fairly neatly written, crisp, and suspense-filled screenplay, with balanced acting displayed by the actors. Yes, there are a few scenes in the film that show “Hindu-Muslim bhaichaara” but we can overlook it for exposing the unspoken truth – the Sabarmati train burning. The film also shows a woman Chief minister in 2002, it is not clear why they chose to do so. 

Now coming to why the analogy of cricket that too Dravid and Sehwag I used in the beginning – there are different ways to win a match, some go for a swashbuckling, no-holds-barred approach, while others take it slow, watchful, and composed, striking only when the goal is near. Similarly, this movie knows exactly what it wants to deliver to its audience.

When it comes to horror, the film adopts a slight balancing act, which works for me as long as the storytelling remains intact without distortion. For instance, it depicts a chawl with a dominant community celebrating India’s victory against Pakistan. In another scene, a woman named Mehrunnisa leads journalists to confront the main perpetrator, saying, “Just because some people make mistakes, I don’t want my entire community to be blamed. I want to clean up the mess in my place first.” These moments are not just balancing acts but genuine attempts to address and unite the discontent within that community. So now you can see the filmmakers’ approach and style—was it Dravid’s calculated formula for victory or Sehwag’s bold and aggressive path to success?

The climax delivers a powerful punch, recreating the tragedy with remarkable sensitivity, accompanied by bhajans in the background. The close-up of Ram Lalla and the Ayodhya temple evokes deep emotions, leaving the audience teary-eyed as it pays tribute to the 59 forgotten victims. The film also references the Hindi language’s pride and the vision of Bharat’s resurgence. 

However, there are some drawbacks. The movie lacks English subtitles, and it’s unclear whether it will be dubbed into regional languages. Even if it is, questions remain about whether the ecosystem will allow it to be widely screened.

NKR Iyer is a techie and a political analyst.

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The post The Sabarmati Report: A Bold Film That Exposes The Hidden Truth And Media Manipulation Behind Godhra Train Carnage appeared first on The Commune.

The film Amaran, based on the life of Major Mukund Varadarajan, is said to be inspired by the book India’s Most Fearless by Shiv Aroor and Rahul Singh ambitiously seeks to capture the spirit and sacrifices of a remarkable soldier. However, despite its earnest intent, the execution falls short on a few fronts, detracting from what could have been a powerful film. There are several spoilers, so please read with caution.

From the opening scenes, where army personnel each speak a different language while praying, it’s clear the film aims to depict diversity within the ranks. Yet, the attempt feels forced, with two soldiers performing namaz in the backdrop of Hanuman Chalisa on the player prominently displayed to emphasize inclusivity. The next few scenes introduce us to the character where Sivakarthikeyan, playing the role of Major Mukund Varadarajan, calls for a rallying cry akin to Uri’s “How’s the Josh?” – in this film, they shout “Rashtriya Rifles!” but without the same impact – at least in the opening scenes.

Sai Pallavi, cast as Major Mukund’s love interest, seems to have been cast in the role because of her curly hair and the fact that she played the role of a Tamil-speaking lecturer in Premam, a Malayalam film. In this film there is a scene where she speaks to her professor in Malayalam, even though her character is shown to study media and is spoken to in English. This choice appears incongruent, especially as she remains the only one speaking her native language in scenes where others use English, creating an odd dissonance. Sai Pallavi’s Malayalam dialogues could have been dubbed by a Malayali rather than herself, it would have felt more authentic.

While being from Kerala, her dialogue about Kerala’s cultural relevance in Mukund’s life feels like an attempt to connect Mukund’s heritage, yet the film fails to acknowledge he was born and grew up in Kerala, a detail even Wikipedia missed—this point could have added meaningful depth to his character’s background.

Portrayal Of Major Mukund’s Family & Community

The portrayal of Mukund’s family is another area where Amaran stumbles. It is still unclear why the director decided not to portray Major Mukund’s family as an Iyengar family. The film depicts his father as a silent figure – almost like a background prop, overshadowed by a stern mother who openly disapproves of his career choice multiple times, refusing to take part in significant moments like his pipping ceremony during the passing out parade. Sivakarthikeyan is also seen addressing his father as “Naina” all through the film and it seems deliberate.

Why is it a problem for the director, producer – part-time politician Kamal Hassan, (and probably the distributor – Red Giant owned by the DMK first family) to depict a hero to be from the community he really is from? Is the director playing his part in staying true to the “Brahmins in Tamil Nadu do not join the Army” Dravidianist narrative?

We respect soldiers as soldiers, not for their caste, creed, religion or whatever – they are all our guardians without whom we will not be safe even for a minute. But when care is taken to highlight Indhu Rebecca (Major Mukund’s widow) as a Christian in almost every scene, one wonders why this care is not given to Major Mukund equally. In reality, in the pictures available on the internet, Indhu is hardly seen with the cross around her neck. She is also shown as very god-fearing, it is not clear how much of that is true – if all these intricacies could have been made note of, the same effort could have been taken for Major Mukund’s character as well – there is only one scene where he shows his “ishta deivata” – Swami Ayyappan and that’s all.

One cannot call it a biopic if such important details are missed deliberately. We saw this distortion in films like Soorarai Potru, said to be the biopic of Captain Gopinath, a Tamil Brahmin, but in the film, he is portrayed as a follower of the anti-Hindu bigot EV Ramasamy Naicker and from a different community.

Some Other Inaccuracies

While the mother would be one of the most influential figures in Major Mukund’s life, her character is reduced to someone who is unsupportive of his choice of bride, disapproving of his choice of profession – it is in very tiny bits that the parents’ love is shown in the film.

Yes, we see the film through his wife’s eyes but for a biopic, every detail is important.

In the film, Mukund is seen modestly denying coming from an “army family,“ however, their role in shaping his aspirations definitely needs acknowledgment – his grandfather and uncles were members of the IAF, and he wanted to emulate them. This part is completely left out.

In terms of character portrayal, the physical miscasting of Mukund as a 5’9” actor instead of the towering 6’3” stature of the real Major diminishes his presence to some extent.

One of the film’s biggest letdowns is its slightly unbalanced focus on the love story, which often eclipses Mukund’s illustrious military life. Youth in the audience seemed to cheer more for romantic gestures than for the courageous acts he performed on duty. While a love story could be the perfect ingredient for a biopic like this one, is the director trying to send a message that interreligious marriages must be encouraged, and only then one can find success in life? Or, come what may, stick to your selfish interest and ignore your parents’ words?

In the film, the couple faces hardships over the parents’ acceptance of their love – in reality, Mukund’s parents yielded first and pretty quickly rather than Indhu’s parents. It is also unclear why Major Mukund’s mother who in reality is from Kerala is shown dissing his choice of bride for being Malayali! She says, “Respect is for Tamil only.” – a dialogue that again feels out of place – was it forced fit to suit the Dravidianist agenda?

In the scene where he is inducted into 44 Rashtriya Rifles by his CO AS Dabas, the history of Kashmir, from the time of partition to the ascension of J&K to India and its status to date, is updated to Major Mukund by the CO himself! It is a fact that soldiers are expected to read national and international history during their training days.

The CO may give the incoming officer the latest updates, but teaching him lessons on the entire history is funny—it could have been narrated in the background instead of reducing the CO to this stature.

Most Glaring Addition

One wonders why the song on Azadi was even a part of the film – is the director in appreciation of the terrorists’ slogans? The lyrics of the song and its placement are a total misfit and come across as supportive of separatist sentiment rather than respectful of the Indian Army’s efforts.

The slogans chanted by terrorists make up the lyrics of this song:

“Hum kya chahthe?

Are zor se bolo!

Are saare bolo!

Hai haq humaari!

Hai shaan humaari!

Jaan se pyaari!

Hum cheen lenge

Hum kaat denge

Tum he deni padegi

Chaahe dande maaro

Chaahe goli maaro

Aag laga do”

This is interspersed with lyrics in Tamil that seem to adulate Major Mukund and his bravery. But having these slogans as a part of the lyrics will make every single youth start singing along without understanding the meaning and intention of these slogans that are only chanted by terrorists!

What Works

Sivakarthikeyan shines through in the role, his development over the years from a college goer to a Gentleman Cadet to a Major in 44 RR is remarkable.

The BGM by GV Prakash in crucial portions works well, it helps to show Army officers in the same light as other film heroes – this jingoism (or not) is necessary especially to drive the point about an Army man being a real-life hero among the youth who have been fed fantasy and Dravidian nonsense all their lives. It is high time that our real-life heroes – our army men, the guardians of our country, are shown in a positive light.

The terrorists are not glorified, the issues in Kashmir are shown fairly well without any bias, and the gory scenes seem to have been cut off a little as mentioned in the censor certificate.

It was a joy to listen to Jai Bajarang Bali – the war cry of Rashtriya Rifles which is not a common feature in Kollywood films, let alone chants of other deities.

The depiction of the counterterrorist operations is handled pretty well in the film. There are 2 times when Major Mukund begins to become larger than life = when he neutralizes the wanted terrorist Altaf Baba and says “This is the face of the Indian Army” and the scene where he carries his team member Waheed on his shoulders rescuing him from a daredevil operation just as he is going to be beheaded – that moment Major Mukund shone like a bright star – the film should have had more such moments.

The words “When you go home tell them of us and say, for your tomorrow we gave our today” seen a couple of times in the film leaves one with a lump in their throats, as does the final moments and goodbye of the martyr.

What Could Have Been Better

Staying true to the reality could have been a better strategy. Amaran could have honestly shown that Major Mukund was from an Iyengar family. Better characters could have played his parents. The relationship with his parents could have been depicted reasonably well. His love for his daughter seems underwhelming compared to his love for his wife (as shown in the film).

His love for the Army and country was not portrayed realistically—it could have been better. The focus seemed to be on showing Major Mukund as the hero. Yes, he is a hero, but also showing what he loved the most, more than the human relations he valued—the Army.

The final moments, where Mukund’s last wishes are conveyed, also suffer from a reductionist approach. He is said to have wished to have his parents, wife, and child cared for – but it gets distorted a bit. It would also have been better if they had shown his words to his CO in English rather than in Tamil. The last respects for Major Mukund were a revelation – people from all walks of life travelled to his residence to pay their final respects – even neighbourhood autorickshaw drivers – unfortunately, that is not shown. It would have added to the majestic image that the biopic aimed to create about Major Mukund.

While Amaran has its negatives, it also has all the elements of a blockbuster – a hero, a love story, a mission. For Kollywood, this is a start, this film can be the guiding light of sorts for nationalist-themed films, films on the armed forces, real-life heroes, freedom fighters etc, to be made in a state that has given the country 1 Param Vir Chakra and 4 Ashoka Chakras. The director could have done a little more homework and tightened the script further. But for a state that churns out action movies and over-the-top stuff, this is a good beginning especially when there are people in the state and the country who are allergic to “hypernationalistic nonsense”.

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The post Honest Review Of Amaran: A Tribute That Falls Short Of Authenticity, Could’ve Been A Lot Better With A Little More Honesty appeared first on The Commune.