‘Meiyazhagan’ Review: A Pair of Emotional Fools on a Cathartic Adventure

Director: C. Prem Kumar
Writers: C. Prem Kumar
Cast: Karthi, Arvind Swamy, Rajkiran, Swathi Konde, V. Jayaprakash
Language: Tamil

When we use the term “world-building” to describe the work of a director, we limit it to those who create underwater palaces, fire-breathing dragons and green-screen water battles. But what other phrase would you use for what Prem Kumar does, now that we can clearly spot his signature? I’m referring specifically to a simple reaction shot in Meiyazhagan during a wedding feast. The camera frames two uncles of Arulmozhi (Arvind Swamy), whom we’ve been told were responsible for a property dispute that shattered his joint family and his childhood. Yet this frame refuses to judge them. When Arul turns around to steal a glance, the uncles appear to have introspected as we catch a micro-expression showing lifelong regret. I may be overreaching, but Prem Kumar’s world is such that even the bad guys have a heart of gold; just that theirs is slightly less pure.

So what is this but world-building, when the director slows down time, summoning us almost instantly into his dream-like terrain? As we watch Arul and his childhood “friend” (played by Karthi) reunite under a glistening Thanjavur night sky, the film does not feel like a series of events we witness as they are happening. They feel like events that have happened but in real-time. It’s a strange quality that adds a layer that gives you the feeling that you’re watching memories as they’re being created, a befitting tool in a story about a man like Arul, who has consciously blocked out his childhood. He’s the emotional fool, after all, who chose to preserve a single leaf from the mango tree he spent many summers climbing before he was abruptly uprooted to Madras.

At first, there’s obvious hesitation when Arul has to finally make this trip back to his hometown. As outsiders, we’re led to believe that this hesitation is a result of the family dispute and the wounds that remain. But this is not that sort of a Pandiraj movie that’s all about loving your chithappa (uncle). Arul decides to go only because it’s Bhuvana’s (Swathi Konde) wedding, the kind of cousin you call your sister.

It’s apparent that emotions run high when this wedding turns into a family reunion (his first film ‘96 was about a school reunion). An old aunt runs toward Arul the second she spots him on the projector. Another uncle (played by Raj Kiran with the spirit of a teddy bear) borrows the phone from Arul to talk to his father after what feels like decades. The moment feels so raw and sudden that you’re caught unawares, as it creeps up on you when you’re not ready for it. The same goes for when Arul finally meets Bhuvana. Their reunion takes place on stage as dozens of people wait to greet the newly-wed couple. But the director breaks that chaos and slows down time, again, letting composer Govind Vasantha’s music take over. As Arul ties a silver anklet onto Bhuvana mid-stage, you’ve already finished a tiny box of tissues. I’m not crying; you are.

It is this unadulterated goodness of people that gets to you, just like it got to Arul. Decades spent in an alienating city like Madras have made him a sober clone of the joyous boy he once was. When a friendly bus-conductor gives Arul directions to his village, he uses words like “valatu” (right) and “itadhu” (left). To the English-thinking cityfolk that Arul has become, these are confusing terms. But on a “spiritual” level, Arul’s journey back to his roots requires that he think in Tamil again.

That’s when we get the entry of this “friend”, played by Karthi. A recurring gag works around Arul’s inability to remember him, even when this friend remembers everything about Arul. At first, this friend is too loud for Arul (and the audience too) — a manic pixie dream-boy in front of the muted Arul. With the help of chilled beers poured into earthen mugs, memories come flooding back as Arul learns to let go and let emotions take control. This is not a coming-of-age story; instead, it’s a movie that urges you to stop growing and be the child you once were.

There’s real joy in seeing these two together as they catch up over beer and Ilaiyaraaja (the singing begins with the charanam, or the final section of a song, another signature of the director). When these two ride around Thanjavur with a tall plant sticking out of their scooter, you’re reminded of Abbas Kiarostami’s Close-Up (1990). But the mood soon changes, and so does the intensity. How could Arul have forgotten someone who meant so much to him? Was it the suppression of memories, or is it the person Arul chose to become?

It is during this stretch that we find ourselves feeling distant. At one point, Arul walks straight into a sub-plot that features a drawn-out Jallikattu sequence. It feels like it’s out of another movie with the sensibilities switching to something you’d see in an Atlee film. It is a flashback, and is being narrated by Karthi. It is only until a monologue much later that you finally place this into a larger context and understand the need for such a detour. Arul becomes a reflection of who we are as cityfolk, as his nameless friend narrates moving tales of warriors and wars we do not think about anymore. Apparently, “Who am I?” is not a question that can be answered if you’re only worried about yourself. You need to think about your people, too.

Unlike Prem Kumar’s previous film, ‘96 (2018), the world he’s created is more hopeful in Meiyazhagan. The contrast between Karthi and Swamy, even as actors, contributes significantly to the personalities of their characters. In a throwaway scene, when Arul confesses to having lied to his friend, he refuses to accept that Arul is even capable of lying. Karthi confirms this gullibility with such ease that you feel it in your gut.

As for Swamy, he crafts an emotionally-stunted man who finally learns to become a boy again. In a world full of toxicity, Prem Kumar gives you broken men who aren’t embarrassed to be broken open. Accompanied by the full force of Govind Vasantha’s music, Prem Kumar gives us another shot at catharsis, making you feel lighter as you walk out. I’m not crying, you are.