It will be a long time before I forget the eyes of Meena (Anna Ben). Hers is a stare of defiance, a stare at nothingness. When life and society leaves you unable to fight or argue, all that’s left to do is stare. But Meena’s isn’t a stare of resignation. It’s a stare that digs into you through time and space and asks questions of you—even if she won’t speak a word and has weaponised silence so powerfully. In this film about her apparent defeat, Meena gets small wins. Her stare of resistance. Her humming along to a song. Her drinking of a bottle of water. Her refusal to move out of a share auto. It’s a gorgeous face that cannot smile, but in these brief moments, you see the mirth the face is capable of. Unfortunately, Meena’s society and family don’t deserve to behold it. There’s a brief shot of her kind smile that, for me, is the best moment of the film. It’s a smile of kindness she throws at her little brother, who seems so overwhelmed by the violence around him. It’s not an easy response at all from Meena, because at that moment, she could easily be justified for breaking down, but instead, she summons all her strength to protect him for a few seconds. This sensitivity differentiates her from the rest of her family.
Director PS Vinothraj has all these characters who serve different purposes, but the film’s genius lies in how these characters never come across as cutouts crafted to serve objectives. Take Meena’s brother, for example—the only person oblivious to the events of the film. He’s too young to understand, too untouched to participate. And yet, it’s impossible not to notice that the dangerous Pandi (Soori) might have been this boy at some point in his childhood. Without ever trying too hard, Kottukkaali gets you wondering when this boy might have transformed into Pandi. Was it when he witnessed abuse? Was it when he was told to behave like a man and keep women in check? When did the system get into his head? Also, sometimes, when we speak of the ‘system’, we don’t quite acknowledge that a system, after all, is its people—and not some nebulous, undefined entity. So, the question then is, who will ever put their hand up and refuse to succumb to the pressure and guile of the ‘system’? Kottukkaali incites plenty of such thought. It’s a departure from the usual cinema we consume, whose elements dictate our responses. This film is even without that most obvious tool of manipulation: Music.
I loved the film for employing no music. In this film about the torment of Meena, music would have felt exploitative. It would have been an obvious directorial ploy to have you react one way or another, but in its present form, Kottukkaali simply takes your hand and walks you around for a few hours with the family of Pandi and Meena—without telling you how you ought to feel. See how the women of this family are entrenched in patriarchy. See the irony of how these women care for Pandi as much—they are shaken by the dust in his eye—but still can’t understand the suffering of one of their own. See the prettiness of the rural landscape, see the yellow-green flora, see the harsh sun, see the ox and the rooster and process them for the metaphors they could be. The end of the film is particularly clever. It asks a question. All right, now that you have seen it all, what do you think?
For those tuned only to the urgency and impatience of mainstream cinema, the craft of Kottukkaali might feel like it belongs to festival cinema—but it would be grave injustice to box and sideline this powerful, emotional film into a category that is not widely thought of with love. In fact, the craft of Kottukkaali is its own reward. The film’s use of cameras is enterprising, and cinematographer Sakthivel constantly surprises us with perspectives and angles. The top angle seemed to suggest to me the indifference of a deity figure. There are faraway wide shots that show us the indifference of nature to the plight of these individuals. I was torn between admiring the Tamil rural lands for being so beautiful—but resenting them for their indifference towards such human plight.
The performances don’t feel like performances. Anna Ben is magnificent. Soori is terrifying—and I’ve never ever hated any character he has played. Here though, there’s no evidence of the comedian he has been for years. That first scene in which he loses his temper is a masterclass in horror writing. I doubt I’ve been as horrified, as taken aback in any of our horror films as much. To extend this film’s association with the horror genre, I could also point out that the film’s characters believe Meena has been possessed and needs exorcism. All of this is more frightening as the dehumanisation at the core of the film rings very real (particularly when you process Meena’s stoic response to her ordeals). Sometimes, while reading about historical horrors, we like to tell ourselves that we’d never have allowed such an event to unfold in our neighbourhood. And yet, if we peeked out of the comfort of our existence, if we just paid attention, if we began observing and truly listening, we could hear the quiet screams, the silent wails. Kottukkaali left me with a feeling of guilt about being fortunate enough to live a fairly unfettered life, about not always remembering what it’s like for many, many people out there.
I like how director PS Vinothraj has specifically chosen a few hours of a day in Meena’s life, to tell this story. We don’t realise it in the beginning, but the film throws us right into a, shall we call it, crime scene. Pandi has his throat smeared with sunaambu, suggesting that he is all screamed out. His voice throughout the film is another eerie reminder of his aggression. Meanwhile, Meena is being readied, like a goat for slaughter. Later, we see similar imagery as an actual goat gets dragged away for a feast. Coercion is a constant theme. In a way, Meena’s parents seem to be victims of familial coercion. If you think about it, you could argue that even Pandi himself is a victim of his conditioning.
Perhaps it’s not such a surprise that a film about such human horror also has enough tension to create humour out of. An ox blocking a path in the fields is a potential joke. Two men complaining about their lack of success is fodder for humour. A share auto whose engine won’t ignite easily, is another joke (note how even a share auto needs coercion to move). And yet, as I said, I felt too guilty to laugh—like my enjoyment of these moments would be a sacrilege, like it would be the equivalent of laughing in a funeral. And in a way, Kottukkaali does feel like a funeral is being documented. For evidence, watch that woman at the end who’s being treated by a priest. How many such lives are being stifled? How many people live while they are already dead inside? What are you going to do about it? How much Pandi resides in you?