I have spent the last couple of days attempting to explain to people what I mean by the confession, “I quite liked Vaaranam Aayiram.” I’ve been told that it’s too long. I’ve replied that I’ve seen longer films. I’ve been told that the characters in the film converse in English and listen to Hindi songs, the way Tamil families most certainly do not, and that the parents are permissive in ways Tamil parents most certainly aren’t. I’ve pointed to my family, my parents to counter this.
I’ve been told that there’s no dramatic tension in the film. I’ve argued that dramatic tension isn’t necessarily a quality every film has to aspire to, in the way that every book doesn’t have to revolve around a crackling plot at its centre, especially since Vaaranam Aayiram is the equivalent of a picaresque novel, telling the story of a lovable rogue (Suriya, played by Suriya) in a loosely episodic fashion. Not everyone has to be a fan of the picaresque tradition — I understand that.
I understand, also, that Tamil cinema is more likely to focus on the punchy highlights of a hero’s life, rather than stopping to stare at a boy strumming a guitar in front of his parents in a scene that serves no purpose other than to highlight a lilting moment of domestic grace. But the film worked for me for precisely these reasons.
You know that a film (or a television show, or a novel) is working for you when you fall for the characters and decide to let them take you wherever they go — and that’s what happened to me with this latest presentation from Gautham Vasudev Menon. It did, however, take me a while to get into the proceedings, as the film got going with an episode involving Krishnan (Suriya’s father, again played by Suriya). There’s something about seeing a young hero self-consciously play an older man that almost always pulls me out of a film.
This happened with the opening scenes of Swathi Muthyam (Sippikkul Muthu in Tamil) as well, where Kamal Hassan fussed about mightily, trying to portray an old man by affecting a gruff vocal manner and a shuffling gait. This isn’t acting, but ‘acting’ — the entire effort is shrouded in quotes. It wasn’t till the flashback began and the younger Kamal took over did I begin to ease into the film — and that’s the exact thing that happened with me here. Once Krishnan receded to the far corners of the screen, though he never really disappears, this being his story as well, and once Suriya occupies centrestage, I had little problem handing myself over.
“Oh, but what about the flaws?” I’ve been asked. And I’ve responded with what I said after being questioned about my admission of enjoying Aaja Nachle, which is that when you find yourself liking a film, the flaws recede into the background and when you don’t, those very same flaws stand up in front of you and slap you senseless till your cheeks sting and your eyes water.
Of course there are a lot of things in Vaaranam Aayiram I wish had been better (or different). The choreography of Harris Jayaraj’s smashing songs, for instance, which comes across as stagy in the worst possible way. I hated the fact that the significance of the elegant title was laid out so inelegantly at the very end, as if hastily summarising a high-school essay with a recap of the main theme. But these occasional (or frequent) missteps are a small price to pay for an ambitious film with so many affecting moments.
Suriya’s breakdown inside a telephone booth is the surest sign yet that this actor, when he’s not trying to ‘act’, is the genuine article. His pain leaps off the screen and sears itself onto you, just as his smile in the romantic portions wheedles a smile out of you.
Suriya may not yet be the kind of performer who can play anything (case in point: the senior Krishnan) but he’s the only young actor today whose conviction alone can shepherd you through the ups and downs of a film.
I loved that Vaaranam Aayiram is a story about how a father has influenced his son’s life. Even an action segment, which comes off at first as perfunctory heroics, culminates with the reunion of a father and his young son — and yet this father is himself no dazzling success or an overachiever.
Krishnan is an amiable loser, heavily in debt, heavily into bad habits, but also heavily in love with his family. He’s the kind of character who invites you to love him not because he’s flawless, but despite his flaws. When he drops his son off at college for the first time, there’s no stentorian fatherly instruction to study well or be a good boy. Krishnan merely remarks that they’re both grown-ups now, and implicit in this observation is that Suriya will have to make his own mistakes.
And that Suriya certainly does. This isn’t the kind of story that casually slaps a happy ending on anyone. Every aspect of life — love, family, professional distinction, personal development — is earned through extended ordeals by fire. And that’s perhaps why the dissolve and the close-up are the recurrent cinematic techniques on display here — the former because of the gradual manner in which the protagonist’s life is shaped, and the latter because this is an intensely personal (and introspective) story in a way few stories in Tamil cinema today are.
It’s also urban in a way few stories in Tamil cinema are. I always cringe at our depiction of people from the cities — especially women from upper classes, who are typically reduced to outlandish caricatures painted in grotesque colours as the ‘other’. In Kattradhu Thamizh, a city girl (who, at the office, wears a T-shirt that says, “Touch me here if you dare”) orders burgers for lunch, and in Kalloori, the heroine is identified as a girl from the city because her tiffin box contains white-bread sandwiches.
In Mudhal Mudhal Mudhal Varai, the citygirl heroine drives a motorbike and, when teased about it, proclaims that she likes something hard and throbbing between her legs.
The bad habits from the days of Sakalakalavallavan (where city girl Ambika existed solely so that she could be put in place by village boy Kamal Hassan, her pants giving way to saris in accordance with his desire of admiring her behind as she bent down to make dung patties) are still so prevalent.
In other words, city girls are brainless sluts and/or headstrong bitches unless they can be tamed by the hero in a timely fashion.
When the city girl (Suriya is after) says that she’s off to study in Berkeley (despite his love for her, like Kiran Vairale at the end of Mani Ratnam’s Pallavi Anupallavi), I wanted to get up and cheer.
The tiny detail that she expected to score 99 per cent in her final exams, while he wasn’t even sure if he’d clear all his subjects, was simply gravy.
Baradwaj Rangan Film critic, The New Indian Express.
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