Meiyazhagan Movie Review: This conversation film swells with ...

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27 Sep 2024, 4:59 am

This review delves into the film's intricate details. A post-viewing read is advisable.

In one of many, many tender moments in Meiyazhagan, Arul (Arvind Swami) returns to his hometown as an adult and sees, no, feels the presence of an adult elephant walking behind him—an elephant he knew and loved as a teenager. In another film, you might expect him to approach the animal, exchange a few words, or perhaps even pet it. But director Prem Kumar is as much about the unsaid as he is about the said. Here, he makes you see how Arul’s heart swells with the bittersweetness of nostalgia (“nellikaa saaptu thanni kudichaa madhri”), a quality we recognised and adored in Prem’s first film, 96, too. If he goes on to make another film that begins with a protagonist journeying home to savour old scenes and sounds, we could combine these all and call it the ‘nostalgia trilogy’.

Director: C Premkumar

Cast: Arvind Swami, Karthi, Devadarshini, Sri Divya, Jayaprakash, Rajkiran, Karunakaran

Early in Meiyazhagan, Arul revisits Thanjavur, and as he contemplates the effects of time on places from his memory, the film—and Arul—take time to breathe. He seems introverted, not unlike Ram from 96. Where Ram is allowed to lead a quiet life, Arul isn’t, with an unnamed man (Karthi) refusing to leave him alone. Like Ram, Arul cherishes his privacy, his moments of solitude. You see it in the small moments—ones you rarely see in mainstream cinema—as Arul gazes from a train, as Arul feels the wind on his face while cycling, as Arul lies under the night sky. These moments dictate the pace of the film and give it its heart and emotional weight.

Karthi’s character, let’s call him M, is the opposite: an extroverted man who respects no boundaries. And yet, M’s lack of judgment allows Arul to open up. It made me wonder: if we were never judged, would we still value privacy as much?

M is a fascinating man, an ideal almost. He’s uncorrupted by time and society, lives in harmony with people and animals, and even values the inanimate. In a poignant moment, Arul confesses to deceit, yet M is unable to see the betrayal. This raises deep questions in Arul and us: Is such a man even possible? Should we all aspire to be like him? Perhaps that’s why Arul’s reverence for M is almost spiritual: at one point, he carries M’s sandals, like a dutiful disciple. When M implores for Arul to come back home, Arul’s response, “Sathyama varen, saami” feels rather carefully constructed—especially that last word.

What a lovely touch then when we realise the source and the cause of M’s largehearted goodness. Often, we mistake karma for being a divine idea, picturing a deity evaluating actions and dispensing justice. However, in a finite universe, it’s conceivable that the effects of our actions return to us. Meiyazhagan beautifully captures this cyclical, rewarding nature of goodness, and how healing begets healing. Trauma, of course, disrupts this cycle—which is why Arul changes from being an extroverted, happy teen. But the film, like M, is almost Buddhist in its encouragement of forgiveness—and poetic in how it captures that through a strange, unobservable cycle of events, Arul ends up helping himself.

If 96 was about love (unexpressed and romantic), Meiyazhagan’s is a broader, more expansive love—a love not just for people, but for creatures like elephants and snakes and fishes, and objects too (which is rather at loggerheads with the Buddhist philosophy of shunning materialism). In this film, a house and a bicycle are almost alive. The scent of a new shirt almost reaches out to you from the screen. It made me think of my first bike, of my first bulky desktop computer. Meiyazhagan also speaks of love for our kind—for those related by blood, by language. It encourages us to find pride in our past, despite its burdens. Arul may be a prisoner of his past, but M hasn’t just made peace but is profoundly thankful for it. And therein lies all the difference, it seems.

Much like 96, there’s no real plot here, and it doesn’t matter. This film too happens over a night, as two individuals, strangers at first despite previous familiarity, bond over conversation—the currency of our lives. This film is a collection of these conversations—between Arul and M, between Arul and a bus driver, between Arul and an estranged uncle, between Arul and a flower seller… These seemingly simple conversations contain the film’s profundity. Composer Govind Vasantha recognises this, often stepping back to let the words be the music.

The second half is pretty much one long, drunk conversation between Arul and M, with Karthi’s extroverted M doing all the talking, while Arul listens. Karthi is perfectly cast as the emotionally open M, while Arvind Swami’s performance as Arul—mostly silent and introspective—is compelling and perhaps the harder of both performances. If M’s dialogues register powerfully, it’s on account of Arul’s attentive listening. The only place where I had to work a bit to believe the film is when Arul leaves his guest at the end, tottering and all broken (almost an echo of that opening scene). His sorrow felt like a poetic exaggeration, but then again, Arul is the kind of man who talks to parrots and asks them for permission to travel.

The minor detour with the jallikattu portions, intended perhaps to channel a heroic side to Karthi’s M, feels like an indulgence, especially given the liberal running time. To a lesser degree, M’s lamentation about the police shootings, the Eelam Tamil genocide… feels tangential too. Still, they feel like part of the film’s meandering, conversational structure, a bit like the many topics you would dip a drunken conversation into. It’s all complete with some off-pitch drunken singing of classics like ‘Indha Maan’ (Karakattakaran) and ‘Kodaikaala Kaatre’ (Panneer Pushpangal). I thought the off-key delivery added to the charm.

Ultimately, Meiyazhagan is a sweet, sensitive film. It may not have the easy, emotional pull of 96, what with all the musical flourish, but that’s what makes it doubly special. It’s a story about stories, about forgotten memories and quiet reflections. For once, this isn’t a celebration of romantic love, but of something quieter and more enduring—male camaraderie, kinship, and a rare vulnerability that allows men to cry in the presence of other men. It’s a film about heritage, harmony and the importance of home. And as the film gently reminds us, home isn’t always a place—it could be anywhere your roots lead you. Sometimes, it’s as simple and profound as spending a night with someone and learning their name.