There comes a time in every office when all of its members decide they need a break from the mundane realities of life, and the unrelenting pressure of Bombay-based head offices. The options are to smoke up, to get drunk or to watch a movie that will touch the same chord in everyone. The first is illegal, the second is not advisable amongst colleagues (especially in an office where every other line borders on innuendo), and a careful selection has to be made when it comes to the third. In our case, Veerasamy was the solution - and it had the same effect as either of the previous options could have.
In a film which is written, directed, scripted, cinematographed, musical-scored, playback-sung and acted in by T. Rajendran, the "dialogue" begins from the world go. Right from the 'villi' who greets her husband with "hoi dorling", to her nymphomaniac daughter who lusts after her uncle, who in turn shares a bond of love immersed in purity (notwithstanding raunchy dream sequences) with TR's sister, to the sexy tomboy who has attempted to thwart Veerasamy's assassination by thrusting her ample stomach between the knife's egde and his own equally ample stomach, and who now craves for his love, the complexity of the plot is all set.
An MLA, who considers his BA and ML more important than the MLA, who studied under streetlights so he could install electric lights in his house (as he himself declares), Veerasamy also seems to be quite a karate and karagaattam expert. The last-named talent comes through in the climactic sequence, where - for no reason one can think of - he pulls off his dhoti and dances with it in one hand, and a knife in the other. He's also proficient at installing a secret camera in a hard-bound book. Amongst his many talents, is his knack of getting past the guards of several high-security government offices.
TR maintains his policy of not laying his hands on the heroine, quite admirably. He works around it by hanging on to her pallu and titillating her lips with a ball-point pen. It must be mentioned that these happen only in her dream sequences. In the meanwhile, Mumtaz herself fights her libido by stealing a poster of his from his house, which she sleeps on to console herself after her mother brands her with a burning log for not following her footsteps into commercial sex work. She also comes up with the more ingenious idea of bathing with the soap she stole from his bathroom. The soap lasts her all through the movie, and one wonders whether this is an indication of the timespan of the movie or her personal hygiene.
Another aspect of TR's acting one is forced to admire is the gamut of expressions that play across his face. One is sure he could hold his own against a Bharathanatyam dancer doing the 'Thillaana' item. The sensitivity of his portrayal of the character extends to an externalisation of his emotions - a rocking chair, whose varying pace indicates the state of his mind. This rocking chair also forms his final resting place. Yes, Veerasamy dies - again, inexplicably. At the sight of his death, Mumtaz's heart seems to, quite literally, break - on the spot. The only element missing is a shot of them running through the Elysian fields together and singing - finally, together again. The lack of that shot leaves one with a sense of incompleteness.
Recommended for: bealeagured 9 to 5-ers who need a break, for new-age thinkers who revel in the "chutnefication" Rushdie waxes poetic about, for overweight, hairy men who need to feel good about themselves, for jaded middle-aged women who need to feel good about their choice of husbands, for offspring who consider their parents embarrassing (with the exception of Simbu) and for aspiring lyricists who have begun to lose faith in themselves.
Not Recommended for: heart patients, pregnant women and impressionable children.
In a film which is written, directed, scripted, cinematographed, musical-scored, playback-sung and acted in by T. Rajendran, the "dialogue" begins from the world go. Right from the 'villi' who greets her husband with "hoi dorling", to her nymphomaniac daughter who lusts after her uncle, who in turn shares a bond of love immersed in purity (notwithstanding raunchy dream sequences) with TR's sister, to the sexy tomboy who has attempted to thwart Veerasamy's assassination by thrusting her ample stomach between the knife's egde and his own equally ample stomach, and who now craves for his love, the complexity of the plot is all set.
An MLA, who considers his BA and ML more important than the MLA, who studied under streetlights so he could install electric lights in his house (as he himself declares), Veerasamy also seems to be quite a karate and karagaattam expert. The last-named talent comes through in the climactic sequence, where - for no reason one can think of - he pulls off his dhoti and dances with it in one hand, and a knife in the other. He's also proficient at installing a secret camera in a hard-bound book. Amongst his many talents, is his knack of getting past the guards of several high-security government offices.
TR maintains his policy of not laying his hands on the heroine, quite admirably. He works around it by hanging on to her pallu and titillating her lips with a ball-point pen. It must be mentioned that these happen only in her dream sequences. In the meanwhile, Mumtaz herself fights her libido by stealing a poster of his from his house, which she sleeps on to console herself after her mother brands her with a burning log for not following her footsteps into commercial sex work. She also comes up with the more ingenious idea of bathing with the soap she stole from his bathroom. The soap lasts her all through the movie, and one wonders whether this is an indication of the timespan of the movie or her personal hygiene.
Another aspect of TR's acting one is forced to admire is the gamut of expressions that play across his face. One is sure he could hold his own against a Bharathanatyam dancer doing the 'Thillaana' item. The sensitivity of his portrayal of the character extends to an externalisation of his emotions - a rocking chair, whose varying pace indicates the state of his mind. This rocking chair also forms his final resting place. Yes, Veerasamy dies - again, inexplicably. At the sight of his death, Mumtaz's heart seems to, quite literally, break - on the spot. The only element missing is a shot of them running through the Elysian fields together and singing - finally, together again. The lack of that shot leaves one with a sense of incompleteness.
Recommended for: bealeagured 9 to 5-ers who need a break, for new-age thinkers who revel in the "chutnefication" Rushdie waxes poetic about, for overweight, hairy men who need to feel good about themselves, for jaded middle-aged women who need to feel good about their choice of husbands, for offspring who consider their parents embarrassing (with the exception of Simbu) and for aspiring lyricists who have begun to lose faith in themselves.
Not Recommended for: heart patients, pregnant women and impressionable children.
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