There is a lovely line in Anushka’s inner monologue right at the beginning, when she finds herself meeting, in her own words, the most handsome man she’s ever seen, while vomiting on a plane. Love and nausea, she says to herself. She likes the sound of that. It doesn’t quite have that ring in Thamizh, she adds. Kaadhalum vaandhiyum.
I have to agree with her. It doesn’t have the same ring to it.
Apart from the very fact that a character reflects on something like this, consider also her word choices in the two languages. Had she said love and vomit, I don’t think it would’ve had the same ring to it. And although I can’t think of anything right now, I’m sure there is a less prosaic way of putting it in Thamizh as well. (We actually have a phonetic grammar, for heaven’s sake!)
But here’s the thing: This is a character who is entirely comfortable with the fact that the language in which she would like to express herself at times, the language in which she can pick the right vocabulary to express herself, is English. The fact that she has the most Tamilian of names — Thenmozhi — adds a pinch of irony and social commentary to the whole thing. The film doesn’t apologize for her language.
Consider, now, another exchange that occurs late in the film, when the hero cop and his nemesis (a criminal he knew and put behind bars back in the day) are talking to each other on the phone. This occurs in a fairly tense situation, and both characters know that they are playing for high stakes. The dialogue is fast, fluid, profane and crackles with a feral energy. The dialogue is as good as anything Menon has written for this sort of situation before, maybe even better, and the film doesn’t tone it down either. Every sentence has an almost mandatory swear word, and despite the fact that you don’t actually hear them spoken, your mind hears everything loud and clear.
Both exchanges are typical of Gautam Menon’s ouevre — not the lines per se, but the situations. Romance between plain-spoken people in an urban milieu. Cops and criminals going for each other’s jugular, verbally and otherwise. There are enough other indications that let you know that you are in familiar territory, but this is not a blog post about auteur theory, so I’ll let you fill in those blanks.
All three of Gautam Menon’s cop dramas have wanted to establish a balance between these two aspects. And to be fair, I think he does it better and more fluidly than most other directors do, by playing on the cop’s fear of bringing his work home. The women in Gautam Menon’s films are sort of a MacGuffin — they are coveted by both the hero and the villain, albeit for different reasons. And in a manner that is reminiscent of Mani Ratnam, the sassiness and self-possession of the women (is there anything sexier than a woman who tells you what she wants?) ensures that we feel emotionally invested in their well-being, and therefore in the outcome.
There is, however, one more ingredient: we first have to feel that the women are in real danger. And this, sadly, is what is missing in Yennai Arindhaal. Kaakka Kaakka worked because Jyotika’s kidnapping ensured that we always heard the clock ticking, and the villain’s ruthlessness was well-established through scenes detailing his work habits, as it were. Vettaiyadu Vilaiyadu achieved the same objective by being a thorough procedural — the cop’s discovery of the extent of the villains’ ruthlessness was more gradual, and our horror grew at every discovery.
There is a sequence here when the hero provides a quick theory on how an organ harvesting gang might work. The narration is interspersed with scenes depicting what he’s saying. Trouble is, the fluidity of that narration robs it of its impact.
Part of it, I think, is because the film’s intention (as the title suggests), is not to show us an episode in the life of a cop, but his journey to make peace with who he is, and what it will entail. During a crucial fight sequence, his daughter knocks at the door he’s locked her behind for her safety, and he says, “30 seconds darling, I’ll be there.”
There will always be someone behind that locked door, and there will always be a reason to lock that door. The film is about the man who locks that door, and who’s behind it. Had it found a way for us to care a bit about why a lock was needed in the first place, I think I would’ve loved it a lot more than I did.
It’s a funny thing: here is a film that runs for the better part of three hours, and not much feels extraneous, and yet, I find myself wanting it to have been a bit longer. That’s a compliment. But as it stands, it’s a fantastic addition to Ajith’s filmography, and a nice way to round off a (sort of) cop trilogy, but not the best film Gautam Menon has made.