‘THALAIVI’: TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE
INSTEAD OF DEPICTING THE SHADES AND COMPLEXITIES OF A POLITICAL CAREER, THALAIVI CHOOSES TO CANONISE J. JAYALALITHAA. THE BIGGER PROBLEM IS THAT IT’S A DULL FILM
Two dramatic sequences—set 24 years apart—open the new Jayalalithaa biopic Thalaivi. One of these shows the young Jaya (Kangana Ranaut) performing in the florid mode of 1960s Tamil cinema—writhing under a waterfall, jiggling her hips—and a glimpse of her soon-to-be leading man, superstar ‘MJR’ (Arvind Swamy). But just before this comes a scene that is as theatrical in its way. It is set in the Tamil Nadu legislative assembly in 1989 and depicts Jaya—new to politics—being manhandled during a scuffle between opposing parties. Whereupon she compares herself to Draupadi, denouncing men who don’t know how to respect women, and promises revenge.
To watch this opening is to be reminded that all successful politicians, even the relatively dignified ones, are performers: presenting a version of themselves for public consumption. And what happens in a political arena—especially the Indian parliamentary proceedings—can be more melodramatic and outlandish than anything in an over-the-top film.
It also suggests Thalaivi might be a film about politicians as actors, and actors as politicians—a clever view of the workings of realpolitik. Instead, it settles conservatively into a portrait of Jayalalithaa as saint, wanting to acquire power only so she can use it for a good cause. One of the conceits here is that a woman can help clean up politics through empathy and a willingness to go to the grassroots. (“I will never like or understand politics,” Jaya says, but an epiphany hits her when she realises that a caring touch is required.) This results in a manipulative, one-note film, full of shots of Jaya being talked down to or pushed around—the main agenda being to create sympathy for someone who is trying to bring compassion to a callous or apathetic space.
We don’t exactly have a tradition of robust cinema
Thalaivi, starring Kangana Ranaut, offers sanitised depictions of J. Jayalalithaa’s life
built around real-life political figures. One can’t help compare Thalaivi with Mani Ratnam’s 1997 Iruvar, a fictionalised account of the relationship between M.G. Ramachandran and M. Karunanidhi—which featured a character who marginally resembled the young Jayalalithaa. (A confession: this viewer spent the more tedious bits of Thalaivi day-dreaming about Iruvar.) One reason why that earlier film was so effective was that by shrugging off the need for saphead verisimilitude, it could reach more poetic truths about friendship and politics, ideology and lived experience, while also revealing something important about 20th century Tamilian history and the celebrity cult. Thalaivi, on the other hand, is supposedly a straight Jaya biopic, and yet, in the interests of prudence, it slightly alters character names (MGR becomes MJR) and offers sanitised depictions of events along with a highlights reel of Jayalalithaa’s life.
Worse, it does this lifelessly. What’s most surprising is not that this film is hagiographical, but that it is so dull. Kangana Ranaut has been such a controversial figure recently, using social media as a personal kingdom for shrill, gratuitous pronouncements, even being banished from it before making a dramatic return—the way Jayalalithaa did on the political stage at various points during her career—you would think the casting alone would make for an entertaining movie that moves through layers of artifice, reality and metareferences. But that doesn’t happen. For every playful touch (e.g., the teenage Jaya reading Caesar and Cleopatra as she prepares for a tempestuous relationship with a much older, Godlike man), there are 10 other moments where the dialogue is tiresomely on the nose. Tell, don’t show is mostly the motto and the showing, when it happens, is in slow motion. Ironically, by presenting Jayalalithaa only as someone who is constantly condescended to and who must goad herself to new heights in response, the film itself diminishes her.
- Jai Arjun Singh [The film watched for this review was the
Tamil version]
For decades, Chennai had few places where the whole family could eat a meal in cleanliness and peace. The few eateries that dotted the metropolis were largely “military hotels”, hole-in-the-wall places serving cheap non-veg to an all-male clientele. All that changed in the 1980s with the mushrooming of several clean, air-conditioned restaurants specialising in regional cuisine. But vegetarian eatand-run places were still few. Vasantha
Bhavan, Saravana Bhavan and other chains, each enjoying brief moments in the spotlight, have now carved out the market among themselves.
Yet, few of them have earned as much commendation and condemnation as Saravana Bhavan, founded in 1981 by P. Rajagopal in K.K. Nagar, a developing corner of the metropolis. It soon spread across the city, serving fresh and affordable vegetarian fare. It would have been a fine case-study in a management course.
But Rajagopal also had something else on his mind: women.
In Murder on the Menu, Nirupama Subramanian recaptures the rise and fall of India’s dosa king for readers outside the state with every tiring detail of his growth and his severely damaged value system. Skip the background and the stereotypes about Chennai’s conservatism and it makes for a good afternoon read.
Through interviews and visits, the author traces in straightforward journalistic style how a poor boy growing up in the tiny village of Punnaiyadi near the southeastern corner of Tamil Nadu slogged like thousands of other Nadar boys in sweat shops. After opening small grocery shops, Rajagopal tied up with two others to start a small eatery in a developing corner of Chennai in 1981. Saravana Bhavan was born. It came not only with the promise of “unlimited meals” but also clean toilets and an atmosphere in which even women would comfortably eat alone. His early experience as a cleaner in a tiny restaurant served him well. He was uncompromising about quality and hygiene. Saravana Bhavan soon spread across 22 countries, with 112 restaurants.
Like a lot of people who strike it rich, he never forgot his humble roots, doling out generously to temples and religious activities in his village. But the sleaze in him soon surfaced. Despite being married, he coveted the wife of his chef and forced her to move in with him. As his empire grew, he then lusted after the wife of yet another employee. The woman repeatedly rejected his entreaties and stood up to his threats. Rajagopal had her husband murdered and that led to his downfall. He used all his money to chase the case up to the Supreme Court, where he lost. Immediately after the judgment, the dosa king died a perfectly timed death. He never served time in prison and never admitted to committing a crime.