Abhimaan (Hrishikesh Mukherjee, 1973)

by Steffany Moreno

Upon a Google search for “Classic Hindi Movies” IMDb recommends “100 Old Hindi Movies You Should Watch”. At number 40 on this list of must-watch films, Abhimaan (d. Hrishikesh Mukherjee, 1973) makes its appearance. The film is described simply as the story of a popular singer whose pride is injured by his wife’s success, it was the leading actors of the movie, Amitabh Bachchan and Jaya Bhaduri (Bachchan) that caught my eye. Amitabh Bachchan is typically known as the angry and disillusioned son, the bad boy with a good heart, the misguided hero as we see in films such as Deewar (d. Yash Chopra, 1975). However in Abhimaan we see a different man, still angry, but changed.

           

The story follows the journey of Subir (Amitabh Bachchan), a professional singer who is just reaching the peak of his career, and his wife Uma (Jaya Bhaduri), a village girl with a beautiful voice with no intention of seeking fame. The two marry somewhat unexpectedly as Uma enchants Subir with her voice and beauty and return to Mumbai where Subir resides. Subir decides to push Uma towards a singing career she does not want with the dream of them being successful together. However, as Uma’s singing career flourishes Subir’s begins to deteriorate. Uma’s fame becomes a point of contention between the couple and their marriage begins to fall apart. Subir turns to alcohol to help him cope with his injured pride and searches for comfort in the house of his old love interest Chitra (Bindu). The alcoholism, jealousy, suggested infidelity, and anger prove too much for Uma. She leaves Subir and goes back to her village to live with her father and Subir’s aunt. Their lives are changed when Uma suffers a miscarriage and plummets into a severe depression (described as a state of shock) that leads Subir to search for her and ask for forgiveness. Finally the couple is reunited, and Uma is “fixed” after an emotional duet.

           

This film is structured in a way that places equal importance in the two leads. While the story is initially focused on Subir and his career as his rage takes over Uma is given more screen time, more dialogue, and because of this becomes easier to sympathize with. Both stars have beautiful character arcs, where there is a clear distinction between who they are at the beginning of the film and who they are by the end of it. Subir is originally self-centered, cocky and focused only on his career. He has no intention of getting married or settling down, his goal is to achieve stardom and enjoy the luxuries that accompany it. Uma is an honest, small-town (village) girl with an engrained set of values and love for life when Subir meets her. She is not impressed by his fame and has no problem telling him she despises some of his songs. Once their lives collide, however change sets in, altering them in several ways.

We see Uma gain confidence as she sings while remaining a loyal and humble wife. Simultaneously, Subir’s jealousy and wounded pride begin to consume him. Their marriage transforms with their characters; while playful and jovial at the beginning, by the time Subir is unrecognizable and head-deep in alcoholism their marriage is hanging on by a thread. Interactions are clearly forced (if at all present) where they once were effortless and constant, and where the house was once filled with music and light in later scenes it is darker and eerily silent except for Subir’s drunken yelling. Uma’s miscarriage prompts yet another development in their characters. Uma is absolutely destroyed after her loss, she refuses to speak to anyone and mopes around with an aura of hopelessness. Subir stops drinking, instead he becomes a supportive husband willing to seek medical advice in order to be able to help his heartbroken wife.  Their changes compliment one another. We see his complete turn around when he is asked to sing at a prestigious gathering and he stops halfway when Uma breaks down not only to console her, but also to share the spotlight with her. The film ends with a heart-wrenching song in which we physically see Uma stand up a little taller and sing a little louder implying her “return” all while her husband holds her up and sings with her. The fact that the movie is able to place both of them as heroes (Subir for saving his wife, and Uma for coming back from her shock) reinforces their shared importance and interdependence. These characteristics of the film make for an infinitely satisfying happily ever after “love wins” sensation.

As the name suggests, Abhimaan is entirely about the consequences of one being prideful. It addresses the fine line between the allure of confidence and the self-destructiveness of pride through the character of Subir. While he is originally the sheer embodiment of confidence in its most attractive and desirable form, he slowly transitions into a man ravaged by excessive pride. Subir serves as a reminder that while it is important to be successful, and to aim for greatness, it is also important to realize what is truly valuable in one’s life. It is pride that leads him to lose Uma and this same pride that prevents him from going to her and asking for forgiveness up until the miscarriage. The emphasis on the importance of love and family (especially children) over success in this movie indicates what Mukherjee deemed most important in life.

Only Subir and Uma have been discussed in depth above, but each character of Abhimaan is carefully and beautifully developed. It is impossible to not mourn with them, rejoice with them, and choose a side in their battles. When Subir’s aunt is introduced, one cannot help but feel affection toward her based solely on how much she clearly loves Subir. Similarly, when he lets her down by mistreating Uma one feels solidarity with her in her disappointment and chastising of Subir. It is the connections the film is able to make across the screen via character development that allow the viewer to give a standing ovation when Uma finishes her song, while reaching for a tissue of course.

Indra (B. Gopal, 2002)

by Shivani Vikuntam

Historically, the caste system in India has allowed for a very prominent social hierarchy to be present. This hierarchy has seeped into the lives of the every day Indian. The film Indra, depicts a classist struggle while being cloaked as an Action/Romance film. Indra Is a 2002 Telugu film, and it was directed by B. Gopal. The film is split in thirds, with the center part depicting events from the past. This is an important film to watch as it addresses social differences. Certain parts of South India are known for their tendency to be very violent. There, violence is the answer to achieving one’s desires. If there is a dispute over land or anything else, the solution somehow involves intimidation, threats, and violence. This film addresses that issue and points out how useless that tactic is in the short term and in the long term.

At its core, the film is the story of two feuding families. The families are constantly at war, and finally find a solution for peace in the form of a wedding between the two families. This newfound peace lasts until the wedding night when the wife poisons the husband, recreating the war between the families. This feud spans generations until it finally arrives at the hero, Indra Reddy.  He is well liked and takes care of the village people. His enemy, Shankarnath manages to drive Indra out of the village. Shankarnath is a violent villain who goes so far as to murder his own young child because Indra saved him from being hit by a bus. The film addresses many social topics.

Early on in the film, the hero, Indra, is close to fighting a local Islamic man over a love scandal in their families. Indra takes that moment to call peace between the two families, and states that just because they are Hindu and Muslim, it does not mean they cannot live as friends and in peace. This is an interesting tactic to speak to the viewer about the relationship between the two religions. It promotes the idea of peace and kindness amongst the two, and also shows that the political issues between both religions has affected people in South India as well.

The film does an excellent job of pointing out the disparities between the wealthy class and the impoverished class. In one scene, Indra’s family is throwing colored water on each other for Holi, and a peasant states that it’s amazing this wealthy family is doing that while there is a draught in the village and people are dying. Upon hearing this, Indra uses his money to help build a reservoir to collect water for the villagers. Indra uses nationalism and love for the land to explain why it is necessary for people to take care of their country. Indra is also from a royal and wealthy family and that is seen through his home. It is an expansive mansion in his village, and he lives with every comfort. However, when it comes time for him to save the villagers, he sacrifices his comfort and leaves the village. He moves from Andra Pradesh, to Varanasi where he works as a common taxi driver and lives in a small home. This shows the viewer that happiness is not correlated with wealth.

Of course, as many Indian films do, this film included song and dance numbers. During the scenes in the present, the song and dance numbers were heavily focused on European scenery and fantasy landscapes. However, during the flashback, the song and dance numbers were in the rural village settings and focused on more traditional clothing and music. This aided the viewer in differentiating the times.

Additionally, the film uses the scenery of rural south India as often as it can. The disparities in wealth are conveyed through the visual scenes of mansions and shacks, kings and cab drivers, and governors and peasants. While watching the film, whenever there are interactions between two people of different castes or classes, the camera is careful to remain at the same height while filming and depicting both characters. The only time this changes is when the hero, Indra, is conversing with the villain, Shankarnath. When this occurs, the camera angel faces up while filming the hero, so it is as if the viewer is literally looking up to him. And while filming the villain, the camera is angled downward, so the viewer is looking down on him. This technique subtly explains to the viewer that people who are selfless and respectful should be valued and looked up to.

A major attribute to this film is its tendency to rely heavily on violence. At any moment’s notice, a man can pull a knife out of his shirt and begin attacking people. This film addresses the issues with violence in southern India in an interesting manner. The two feuding families use violence and murder as solutions to appease their respective families, yet this does nothing but cause more murder and violence. This back and forth spans generations, and the viewer cannot help but notice that no good comes from the violence. Instead, the viewer notices that the characters live happier when they promote love and respect.

This film promotes the importance of family and love, through this long feud. The scenes of sheer violence and bloodshed also show how a character will fight for their family and their family’s honor. The solution to the issues is mutual respect and love, which is only discovered through open communication and conversation. It took the entire film, and several hundred deaths for this peace to occur, but it draws on the point that often one’s first response to anger is violence, and that it should not be.

I chose this film because the area of South India that is known to be violent is actually where my father is from. My father’s family promoted education for several generations, which is why I never understood why his village was associated with violence. Yet even today, when I visit that area in India, you can see the remnants of a violent past in the historical weapons that are often seen lying abandoned. The issue of violence is still rampant in many parts of India. Often times, movies add violence to make the hero seem more manly or heroic. This has caused viewers to feel that they must be violent in order to be heroic. Villains who use evil tactics to hurt people, such as pouring acid on a woman’s face, have sparked ideas in common people in India. This tendency to lean towards violence is harmful and wrong. Movies such as Indra explain how violence is a vicious cycle. It is important to watch this film as it shows how far fetched ideas such as love can actually be used as a solution to violence and evil. Additionally, Indra does an excellent job of showing how wealth can be used to aid lower-class people and ultimately change and save lives.

Anand (Hrishikesh Mukherjee, 1971)

by Sanchit Jain

Anand (d. Hrishikesh Mukherjee, 1971) follows the final months of the life of Anand (Rajesh Khanna). Arriving in Mumbai and in the lives of Drs. Bhaskar Banerjee (Amitabh Bachchan) and Prakash Kulkarni (Ramesh Deo), Anand is shown to be a lighthearted and cheerful man, willing to talk to and befriend anyone.

The movie begins with the framing narrative – Bhaskar wins a literary award (a familiar format that we also see in Deewar) for a book he has written. He emphasizes that the book simply comprises the recordings of the last few months of Anand’s life. The book is titled ‘Anand’. The audience is made to wonder what the Anand in the movie title signifies. Is the movie about the novel, through which we are introduced to Anand? Is it about Anand himself? Or is it about the more abstract notion of happiness? There is no singular answer. The character Anand occupies the protagonist’s role and is thus integral to the narrative. But the movie is also about the joy (Anand) he spreads. Finally, the narrative is interspersed with scenes of Bhaskar writing the diary that ultimately becomes his book. In doing so, Bhaskar transforms Anand’s life into a text from which we can all draw lessons. It also immortalizes his character and ebullient optimism.

We are simultaneously introduced to Anand and his fatal disease (lymphosarcoma of the intestine). The ending of the movie seems to be known to all, even if minor characters like Suman (Seema Deo) harbor the hope that Anand will survive, primarily through faith. In a sense, this narrative mirrors one of the most fundamental conventions in Hindi cinema. The audience knows the general ending or resolution of most movies, but they insist on watching them. Why? What matters is the journey – and this is exactly why one must watch Anand as well. There is much to learn from Anand’s journey to the end.

The movie is no more than 122 minutes (the editing is tight and neither half feels stretched). In this time, we are shown Anand befriending strangers on the road (using the hilarious Murarilal ploy), attempting to romance young women, singing heartfelt songs and cracking jokes, making himself and everyone around him laugh. Anand summarizes his philosophy in his dialogue, “Agar zinda rehna zaroori hai, toh aadmi haste zinda rahe.” While watching the movie, one recalls the saying that laughter is the best medicine. Repeatedly, Bhaskar recognizes this in Anand’s personality – he identifies his strength in his ability to laugh and make others laugh with him.

Crucially, this ability of Anand’s transcends class (he touches the life of Bhaskar’s servant), culture and religion. Coming from Delhi, he moves a Maharashtrian couple (Prakash and Suman), a Punjabi wrestling master (Dara Singh) and a Bengali doctor (Bhaskar), thus overcoming linguistic and cultural barriers. In accepting the character of the stern matron (a Christian) as his mother, that of Issa Bhai (a Muslim played by Johnny Walker) as his teacher and that of Suman (a Hindu) as his sister, Anand overcomes the barrier of religion that has so often divided India. Anand plays a unifying role that is critical, given the sociopolitical tumult of the 1960s (with two wars and Nehru's death).

In situating Anand in a world of medical professionals, the movie is clearly thinking about the means of bettering someone’s life. The doctors offer one method: the discipline of medicine. Interestingly, we first see Bhaskar disillusioned with medicine because it can’t cure large systemic problems like poverty or caste issues. But the true insurmountable challenge for Bhaskar is Anand’s case. Other patients are minor characters that have no true ailments, but who want medicine and will not leave until these desires are satisfied. Even if Anand wanted medicine, however, he would not be able to get it. As Issa Bhai says, there is one disease without cure – cancer. The irony is not lost on the audience. In fact, this heightens the audience’s and characters’ sympathy towards Anand. It also raises the question of the purpose of medicine. The movie seems to make the statement that there are limits to what medicine can do. If someone is terminally ill, medicine cannot help. And in that situation, one must search for other means (perhaps laughter) of improving one’s condition.

The characters in the movie have been carefully constructed. Rajesh Khanna plays Anand masterfully, never allowing for the audience to doubt the genuineness of Anand’s desire to spread joy. There are times when the character requires Khanna to be vulnerable and express sorrow. Anand’s life has seen much sorrow, including the trauma of Partition. The movie lauds his reaction to such sorrow, as is seen when Issa Bhai appreciatively observes, “Dukh apne liye rakh, anand sabke liye.” Anand’s vulnerability is best seen in the song, ‘Zindagi Kaisi Hai Paheli.’ In this song, Anand ruefully expresses the truly puzzling nature of life, which refuses to give him health, as he seems to deserve more than anyone else. As is fitting given the somber mood of the film, there are no fantastical song sequences.  Amitabh Bachchan embodies the timidity and reluctance of Bhaskar’s character well, despite a few awkwardly stiff scenes. The female characters of Suman and Renu (Sumita Sanyal) are under-utilized but effective.

The ending of the movie is especially poetic. Anand passes away, while we hear the recording of Bhaskar’s poem ‘Maut Tu Ek Kavita Hai.’ Bhaskar walks in on already dead Anand and begs him to speak, at which point Anand’s final recording plays. The recording of Anand’s voice emphasizes what the movie attempts to say: death can come at any time and so what matters is not the quantity but the quality of one’s life. And with that, the tape, like Anand’s life, and the movie and novel on his life, ends.

When Bhaskar hears Anand sing the melancholic 'Kaheen Door Jab Din Dhal Jaye,' he remarks that the song is "beautiful, but sad." And this sums up the movie perfectly. "Beautiful, but sad."

Chupke Chupke (Hrishikesh Mukherjee, 1975)

by Elissa Jayne Toohill

Hrishikesh Mukherjee and N.C. Sippy’s Chupke Chupke holds a surprisingly low rank in the mainstream collective memory of important South Asian films. Although it is not considered particularly obscure, it is certainly not a regular among popular top-ten rankings lists (not even in All-Time Favorite Bollywood Comedies lists) either, and we don’t see it referenced in many later films.

Having been a relative newcomer to South Asian Cinema fandom upon viewing this film for the first time, I found it difficult to understand why it the film doesn’t enjoy icon status. How can this be?

Well, despite the fact that its lead actor Dharmendra manages to accomplish the near-impossible task of playing the character Dr. Parimal Tripathi successfully (the character is a charismatic trickster that possesses a strong moral compass—a highly intelligent academic with a definite benevolent bent to his personality, he at the same time manages not to take himself too seriously), and despite its timeless brilliance in dialogue and humor, thoroughly enjoyable songs, and undeniable chemistry between romantic interests, Mukherjee-Sippy’s gem failed to attain much more than critical acclaim and cult classic status.

This outcome can be chalked up to simple temporal misfortune. Just shy of four months before the premiere of Sholay–the blockbuster megahit that cemented Amitabh-Dharmendra’s immortality–the very same duo starred in this lighthearted comedy together, an act further rendering Chupke Chupke temporarily forgettable. When you have the same exact headlining actors performing in such thematically disparate films, you are bound to relegate one to the backburner, however undeserving of relegation one of the films may be.

Popularity-related injustices aside, Chupke Chupke is a joy to behold. It fulfills its primary duty as a comedy for sure: the story is hilarious from start to finish, and it provides us with well-rounded comedic content. It pleases in ways from simplistic to intellectual—silly physical gags seem right at home with unpretentious-yet-highbrow humor. The technical prowess of the film crew is noteworthy (we notice their subtle artistry even in the opening credits, beautiful flower shots hinting at the recurrent botany theme). The story, while not airtight, glides smoothly from scene to scene. Humor is the near-constant primary focus, but not at the expense of social critique.

Not long after the opening credits, we get the first glimpse of Parimal’s mischief maker-cum-humble hero persona. During his stay at a hill station, our young Professor of Botany learns that the poor old solitary caretaker of the station is in a bind. The caretaker’s grandson has fallen ill, but the man fears he will lose his job if he heads back to the village to attend to his grandson’s needs.

Upon hearing this, Parimal promptly trades his coat for the caretaker’s typical chowkidar (caretaker) outerwear, offering to take over his duties while the old man heads home to care for his grandson. While the caretaker initially refuses (the reason being that he has a bus full of students on the way for a fieldwork excursion) Parimal insists, and the fun begins.

Too soon after the caretaker’s departure, the expected bus full of (female) botany students arrives. Parimal affects the caretaker’s accent and mannerisms, and while he is perceived to be subpar due to his lack of strength and his near-inability to anticipate his guests’ needs, he conducts his ruse well enough that it goes by undetected… that is until the highly-curious Sulekha Chaturvedi (played by Sharmila Tagore) overhears Parimal welcoming back the actual caretaker. Impressed with Parimal’s good deed, Sulekha demands to see Parimal without his caretaker’s hat, and she openly shares her positive opinion of his looks. Now impressed with Parimal in two ways, Sulekha slyly slips Parimal her number along with his chowkidar tips, and through their mutual attraction, love begins to bloom.

Shortly after Parimal’s subsequent matrimonial engagement to Sulekha, he learns of Sulekha’s unfortunately intense reverence of her jija-ji (brother-in-law), Raghav (short for Raghavendra), who is her sister, Lata’s husband. As Sulekha’s fawning over jija-ji increases, her praises peppered with jija-ji’s negative quotes about the intellect of botanists and the legitimacy of their field, Parimal’s desire to prove himself at least equal to Raghav increases along with it.

After the marriage, Parimal and Sulekha learn that Raghav is searching for a replacement driver on the unreasonable basis that his current driver, James’ poor Hindi will spoil his daughter’s language skills. Raghav bemoans the fact James cannot speak Hindi like those from Allahabad do. Parimal teasingly quips that he should apply for the position. When Sulekha boasts that such a prank could never fool her genius jija-ji, Parimal decides to follow through with the con. With sassy Sulekha and her brother Haripad ready to assist, the creation of our lovely driver Pyaaremohan Allahabadi begins.

Through “Pyaaremohan’s” interactions with Raghav, we receive layered humor: the sheer, goofy awkwardness of using legitimately “pure” Hindi, Parimal’s inner amusement brought on through fooling Raghav, his pleasure derived from proving that he speaks “pure” Hindi at a considerably higher level than Raghav (despite being one of those intellectually inferior botanists), a nuanced social critique of the idea of the promotion of language “purity”, and criticism of those types of individuals who demand “purity”.

          Parimal impresses Sulekha yet again when she learns of his successful swindle, and they begin to create yet another prank—since jija-ji and company do not yet know that Pyaaremohan is Parimal, Sulekha decides to plant a seed in Raghav and Lata’s minds that she is unhappy with her marriage to Parimal and, therefore, is having an affair with Pyaaremohan. As the newlyweds engage in their shenanigans as a team, the subplot of their increased attraction to one another and subsequent bonding is highlighted beautifully by the actors’ effective employment and exploitation of their obvious chemistry. In addition to being highly entertaining, this prank too could be seen as a social critique of valuing tradition and societal norms over contentedness and the extended family’s enforcement of these traditions—why are Lata, Raghav and company so perturbed by Sulekha’s happiness with her “illegitimate” lover Pyaaremohan when they are keenly aware of her displayed unhappiness with her “actual” husband?

Personal notes:

*As I am often tempted—and subsequently disappointed—by my curiosity ruining my full enjoyment of a film through my reading of spoilers (yes, even if there is a spoiler alert marking warning me to turn away), I have left possible spoilers out of my personal review, both of specific jokes and plot points. That said, Chupke Chupke is an immensely enjoyable watch, whether your affinity lies in expert technical execution, multifaceted humor, or social critiques.

**Although Chupke Chupke it is indeed a remake of Agradoot’s Bengali movie Chhadmabeshi (which is based on Upendranath Ganguly's Bengali story Chhadobeshi), multiple reviewers have claimed that the viewing experience between the two films is disparate enough to warrant a full watch of both or either film. 

Kalimannu (Blessy, 2013)

by Maia Collins

Artificially inseminated with her dead husband’s sperm, Meera (Shweta Menon) must not only face the natural challenges of pregnancy and burgeoning motherhood, but must also contend with pushback from men, the media, and the public in Malayam film, Kalimannu (dir. Blessy, 2013).

Before becoming pregnant though, before marriage even, Meera performs in a club as a dancer. Wanting more than to be treated poorly by men, she aspires to become a film actress. Eventually, she achieves this dream, taking the lead female role in two films. Tragically, during the premiere of one of those films, her taxi-driver husband, Syam (Biju Menon) gets into a car accident and is pronounced brain dead. This forces Meera to rethink what she values and wants the most for herself. Through this turn of luck, Meera becomes known throughout the world, not because of her dancing and acting skills, but because she becomes the first woman in India to become impregnated by a dead man’s sperm. This sacrifice of herself to mass criticism carries with it some of the larger messages of the film as it doubly represents the difficulty of being a woman today and the questionable steps a woman must take in order to gain empowerment.

Once Meera decides to undergo insemination, she first petitions the Indian Medical Ethical Board for consent to receive the procedure. After receiving permission and leaving a meeting with the board, she, in her first interaction with the press, tells swarms of cameras exasperatedly, “I want to become a mother. I want justice.”

Her desire for a child, which begins as a longing to remain united with her husband, quickly becomes a political act, and from this point on, motherhood and justice become intertwined in Kalimannu. At first, what justice is for is unclear, but once Meera decides to share a video of her birth publically it becomes clear that justice is for women. Her intentions in releasing the film are to “open the eyes of human males.” She and her advocates within the film believe that if boys and men become more educated on what giving birth looks like, they will stop seeing women only as sexual objects, but as mothers who are worthy of respect. Meera’s pregnancy then becomes a pregnancy not only for herself, but a pregnancy on behalf of women all around India—both in and out of the film.

When Meera takes up this cause in the latter half of the movie, it at first seems like this kind of political action is out of character for her. Still, the film takes steps early on to depict the physical and unspoken violence Meera receives from most of the men she encounters. In one scene in the club where she used to dance, she alone entertains a room full of men and is cut on the arm by an old man who reaches out and grabs her. Distraught afterwards, she decides she must leave the club behind and begin a film career, yet still on the streets and in the songs she performs for her movies men grab at her, leer at her, and speak to her as if she were their own sexual treasure. Her relationship with Syam is a breath of fresh air in light of these other interactions, but to some extent, even he is guilty of looking at her and loving her before she really sees or acknowledges him. Not once, until the final scene of the film, does Meera escape the condescending scrutiny of men. She is either a woman to try a new medical procedure on, a woman performing a “seductive” dance, or a woman who a taxi-driver might—in order to better see her—adjust his rearview mirror for.

Because of the forms of assault that Meera has been forced to deal with as well as more violent crimes such as domestic violence and particularly rape, Meera in Kalimannu and Kalimannu itself seek to affect social change with their actions. The film integrates familiar news media networks, cites specific incidents of crimes against women, and most importantly includes actual footage of Shweta Menon giving birth in order to make clear that these issues do not exist only in the film, but more importantly, in the physical world.

Even in Meera’s relationship to being filmed, we see the shift Kalimannu makes to emphasize grounding oneself in reality. Meera’s attempt at representing herself and controlling her own image through filming her child’s birth is completely different from the Meera who in the first act of the film, performs in front of cameras according to the whims of directors, producers, and an audience. Her transition from dancer to actress to activist signifies the film’s valuation of the roles women fill. It’s not enough to be a dancer, a movie star, or even to be married. In order for women to be happy and liberated, they must become empowered. In Meera’s case, this comes about by lifting up other women and asserting that womanhood is dignified because of motherhood or the potentiality of motherhood. To some, this may be a hard pill to swallow in that to a large extent it suggests that either to be more worthy of respect or to be deemed worthy of respect by society (and subsequently feel safer), women must present themselves to men as supremely desexualized mother figures.

Whether or not this is what the film purports, that we have to sometimes turn women into symbols in order to keep them safe is a hard pill to swallow in itself.

Kalimannu is a delight as a love story, as a success story, and as an intriguing piece of work when it comes to it’s political notions.  It examines what makes us human and who makes us who we are, and in almost every way, it explores “the clay” which serves as both title and hypothesis as often it becomes the question: What can be made? From what we’re left with, what can we control, what can we change, what can become new again?