Vishal Menon

As far-fetched as it may seem, one can make the case for Sirai to be added to a list of suggested reading material along with Rajinikanth’s Vettaiyan. They are both films about impossibly upright protagonists who invariably prefer to take law into their own hands, as long as it fits into their notions of having a moral conscience. They are both films that begin by making us sympathise with these heroes, who are as good as the heroes of a hundred other cop movies, only to then realise that even they could go terribly wrong. Their transformation from a trigger-happy hero to an empathetic human is the arc both films take. But if Vettaiyan was burdened by the weight of its mega star voltage, Sirai is more than happy to make the movie about other characters too, resulting in an unadulterated debate about encounter killings and the biases that make this act more complex.

Rain isn’t just a character in Mindiyum Paranjum as much as it is this film’s entire ensemble cast. It has moods and meanings, faults, and feelings, all of which keep drifting in based on how Leena (Aparna Balamurali) or Sanal (Unni Mukundan) perceive it. For Sanal, rain is a happy sight for tired eyes. He lives in Dubai where it rains once a year. In the song that plays in the background, Sanal associates the rain with the imagery of being able to see Leena again, his wife who lives in Kerala. During their conversations, Sanal asks Leena if it’s raining and if it’s cold; more than worry, these questions come with a bit of mischief, that of a husband who has forgotten what it felt like to touch his wife.

There’s something about PR Arun’s Pharma that takes you back to the whistleblower dramas of the 90s. Although it’s set in the dubious world of pharma and the corrupt practices there in the late 2000s, it recalls films like The Firm and The Street Lawyer, both based on John Grisham novels, in the way it takes an insider’s efforts to redeem himself for a major corporation to be taught a lesson. The arc of Pharma too is familiar and predictable but through its lead actor Nivin Pauly, one can sense the earnestness with which the series was written, especially when it handles a subject that requires patience to understand. By placing this subject within the realm of an experimental drug meant to be consumed by pregnant women, the importance of its message outshines the way it tries to say it.

Ever since directors like Karthik Subbaraj and Lokesh Kanagaraj made it socially acceptable for a film to be termed a “fanboy sambhavam”, we as the audience were aware that this sub-genre would eventually spread to all languages, catering to almost every fanbase. Dhananjay Shankar’s Bha Bha Ba is among Malayalam cinema’s most desperate attempts at cashing in on this cow and the film tries to do this by milking the fanbases of two of its major stars—Dileep (obviously) and Mohanlal.

There was a time in Tamil cinema when films like Revolver Rita may have been considered “cool”. This must have been around the early 2010s, when the first generation of Tamil filmmakers graduated from the Broadband Downloads School of Modern Cinema. Of course, they all cultivated their tastes with modern classics, but somewhere down the line, films of Tarantino and Guy Ritchie became the most important names in their taste-making. Revolver Rita, in all fairness, appears to be a film that was found in one of the old Seagate hard disks of that era.

In Sivaranjani’s Victoria, the most striking moment has more to do with a sound, rather than visuals. It feels like just another day at Victoria’s (Meenakshi Jayan) beauty salon when we hear this, as she waxes the arms of a customer. Until then, we see Victoria maintaining a happy face through it all, as she tries to manage the crowd at the salon with the worries of having to elope with her non-committal boyfriend. But each time Victoria tugs at a waxing strip in her hurry to remove them, the sound we hear is that of slaps falling on Victoria, along with the voice of a man shouting. Until that moment, we see bruises on her face, but the film doesn’t quite explain their origin. And with the sound of each waxing strip getting pulled, we listen in on the taunts being hurled at Victoria for her decision to marry outside of her religion. For women like her, the salon is therapy.

For a film named after the most fragrant sub-species of sandalwood, there’s a lot of talk about the stench people are forced to live with in Jayan Nambiar’s Vilayath Buddha. The most obvious of these stories belong to Bhaskaran (Shammi Thilakan), the out-of-work politician who cannot reverse his reputation, after he gets caught visiting the neighbourhood sex worker. Then there’s the stench Chaithanya (Priyamvada) wants to get rid off of her for being termed this sex worker’s daughter. She has no identity outside of her mother’s occupation and she fears she too will be seen as one. Then of course is the story of Double Mohanan (Prithviraj), the sandalwood smuggler, who will forever remain a thief to everyone in the hill station of Marayur.