Madras Studios Narrative Genre and Ideology in Tamil Cinema by Swarnavel Eswaran Pillai.pdf

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Advance Praise

“Brace yourself for a ringside view of Madras studios! Meticulously researched by combing through the vast archives of Tamil cinema writings, backed by thick oral interviews, and close readings of films, Pillai narrates a breathtaking narrative of the changing fortunes of Madras studios, with resonances to Hollywood and cinemas elsewhere. Original in its conception and elegant in execution, the book puts to rest monolingual conceptions of Madras cinema and animates the scholarship on studios by showing us how stars, directors, and technology collude to manufacture house styles. That this book will emerge as a standard bearer for scholarship on cinema studios is indisputable but it would be an extremely hard act to follow!” —Lalitha Gopalan, Associate Professor in the Department of Radio-Television-Film at the University of Texas at Austin, the author of the landmark Cinema of Indian Interruptions: Genres in Contemporary CinemaAction and Bombay, and editor of Cinema of India “I know Swarnavel Eswaran as an accomplished documentary filmmaker through his films such as Thangam (1995) and The INA—The Indian National Army (1997). In this insightful book, his knowledge of the language of Tamil and experience in filmmaking enable him to draw from rare sources like the early cinema and trade magazines to document the (often overlooked) industrial and the socio-cultural history of the distinct and substantial Tamil cinema. What I find even more compelling is the way he links the films of the major studios with contemporary Tamil cinema, particularly the ones made during the last decade, to provocatively argue for the affect of the genocide in neighboring Sri Lanka on the Tamil psyche. Such a

meticulous reading of films, even as it sheds light on the specificity of Tamil cinema to perceptively reflect the hope and despair of the Tamil people, also trauma.” astutely foregrounds cinema’s capacity to represent unfathomable —S. Theodore Baskaran, The iconic Tamil cinema historian, who has authored seminal books such as The Message Bearers: The Nationalist Politics and the Entertainment Media in South India, 1880–1945 and The Eye of the Serpent: An Introduction to Tamil Cinema “Across the trajectories of the national and subnational imaginaries which play themselves out in the postcolonial context, Swarnavel painstakingly traces the role played by the five major studios of Madras. In his elaborate description of their contradictory phases, significant narratives and their ideological significance and impact, he maps out for the first time what remained in the dark until now in the study of Tamil cinema. Going full length to the dystopian overtones that have ruptured these imaginaries, he links contemporary Tamil cinema to the way the past had spelled itself out in the history of the region. A necessary read for anyone who wishes to understand not just Tamil cinema but the politics and culture which shaped it.” —Venkatesh Chakravarthy, The preeminent Tamil cinema scholar, an independent filmmaker (Chennai: The Split City), and the director of the prestigious L.V. Prasad Film & TV Academy which is housed within the precincts of the famous Prasad Studios in Chennai

Madras Studios

Madras Studios

Narrative, Genre, and Ideology in Tamil Cinema

Swarnavel Eswaran Pillai

Copyright © Swarnavel Eswaran Pillai, 2015 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. First published in 2015 by SAGE Publications India Pvt Ltd

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Contents Preface

ix

1. Introduction

1

2. A Multiplicity of Influence: Modern Theatres and Its Films

21

T.R. Sundaram and the Origins of Modern Theatres 22 Sundaram’s Leadership Style and the “Factory” Model of Modern Theatres 24 The Modern Theatres and Its Early Films 31 Chandanathevan and Uthama Puthiran: Western Tales, Adapted Texts, and Anticolonial Subtexts 33 Navigating Propaganda, Censorship, and Nationalism: The “War Effort Film” and Modern Theatres’ Rani on57Modern Its Influence Chandamarutham: The Magazine andBurma Theatres’ Productions 67 Ponmudi and Manthiri Kumari: Modern Theatres and the Writers of the Dravidian Movement 70 Aaravalli: Challenging Patriarchal Norms 80 Films of the Modern Theatres and the Contingency of Multiple Factors 84

3. AVM and Gemini Studios: The Dravidian Movement and the Competing Narratives Meiyappan and the Gramophone Industry 100 Meiyappan’s Experiments with Sound 105 Meiyappan’s Studio and India’s Freedom Struggle 109 AVM and the Preeminence of Songs 113 The Dravidian Movement, AVM Studios, and Parasakthi Studio Space as Stage of Rhetoric and Intimacy 129

vii

117

99

Madras Studios Dravidian Ideology and Parasakthi: The Centrality of Songs Gemini Studios and Avvaiyar 149 The Early Career of Vasan 150

142

The Gemini Studios and Its Early Films 153 The Congress Party: Avvaiyar and Parasakthi 156 Genealogy of the Gemini Studios and the Composite Figure of Avvaiyar 158 Avvaiyar: The Narrative as Tapestry 159

4. Vijaya-Vauhini and Prasad: The Other Narratives Vijaya-Vauhini and L.V. Prasad: Missiamma

190

211

5. Traces of the Studio System: A Certain Tendency of the Tamil Cinema

239

6. Dravidian Utopia and Dystopia: Canonical and Contemporary Tamil Cinema

257

Dravidian Ideologues and Tamil Cinema 261 Studios, Star, and the Dravidian Movement 263 Dystopia and Tamil Films of the Last Decade 272

Bibliography Filmography Index About the Author

290 310 319 332

viii

Preface

T

his has been a long journey. Perhaps it began in 2002 when I arrived in Iowa and found a home in Film Studies at the

University of Iowa. Or perhaps it is a dream that first sparked into being many, many years before as I watched my first Tamil film; a little boy mesmerized by the flickering light of the screen, the drama of an epic tale, and the magic of an imaginative canvas that almost seemed too big, too powerful to contemplate. Either way, it was only when I visited the famous Modern Theatres Studios in India over the summer of 2005, discovered the existence of sparse but significant primary material and met with a few technicians and collaborators who had personally worked with T.R. Sundaram—the founder of the firstbegan majortostudio ofhazy the south—almost six decades that the dream assume yet discernible form. It was ago, the moment when I first dared to believe I could actually explore the history of Tamil cinema and examine the impact of the seminal films produced by the major studios of Madras during the 1940s and 1950s exactly the way I wanted to; the way I have always felt they truly deserved to be studied. From the beginning, my interest was in creating a sustained account of Tamil cinema to enable scholars to engage with its history and specificity. I was less interested in a monograph on Modern Theatres and more focused on writing about the major studios and their landmark films during the period before and after India’s independence; to me, the defining period of Tamil cinema over the last century. Therefore, I felt that the materials available at Modern Theatres, though limited, would be useful for my purpose even if ix

Madras Studios

I had to supplement what they had to offer through oral history and textual readings of films not yet released in the video format. I thenmajor movedstudios from Salem to Chennai to pursueto myIowa research on the other and their films, returning in time for the fall semester. When, having formulated my thesis, I revisited India for research and fieldwork in 2007, I was shocked to discover that Modern Theatres Studio Complex had been demolished to make way for a realty company. The only sign of its survival was an arch at the entrance that stared back at me—a fossil from the past— proclaiming, simply: “The Modern Theatres Ltd.” If anything, this abrupt disappearance into anonymity of the physical structure that used to be the Modern Theatres Studios vindicated, in my mind, the project I was engaged in and I felt all the more driven in my desire to recover the inextricably intertwined histories of the major studios of Madras and Tamil cinema. For helping me fulfill this dream, I am indebted to Kalaivani Ramsundaram, the daughter-in-law of Sundaram, for her constant encouragement as well as for uncomplainingly offering me both her time and access to the materials at the Modern Theatres office. I am also grateful to Theodore Baskaran, Venkatesh Chakravarthy, Randor Guy, Santhanakrishnan, P. Thirunavukkarasu, Aranthai Manian, Film News Anandan, Murugan Kani, Muthiah Vellaiyan, and Rambabu for sharing information and detailed insights with me. I thank Meera Pillai for her encouragement and help. This project would not have been possible without the constant guidance, incredible patience, and generosity of spirit of my mentor and advisor, Corey Creekmur. He taught me how to be cautious in my use of terminology to define the specificity of Tamil cinema without losing sight of my ambition, passion, and enthusiasm for exploring an unknown frontier in cinema. I thank him for nurturing my dream so carefully throughout these last few years. There are so many other scholars who have informed this project in fundamental ways through their work. Rosalind Galt’s insightful scholarship on European cinema has influenced my own meditations on the relationship between available technologies, studio spaces, and aesthetics which undergirds my historical and x

Preface

textual reading of the films made by, and at, the Madras studios. My focus on the period of 1940–1957 is driven by the significance of the bifurcation of and the colonial and the postcolonial period wellalways as its impact on art culture in Tamil Nadu, and for this as I will be grateful to Priya Kumar and her classes and writings on cinema during the postcolonial period. Philip Lutgendorf offered me rare insight into the significance and methodology of scholarship in the context of a regional industry like Tamil cinema. His seminal work on the Ramayana inspired me to draw on the research and writings of highly respected Tamil scholars to underscore my arguments; in fact, this book is homage to those scholars at this critical juncture in the history of the Tamils. I am also thankful to Paul Greenough and Karthikesu Sivathamby for constantly nudging me along the course of this project. I am extremely grateful to Kathleen Newman for encouraging me to take up film studies despite my roots in production and for her unwavering faith in my project, my enthusiasm, and my abilities. Her own commitment and passion for Latin American cinema has served as a model for me throughout the course of this project. I want to acknowledge the patience and support of my sister Sitalakshmi and my brother-in-law, P.M. Ganapati who, throughout the course of this project, would uncomplainingly locate the magazines, books, and DVDs that I needed and mail them to me from India. Similarly, my friend and cinephile R. Balasubramanian, too, always ignored the inconveniences I caused him to keep sending me materials from India at short notice. Without their help, I could not have finished this exhaustive project in such an abbreviated period of time. I am profoundly grateful to my colleagues at Michigan State University, Jeff Wray, Bob Albers, Ellen McCallum, Justus Nieland, Bill Vincent, Karl Schoonover, Josh Yumibe, Jennifer Fay, Steve Arch, Salah Hassan, Charles Steinfield, Jyotsna Singh, Siddharth Chandra, Ken Harrow, Patrick O’Donnell, Scott Michaelsen, Marcia Aldrich, Johannes Bauer, Ellen Pollak, David Bering-Porter, Zarena Aslami, Peter Johnston, and Ruth Mowry, for providing encouragement and support. I also thank my friends and advisors Ram Mahalingam, xi

Madras Studios

Marudu Trotsky, Mysskin, T. Sudhakar, Dennis Hanlon, Linda Mokdad, Sushmita Banerji, Vinu Warrier, Amit Baishya, Balmurli Natrajan, Mark Huelsbeck, Priya gratitude Joshi, Rajinder Dudrah, and Anup Kumar, and extend my heartfelt to Louis G. Schwartz for his precious classes and the stimulating discussions, particularly on the industrial aspect of cinema. Finally, this journey would never even have begun without my very own “Rock(s) of Gibraltar, rather Pothigai Malai”: my wife Sandhya, whose faith and support has sustained me through each of the ups and downs of this journey and is something I depend on every day; and above all, my mother Valli Eswaran who, though not alive to see the results of the efforts she encouraged, continued to inspire me through her astonishing spirit of sacrifice and perseverance. Thank you for being in my life.

xii

Chapter 1 Introduction

T

his book is an attempt to revisit the Tamil cinema mainly from the 1940s onward and to draw attention to the significant films produced by the major studios in Madras, which was once the hub of activities related to filmmaking in South India. The Madras studios were the centers where, apart from the films in Tamil, those in Telugu, Malayalam, and Kannada were produced during the 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s. The output of popular films in the Tamil language, arguably the most influential after Hindi in terms of scale of production and reception, has been quite significant since its first talkie film Kalidas (1931): According to the Tamil film historian Theodore S. Baskaran, until 2002, more than 5,500 films have been made in Tamil, and according to journalist Film News Anandan, 5,792 (4,186 srcinally in Tamil and 1,606 dubbed) films have been produced in Tamil from 1931 to 2003 (see for details Baskaran, 2009b, p. 55; for Film News Anandan’s account of the number of Tamil films produced till 2003, see Anandan, 2004, p. 21). Such a phenomenal output points to a rich and complex history. However, a sustained study of such history haschallenges been marked by its absenceand duescholarly to the enormity of thea task, and associated with data collection and the availability of archival materials. Therefore, my primary objective in this book is to fill this void, and study the most eventful period in the history of the Madras studios when they produced their landmark and seminal films. 1

Madras Studios

An understanding of the history of the studios and a detailed reading of their major films, I believe, sheds light on the complex intersection of the cultural, economic, political factors which shaped the studios and their owners, and and the type of productions they were interested in. After carefully considering the studio productions in Madras with regard to their critical and box office reception, and their lasting impact on the Tamil film industry—both in terms of their significance as essential links to an earlier history of the Tamil cinema and as prototypes which prefigure the specificities of the Tamil cinema of later decades—I have defined the period from 1937 to 1957 as the most significant one. Historically, these two decades are also crucial since they enable a consideration of Tamil cinema during British rule, the Second World War, and in independent India. Since 2005, I have been searching for key Tamil films produced during this period, and initially I had a hard time locating VCDs or DVDs of the films I needed for repeated viewings and detailed study. Fortunately, however, most of the significant films I was in search of started becoming available in Tamil Nadu—in Chennai, Madurai, Salem, and Coimbatore—after 2007, when Moserbaer, the New Delhi-based company, entered the Tamil DVD market and started releasing many older titles. In addition, 2007 also saw two other companies— Modern Cinema (Madurai) and Movie Land (Chennai)—begin releasing some of the Tamil films of the 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s in the VCD format. The oldest player in the field, Raj Video Vision (Chennai) also updated some of its earlier releases in the VHS and VCD format to DVDs. However, problems concerning the availability of some of the canonical films (with English subtitles) still remain, except in rare cases like Parasakthi (1952) and Andha Naal (1954), where AP International (Chennai) has released adequately subtitled DVDs from reasonably good prints. Nonetheless, some of the films I had lined up for my research purposes were still not available in India— films like Uthama Puthiran (1940) and Manthiri Kumari (1950)— in their srcinal length. Here, a Malaysian Company—Columbia Films (Kuala Lumpur)—came to my help, as they have painstakingly 2

Introduction

preserved and transferred to video formats—mainly VHS and VCD—many of the significant films from the 1950s and 1960s, and even some from late which 1930s and sources and were the srcinal Tamil filmthe prints had 1940s. traveledTheir to Malaysia Singapore to cater to the demands of a diasporic audience. Having made my choice regarding the films I considered essential to any writing on the history of Tamil cinema, I explored the details of their productions, and their place in the history of the Madras studios. Parallel to the number of films made in South India, Baskaran accounts for a high number of studios: 98 in the four southern states of Tamil Nadu, Andhra Pradesh, Karnataka, and Kerala by the year 1980—the 50th year celebrated as the Golden Jubilee of the Talkies.1 Baskaran points to the figure as including most located in Chennai—the headquarters of studios as far as South Indian cinema is concerned. However, according to Tamil film scholar Venkatesh Chakravarthy, there could not have been more than 30 film studios in Madras even during the heyday of the 1950s and the 1960s.2 The Tamil film magazine Pesum Padam, which was quite popular during the 1940s, accounts for 45 studios in India in July 1945. There were 150 production companies and 1,700 permanent and 300 touring theaters, and 45,000 people were employed by the film industry on an investment of 200 million Indian rupees (see for details, Pesum Padam, July 1945, p. 1). Five months before, Pesum Padam, in its February 1945 issue, accounts for seven studios in Madras: Gemini, Newtone, Pragathi, Shobanachala, Premier, Central, and Modern Theatres (see for details, Pesum Padam, February 1945, p. 3). Guntoosi, arguably the most popular Tamil film magazine from the mid-1940s to the mid-1950s, and, therefore, the most important for my research, accounts for 16 studios in South India in August 1949: Gemini, Newtone, Southern, Vauhini, Shirdi, Star Combines, AVM, Pragathi, Shobana, Neptune in Chennai; Central and Pakshiraja in Coimbatore; Modern Theatres and Rathna in Salem; Navajyothi Studios in Mysore; and a (unnamed) studio in Trivandrum (see for details, Guntoosi, August 1949, p. 23). According to Chakravarthy and Film News Anandan, the confusion regarding the number of studios arises because of the loose 3

Madras Studios

definition of the term “film studio”: Could a facility which only has a dubbing suite and post-production sound facilities be described as a studio? Or does a studio signify (in the classical to Hollywood sense)ofa space where all the facilities for pre-production the processing the final prints are available under one roof? This definition becomes crucial for my analysis as apart from the commonly accepted (by most scholars on the Tamil cinema whom I interviewed for the project) five major studios of Madras—Modern Theatres, Gemini, AVM, Vijaya-Vauhini, and Prasad—technicians like cinematographer P.N. Sundaram, who had worked in the Vijaya-Vauhini Studios, also pointed to the large-scale operations of Pakshiraja Studios in Coimbatore, and Golden Studios and Newtone Studios in Madras. However, apart from the facilities themselves if we consider the consistency of film productions of the studio/studio-owner(s), and their being active for at least four decades to significantly influence the form and content of Tamil cinema, the others cannot be bracketed with the top five (for details on Newtone Studios, see Nath, August 1945, pp. 8–11; October 1945, pp. 20–24).3 The five major studios, listed above, also shed light on the uniqueness of Madras studios: when we look at their consistency, scale, and amount of productions/processing, they come next only to classical Hollywood studios, particularly in terms of their operations in the private sector; famous studios like Cinecitta in Rome (Italy), though privatized in 1998, and Mosfilm in Moscow (Russia) were established by the governments (see Moliterno, 2008, pp. xxi– xxviii).4 Though Britain has a history, like Madras, of a number of private studios, only a few of them could be compared in terms of longevity, scale, and relative consistency of operations: Pinewood, Shepperton, and Ealing. Even the famous Denham Studios, where David Lean shot his Brief Encounter (1945), was in operation from 1935 to 1952 only (for details on the major British studios like Gainsborough, Denham, Pinewood, Ealing, Shepperton, Elstree, Bray, and their history, see Walden, 2013). Thus, the privately owned major Madras studios were, arguably, the largest outside the classical Hollywood in terms of their output of films consistently over four decades. 4

Introduction

These major studios also determined and restricted my focus to Tamil cinema: apart from Vijaya-Vauhini, other studios like AVM and Gemini invested remaking their Tamil for the largerwere Hindi marketin than they were in successful Telugu, and theirfilms pro5 ductions of bilinguals in Tamil and Telugu were very few. In the case of Prasad Studios, though it produced exclusively in Hindi during the later years, I am focusing on the 1940s and the 1950s when L.V. Prasad directed not only bilinguals like Missiamma/Missamma (1955) but also canonical Tamil films like Manohara (1954), which was later dubbed into Hindi and Telugu. As far as the first in the list, Modern Theatres, is concerned, it was in essence a Tamil cinema production house with an occasional film in other languages, unlike Vijaya-Vauhini which made many of its major films in the 1950s in Telugu and Tamil. The textual readings of the canonical Tamil films, many of which were produced in the major studios of Madras, enable my project of recovering the srcins of these studios and their history during the eventful period of the decades before and after the independence of India. However, the detailed study of the form and content of these films have value only in the larger context of the culture and the sociopolitical backdrop which influenced the owners of the studios regarding the narratives and genres of the movies they decided to make. As detailed in this book, the srcins of the major Madras studios and the provenance of its founders have consequences for the industrial history of the major Madras studios and the aesthetics of their films. More important, the focus of this book on the history of Tamil cinema in the context of the cultural and the sociopolitical backdrop of the Dravidian movement through the significant films of the major Madras studios also marks Tamil cinema as unique as a precursor to the discourse surrounding nationalism/subnationalism which is central to the scholarly writing on Indian cinema in academia today. The Dravidian ideologues like writers Anna Durai and Karunanidhi, and poet Bharathidasan, found a space in the films produced by the Madras studios to propagate their ideology by couching it within the commercial interests and the entertaining zeal of the studio bosses who themselves were eclectic in borrowing 5

Madras Studios

ideas and musical tunes from Hollywood and Hindi popular cinema, but invested in regional specificity when it came to marketing their wares for thethese Tamilends, audience. Toward therefore, of writing the cultural, industrial, and the aesthetic history of the Madras studios and their films of the defining decades of the 1940s and the 1950s, and their continuing influence on and relevance to the narratives and genres of Tamil cinema, and the fraught relationship of nationhood and the Tamils which I read through the lens of Dravidian ideology, I have structured the major Madras studios and the films I focus on in a broad chronological order: 1. Introduction 2. The Modern Theatres: My focus is mainly from Uthama Puthiran (1940) onward to some of the key films during the wartime, such as Burma Rani (1945), and in independent India, including Manthiri Kumari (1950). I have inscribed my detailed analysis of some of the key films of Modern Theatres within a brief historiography of the first major film studio in South India which was situated outside Madras/Chennai, so as to foreground the various factors which influenced the studio productions, and to draw attention to the general trajectory of studios as power houses from the 1940s onward, and to explore the way the studios became spaces where the cultural, sociopolitical, and industrial aspects intersected with the commercial interests of the studio bosses to enable the production of films, mainly during the 1940s and the 1950s, which mainly influenced the choice of narratives and genres of later Tamil cinema due to their critical and commercial success. I am using the lens of Dravidian ideology to focus on the specificity of Tamil culture and the uniqueness of the sociopolitical milieu of the Madras province before and after independence. Similarly for the industrial history, I am relying on the oral histories that I recorded of old technicians, many among them have passed away during the last five years, and the sparse 6

Introduction Photo 1

The logo of Modern Theatres

Courtesy: E. Gnanaprakasam (Gnanam)

3.

but precious primary materials in the studios like Modern Theatres and the cinema journals in research libraries, and the textual reading of the films for its poetics. The AVM and Gemini Studios: Here, my focus is on two films: Parasakthi (AVM, 1952), and Avvaiyar (Gemini, 1953). Both these films have become synonymous with their studios: Parasakthi, whose dialogues were written by the ex-chief minister of Tamil Nadu, M. Karunanidhi, introduced Sivaji Ganesan, the iconic method-actor of the Indian cinema, as its hero Gunasekaran. Parasakthi, driven by Dravidian ideology, which challenged the dreams of Nehruvian socialism and progress during the early 1950s, portrayed the apprehensions of the Tamil-speaking world toward the Congress Party and North Indian hegemony. Gemini Studios’ founder and staunch Congress Party loyalist S.S. Vasan responded to the appropriation in Parasakthi of the Tamil language and culture by Dravidian ideologues through his film Avvaiyar, which revisited the legends and myths surrounding Avvaiyar, the most famous Tamil 7

Madras Studios

poetess of all time. Vasan, in his attempt at a hagiography of the composite Tamil poetess-saint, took liberties in his script weave the narrative around the times of the to three Avvaiyars, who according to lives Tamiland scholars lived during three different historical periods: the Sangam period (circa the first and second century CE); ninth to tenth century CE; and twelfth to fourteenth century CE (see for details, Zvelebil, 1997, pp. 169–170). Vasan’s objective was to recuperate an earlier period wherein Tamil language and culture had their dominance beyond the borders of both the contemporary Madras Presidency of the 1950s and the changing maps of the Dravidian Land claimed by its ideologues. My focus in this chapter is the specificity of the link between politics and culture in the history of Tamil cinema essentially through preeminent studio productions, which also underscores the srcins of the studio owners— A.V. Meiyappan as a gramophone record producer, and S.S. Vasan as a writer, editor, and publisher of a popular weekly magazine—as impacting their choices regarding the form and content of their films. Photo 2

The logo of AVM Studios at its entrance

Courtesy: E. Gnanaprakasam (Gnanam) 8


A.V. Meiyappa Chettiyar, the founder of AVM Studios

Courtesy: E. Gnanaprakasam (Gnanam) Photo 4

S.S. Vasan, the publisher-filmmaker and founder of Gemini Studios

Courtesy: E. Gnanaprakasam (Gnanam) 9

Madras Studios

4.

Vijaya-Vauhini and Prasad: This chapter focuses on the Vijaya-Vauhini productions of Pathala Bhairavi (K.V. Reddy, Missiamma (L.V. 1955), to discuss the 1951) ways inand which the identity of Prasad, the producers B. Nagi Reddy and Chakrapani, and director L.V. Prasad, as Telugu-speaking filmmakers living in Madras, play out and inflect the films during a time when Madras was rampant with Tamil nationalism and Dravidian unity, whereas the Telugu-speaking people were demanding Madras city to be a part of the linguistic (Andhra) state they were claiming (Guha, March 30, 2003).6 This chapter draws attention to the srcins of Vijaya-Vauhini Studios’ founders Reddy and Chakrapani as publishers of the popular children’s magazine Ambuli Mama, and Chakrapani’s acumen as a famous translator of Bengali novels and screenwriter, and considers how their background impacted their studio productions. L.V. Prasad’s Prasad Studios is the last in terms of chronology as it became fully functional only in 1965 (see for details, Prasad Studios’ official website Lvprasad.org). Although AVM and Prasad are the only two major studios to remain active until now, since my focus is mainly on the 1940s and 1950s, I am looking at Prasad’s earlier work mainly as a director for my specific purpose of tracking his srcins as impacting the kind of films his name was associated with later. Besides, the first film he directed in Tamil was Kalyanam Panni Paar (1952) and the last was Iruvar Ullam (1963) (see for details “Filmography” in Lvprasad.org). As a producer, Prasad produced only two films in Tamil— Idhaya Kamalam (1965) and Piriya Vidai (1975)—out of 30 productions he was associated with. The others were in Hindi (18), Bengali (4), Telugu (3), Kannada (1), Malayalam (1), and Oriya (1) (see his details under the headings as “Producer-Director” and “Producer,” Lvprasad.org). Prasad Studios’ claim to be an unparalleled major studio not merely in the South but in India is predicated on its record over the last four decades as a studio which offers 10


Studio and the stars: Chakrapani (left), A.L. Srinivasan (second from the left), M.G. Ramachandran (MGR) (second from the right) and B. Nagi Reddy (on the right)

Courtesy: E. Gnanaprakasam (Gnanam)

comprehensive and state-of-the-art facilities from preproduction to postproduction (see for details Efxmagic.com). The Prasad management has announced the official closure of the Prasad laboratories in December 2013 (see for details, Kumar, 2010). The closure marks an iconic moment in the history of cinema as Prasad Studios owned the largest laboratory in Asia: from 1976 to 2013, in 37 years they have processed 3,800 films which is more than two-thirds of the films produced in Tamil during the last century. The closure of the Prasad labs marks the distinct transition of Tamil cinema to digital technology as any movie shot on film cannot be processed in Tamil Nadu henceforth since Prasad was the last laboratory to process films. Such a singular event by itself necessitates the revisiting of the history of Tamil cinema, in particular that of its studios, when film was the only medium to make movies, and to study their legacy. 11

Madras Studios

5.

Traces/Legacy of the Studio System: A Certain Tendency of the Tamil Cinema: This chapter underscores the centrality of the major Madras studios their canonical films in shaping the narratives, genres,and and ideology of Tamil cinema till today. This chapter traces the continuing influence of the Madras studio films on Tamil cinema, from the 1960s to the contemporary period, as far as the drive to entertain and reach a wider audience while at the same time retaining its cultural specificity are concerned. For instance, in terms of form, the obsession with the same actor playing multiple roles, as prefigured by Modern Theatres’ Uthama Puthiran, continues till this day as a predominant trend which is specific to Tamil cinema as seen in several of the films of its leading stars Rajinikanth (Enthiran, 2010) and Kamal Haasan (Dasavathaaram, 2008), and its most successful director Shankar (Indian [1996], Jeans [1998], and Enthiran [2010]). In terms of narratives, the influence can be felt in the family-oriented melodramas which undergird even a gangster film like Mani Ratnam’s Nayakan (1987), wherein the protagonist Velu Nayakan’s relationship with his daughter, son-in-law, and grandson plays a pivotal role toward the end, or even a film like Bombay (1995), which recycles the Bombay Riots in the aftermath of the desecration of the Babri Masjid in December 1992 by the Hindu fundamentalists for its narrative, focuses on the yearning of the Hindu and Muslim fathers (in-law) for their grand children’s love to bridge the divide created by their religiosity. The pan-Indian influence of the films of the Madras studios could be read through the success of directors like A. Bhimsingh and L.V. Prasad who specialized in family melo-

6.

dramas in Tamil and were able to remake them for a larger market in Hindi on a regular basis. Dravidian Utopia and Dystopia: Canonical and Contemporary Tamil Cinema: In this chapter, I focus on the canonical Tamil films of the 1950s, and the Tamil films made during the new millennium when a distinct trend toward 12

Introduction

darker themes punctuated by violence could be seen. Films such as Pudhupettai (2006), Subramaniyapuram (2008), (2009) epitomize this trend, whereas and afterNaan 2009,Kadavul recent commercially successful and/ or critically acclaimed films like Pizza (2012), Naduvula Konjam Pakkatha Kaanom (2012), and Soodhu Kavvum (2013) undermine coherence in subjectivity by invoking the paranormal (Pizza) or through a schizoid protagonist whose condition/state of consciousness is not explained or by invoking amnesia due to a bizarre accident while playing cricket (Naduvula Konjam Pakkatha Kaanom). Tamil cinema scholars have been trying to account for this trend by categorizing some of the key films under the rubric of the cinema of disgust or arguing for them as cult films. In my view, the distinct trend of violence and darkness prior to 2009 and the rupture in subjectivity after that makes sense only if we take into account the specter which haunts Tamils after the genocide in Sri Lanka in May 2009. Such a trauma has to necessarily have its repercussions on a culture which had always been proud of its linguistic and cultural lineage, and believed in its rhetoric of (sub)nationalism to challenge the hegemony of the Other. Therefore, the dystopia seen in contemporary Tamil films made during the period before and after the genocidal tragedy of the Sri Lankan Tamil people makes sense only in the context of the Dravidian utopia and Tamil nationalism of the landmark films of the 1950s, which were mostly produced by and in the studios. However, this line-up of studios and their films, allowing me to discuss both the history and the specificity of Tamil cinema and the Madras studio productions, was arrived at after periods of great excitement and discovery countered by intermittent disappointments and inertia. Nonetheless, I was prepared for such a cycle as I knew what to expect when I ventured into a known but unexplored territory and period—a sustained study of the Madras studios through their key films in the 1940s and 1950s. 13

Madras Studios

Any research into the history of such a period, I knew, would pose expected challenges like the scarcity of primary materials and documents, and the unavailability of copiesWhile of some theirexplains significant films (either in film or video formats). this of partly the sparse scholarship on the history of Tamil cinema, the other reason for the invisibility of any sustained academic research on Tamil cinema—both in the East and the West—is due to the dominant presence of popular Hindi cinema. The Hindi cinema has certainly entrenched its popularity in the West mainly through its circulation and reception in the Indian diaspora, particularly in the UK and the USA during the last two decades, marked by globalization and privatization, and the concomitant rise in international travel by business and information technology professionals between India and the West. Nonetheless, as my research points out, the last decade has seen an increasing critical output on Tamil cinema in magazines and newspaper articles, and books published mainly by popular publishing houses in Tamil Nadu. As far as scholarly work on Tamil cinema is concerned, S. Theodore Baskaran’s initial and seminal book The Message Bearers: The Nationalist Politics and the Entertainment Media in South India 1880–1945 (published by the insightful and innovative S. Ramakrishnan through his prestigious publishing house Cre-A, Madras, in 1981) traces the historical links between culture and politics in the Madras Province during the British rule. Apart from archival materials, Baskaran had drawn from interviews with theater artists, newspapers, gramophone records, and songbooks to trace the cultural history of the Tamils mainly through the discourses surrounding early Tamil cinema. Baskaran’s second important book The Serpent’s Eye: An Introduction to Tamil Cinema (Chennai: East West Books, 1996, republished by Tranquebar, Chennai, in 2013) details the trajectory of Tamil cinema in terms of its changing thematic concerns right from the moment of its srcins. Its chapters chronicle linearly the history of the Tamil cinema from the silent movies to the 1990s. This book emphasized the relationship of Tamil cinema with its writers and politicians—a chapter was devoted to Congress leader 14

Introduction

Satyamurthi and his close links with the Tamil cinema and its artists. Baskaran underscored the importance of both dialogue and lyric writers, though hetocritiqued verbose nature of the Tamil which according him had the its roots in theater, mainly Parsicinema drama companies. Baskaran also provided brief accounts of significant filmmakers and their filmography, along with sketches of popular lyric writers from the very beginnings of the Tamil talkie. Besides, Film News Anandan,7 the iconic film journalist and public relations officer of Tamil films, who worked in the Madras film industry from the 1950s, published his precious and archival collection of photographs and details on the history of the Tamil cinema—Sadhanaigal Padaitha Thamizh Thiraipada Varalaru, Sivagami Publications—in October 2004. Anandan’s book has since then become an important reference book particularly in the context of the release dates, and details concerning the names of technicians who worked in the Tamil cinema over the decades. Apart from Baskaran, the other important source for scholarly research on early Tamil cinema is the book by Aranthai Narayanan (Tamil Cinemavin Kathai, Chennai: New Century Book House, 2002). The second edition of this book in 2002 came almost two decades after it was initially published in 1981. Narayanan’s painstaking work traces the history of the Tamil cinema mainly through rare books, souvenirs, and older magazines like the Silverscreen, Kuntoosi, Kalaimani, and Tamil Cinema. The other important contributors on the Tamil cinema include M.S.S. Pandian and Venkatesh Chakravarthy. Pandian’s seminal essay on Parasakthi (1952), the iconic film of the Dravidian movement, is the first detailed study of a Tamil film, particularly in the context of its politics and reception (Pandian, 2005, pp. 65–96). Pandian’s book on MGR, The Image Trap: MGR in Film and Politics (New Delhi: SAGE Publications, 1992), drew attention to a unique star text which segued into that of a politician’s. Chakravarthy has consistently and productively engaged with the films of Mani Ratnam and their politics through his essays, co-written with Pandian, on Roja (1992) and Iruvar (1997). The latter essay critiques Ratnam’s representation of Dravidian movement and the commodification of 15

Madras Studios

its history, particularly through the characterization of Tamizhselvan (Chakravarthy and Pandian, 1994, pp. 642–644; for their critique on Iruvar , see Chakravarthy Pandian, 1997,Iruvar pp. 2997–2999). Besides, Chakravarthy’s essay,and on AVM’s Naam (1947), has been very useful for my chapter on AVM Studios, and his guidance indispensable for my research on Tamil cinema. Aranthai Manian, who has written a monograph on Modern Theatres, had worked for two decades as a journalist with the film magazineBommai, published by the Vijaya-Vauhini group. My interview with him as a journalist/ historian was very useful, particularly for some of the lesser-known details on Modern Theatres, Vijaya-Vauhini, and AVM. Though primarily dealing with popular Hindi cinema, Lalitha Gopalan, in her acclaimed book on creative interruptions, analyses both the narrative and the songs of Nayakan (Mani Ratnam, 1987) in detail (Gopalan, 2002, pp. 106–140). Among the early scholars from the West, Robert L. Hardgrave has worked on the Dravidian Movement and its close and complex relationship with the Tamil cinema and its stars, especially during the eventful period of the 1950s to the 1970s (Hardgrave, 1973, pp. 288–305).8 Selvaraj Velayutham’s anthology of essays on Tamil cinema includes the essay by Hardgrave, and its thematic and linear extension in the form of Sarah Dickey’s fieldwork on the perpetual popularity of MGR, the Tamil superstar of yesteryear. Dickey’s essay “The Nurturing Hero: Changing Images of MGR,” which studies MGR’s fandom in Madurai, where Dickey has worked for more than two decades researching fan clubs, exemplifies her ethnographic preoccupation with, and sustained study of, the links between Tamil cinema and its urban poor audience.9 In this book, however, my focus on MGR is limited to his role in Manthiri Kumari (1950) wherein he plays Veera Mohan, the head of an army. Though MGR’s stardom was on the ascendant in the 1950s, with Modern Theatres’ productions like Sarvadhikari (1951) and Ali Babavum Naarpathu Thirudargalum (1956), his defining film as a star was Nadodi Mannan (1958), which was produced and directed by him. Later, he delivered huge hits in collaboration with Vijaya-Vauhini (Enga Veettu Pillai [1965], and Nam Naadu [1969]) 16

Introduction

and Gemini Studios (Oli Vilakku, 1968). Nonetheless, since I am focusing mainly on the time period from the late 1930s to the late 1950s this book,Parasakthi Sivaji Ganesan, startedmore his career with the highly in successful (1952),who becomes important for my discussions as his star text is central to the discourses surrounding Dravidian ideology and Tamil cinema of the 1950s which I am exploring in depth in this book (for the centrality of cultural nationalism, see Gopalan, 1998). The other significant contribution has been from Stephen Hughes: he has researched the very rare and difficult area of early Tamil cinema and its reception, and the influence of the early music, radio, and gramophone record industries on Tamil culture.10 His research illumines my work on AVM Studios and its founder A.V. Meiyappa Chettiyar. I am grateful to these and other journalists, scholars, and researchers, such as Randor Guy, Rajan Kurai, Anand Pandian, Gopalan Ravindran, Yamuna Rajendran, Sundar Kaali, Perundevi Srinivasan, Stalin Rajangam, S. Ramakrishnan, Jeevasundari, Amshan Kumar, and K. Hariharan, on Tamil cinema, whose perseverance and knowledge has helped and inspired my efforts at positing a chronology of Tamil films at the most significant time in its history to study the influences on Tamil cinema of the Madras studios, whose output was determined by the intersection of culture, politics, economics, and the background of its owners. I could access through Roja Muthiah Research Library, Madras University Library, Connemara Public Library, Maraimalai Adigal Library, Gnanalaya Research Library, and Tamil Nadu Government Archives, Tamil newspapers, film journals, and magazines like Guntoosi, Pesum Padam, Aadal Paadal, Silver Screen, Cinema Ulagam, and Naradar, which were particularly useful for my research on the Tamil cinema of the 1940s and the 1950s. I am also grateful to Vikatan Media Services for allowing me access to their Micro Film Archives. Kumudam’s film reviews were also very helpful. On the advice of the people at the Hindu group of publications, I have accessed their newspapers and magazines through their very reliable website: Hindu.com. I have also relied on the official websites of the Central and State Government for data regarding elections 17

Madras Studios

and for the dates of culturally significant events, and that of famous studios like L.V. Prasad, and trade unions like SICA (Southern India Association), and established publishers likeCinematographers Gandhi Kannadhasan for their meticulous information on films and artists essential to my work. I have checked these official websites over the last decade for their authenticity and continuity of operation. I have avoided quoting from “fansites” like Tfmpage.com (Tamil Film Music) and Telugucinema.com, though they are doing an excellent job in creating a space for serious discussion on cinema. While analyzing the lasting influence of the Madras studios and the seminal films I have chosen to discuss, I am also trying to respond to a major criticism concerning the Tamil cinema. When we look at the responses and reviews on the Tamil cinema, there has been constant attack on its verbose and theatrical quality right from the times of its very early talkies. For instance, writing in one of the early Tamil cinema magazines, Silver Screen (August 1, 1936), Pe.Ko. Sundararajan criticizes the lack of technical finesse on the part of the sparse “half-a-dozen” talented directors in the industry: he claims they are unaware of the correct use of transitions like the fade, dissolve, and wipe; he thinks they could learn from Hollywood films the technique of seamless editing and its preoccupation with smooth narration (see for details Sundararajan, 2004, pp. 39–42). Criticizing the “low quality” of comedy in Tamil films, R. Balakrishnan in Cinema Rasigan in November 1936 (Cinema Fan, the other important early cinema magazine), argues for incorporating comedy scenes skillfully into the narration, and advises the producers to provide opportunity to comic actors to showcase their talents by avoiding “unnecessary dialogues and songs” (see Balakrishnan, 2004, pp. 43–45). The preeminent Tamil writer Pudumaippiththan writing in Eezhakesari (April, 1938), published from Ceylon, criticizes the actors who have made a transition from theater to cinema for not incorporating the subtle needs of the cinema in terms of their expressions and for continuing with their old verbose ways (see Pudumaippiththan, 2004, p. 62). Pudumaippiththan observes how theatrical monologues could be avoided by focusing on the facial expressions to draw attention to the interior thought process of the characters. 18

Introduction

This predominant critique of the verbal nature of the Tamil cinema continues to the present. Baskaran quotes an instance from Kathalan , 1994), points to theabout soliloquy of the villain, in which he (Lover addresses the and camera directly his intention to kill the governor. Baskaran criticizes the privileging of the word over the image in Tamil cinema: “Today, the domination of spoken word in Tamil cinema continues, militating against any development of a visual sense” (see for details Baskaran, 2009, p. 66). My imperative is also, therefore, to emphasize through the study of Tamil cinema’s history the specificity of its form and content, and to understand its highly influential and vibrant aesthetic tradition.

Notes 1. According to Baskaran, by the year 1980, there were 98 studios in the four southern states of Tamil Nadu, Andhra Pradesh, Karnataka, and Kerala, most of them in Madras, and the total number of talkie films produced in South India numbered 10,345 by the year 1993. See, Baskaran, 2009, p. 89, footnote no. 4. 2. My interview with Venkatesh Chakravarthy, in Chennai, in April 2007. 3. The Pakshiraja Studios, founded by the iconic Sriramulu Naidu in 1945, was a very big production house which produced many successful films, like Malaikallan (1954) with MGR, but changed hands after two decades when it became defunct. The Golden Studio was active in the 1950s and the 1960s, and was one among the initial studios to shut down operation, as its floors were transformed into huge godowns/warehouses in the early 1970s. See my interview with the Tamil film historian, Aranthai Manian, in August 2007, at the Prasad Academy, in Chennai. The Newtone Studio, srcinally established in 1938, had four partners: R.M. Ramanathan Chettiar, F. Nagoor (eminent art director), Jiten Banerjee (legendary cinematographer), and the first superstar of the Tamil cinema—M.K. Thyagaraja Bagavathar. The studio shut down its operations in 1952, and later changed hands when arguably the most director of theStudio 1960sstarted Tamil as cinema—A. Bhimsingh—made his popular films there. Newtone a laboratory first, and then expanded into a full-fledged studio. It is remembered today as the multilingual studio where films not only in Tamil but also in Telugu, Kannada, Malayalam, and Hindi were shot, and technicians from all over the country worked. Now Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan’s famous school—Rajaji Vidyashram—at Kilpauk, occupies its place. See my 19

Madras Studios interview with P.N. Sundaram (cinematographer), in Chennai, in April 2007. Keeping with the inclusivity and the secular spirit of the Madras film industry, Newtone Studio was promoted by a Bengali, Jiten Banerjee, and a Parsee, Dinshaw K. Tehrani, a sound engineer. 4. See for the timeline of Cinecitta Studios in Rome from 1937 when it was founded by Mussolini to its privatization in 1998. 5. For instance, August 1954 issue of Guntoosi carries a news item on AVM’s efforts to remake even its Dravidian-rhetoric-oriented Parasakthi into Hindi. See Ilangovan (1954, p. 65). Similarly March 1954 issue of Guntoosi informs us that AVM’s Ladki (Woman, Hindi) was released earlier (in 1953) than its Tamil and Telugu versions Penn and Sangham (in 1954). See Bose (1954, p. 73). Guntoosi, April 1955 issue, carries a news item under the title, “Hindi Films Produced in Tamilnadu”: “Do Dulhe (1955), with Sajjan Shyama in theinlead, directed by“two K.J. Mahadevan, is progressing fast in and Gemini Studios”; AVM Studios, Hindi films are being shot simultaneously”: Bhai-Bhai (1956), directed by M.V. Raman, has Ashok Kumar, Kishore Kumar, Nirupa Rai, and Nimmi in the lead; the other film, Shiv Bhakta (1955), first Hindi mythological produced in Madras, with Chitragupta’s music, is directed by H.L.N. Sinha. See Swathi (1955, p. 64). The very next month Guntoosi, May 1955, announces a Raj Kapoor–Nargis film (Chori Chori, 1956) to be produced by AVM on a grand scale. See Ilangovan (1955, p. 24). In the July 1955 issue, Guntoosi carries a news item on the monkey Zippy which has been specially brought from Hollywood to act in the Hindi film Insaniyat at the cost of 3 million Indian rupees

6.

7.

8.

9. 10.

(Insaniyat [1955] was produced by Gemini Studios, with Dilip Kumar, Dev Anand, Bina Rai, Jayant, Shobana Samarth in the lead, and directed by S.S. Vasan). See historian Ramchandra Guha’s article on the claims for a separate linguistic state by the Andhra legislators, and on Potti Sriramulu’s role in the creation of the Andhra State. The famous Tamil cinema journalist Anandan goes by the name “Film News” Anandan, Film News being the name of the film magazine he was associated with. For instance, Robert Hardgrave’s pioneering essay on the intertwined relationship between film and politics in Tamil Nadu was published in 1973: Hardgrave, 1973, pp. 288–305. This essay has been republished in Velayutham, 2008, pp. 59–76. See for Dickey’s sociological and anthropological study of Tamil cinema and its urban audience in Madurai: Dickey, 1993. For some of Hughes’ significant essays, see Hughes, 1996, pp. 161–204, and Hughes, 2007, pp. 3–34.

20

Chapter 2 A Multiplicity of Influence: Modern Theatres and Its Films

A

detailed analysis of the significant films of the Modern Theatres, the most prolific among the studios in South India, is inevitable for any understanding of the history of the Tamil cinema and its specificity. Modern Theatres’ productions enable our understanding of the dominant trends in the trajectory of the Tamil cinema, as it was the most productive and consistent among the South Indian studios, particularly during the 1940s and 1950s, the eventful decades that changed the course of our history both as a nation and with regards to the narratives we were preoccupied within our cultural imaginaries as Tamil people. According to the Tamil film historian Theodore Baskaran, until 2002, more than 5,500 Tamil films had been made in Tamil Nadu. Film News Anandan, the respected journalist and scholar, puts the number of Tamil films produced in Tamil Nadu from 1931 to 2003 at 5,792—4,186 srcinal films and 1,606 films dubbed into Tamil from other languages (Baskaran, 2009b, p. 55; for Anandan’s account of Tamil films till 2003, see Anandan, 2004, p. 21). Examining the history of successful studios, with all the necessary technical facilities under one roof, we see that only a handful—Modern Theatres, AVM, Gemini, Vijaya-Vauhini, and Prasad Studios—have been in operation for at least four decades. Of these, considering the history 21

Madras Studios

of Modern Theatres, the only major studio with its operations outside of Madras city (in Salem) that could successfully compete with the Madras-city of dealt the Tamil cinema for decades, informs us of thecenteredness way producers with the requirements of a huge but unpredictable market. This chapter, therefore, studies in detail the teleology of the economic and sociocultural factors, in the context of the prevailing political climate, which played a determining role in some of the landmark productions of Modern Theatres, which were commercial and critical successes especially in the period immediately before and after India’s independence in August 1947. I believe a detailed study of its history as well as analysis of the significant films of Modern Theatres will enable our understanding of the complex network of factors that have influenced Tamil cinema over the decades. As the srcins of this studio form a fascinating narrative and also shaped its cinematic journey, a brief account of Modern Theatres, the first major studio of South India, and its founder, is in order before getting into a detailed analysis of its films.

T.R. Sundaram and the Origins of Modern Theatres Theodore S. Baskaran, in analyzing the influence of “Company Dramas” on the persistence of conventions in Tamil cinema, describes “two distinct streams” in its formative years in the 1940s and the 1950s.1 One stream was inspired by the Hollywood narrative style and the other was driven by the traveling company drama format. Among the Hollywood-inspired filmmakers, he mentions two figures who are historically important to Tamil cinema in this period: the innovative cinematographer-director K. Ramnoth and Thiruchengodu Ramalingam Sundaram (also called T.R. Sundaram, or, simply, TRS), the founder of Modern Theatres Ltd, who, according to Baskaran, “had studied engineering in UK and therefore had been exposed to outside influence” (Baskaran, 2009, pp. 31–32). In 1930, Sundaram, after getting his B.A. degree at Presidency College in Madras, went to Leeds, UK, for his higher studies and obtained a B.Sc. in textile technology (see Guy, 2009, p. 27). During his stay abroad in the early 1930s, Sundaram was exposed to the early British 22

A Multiplicity of In uence

films of Hitchcock, such as The Lodger (1927) and Blackmail (1929), and American films starring Douglas Fairbanks. He also saw Robin 2 Hood Iron Mask (1929), and Taming of theRenee, Shrew (1929).(1922), WhileThe in England, Sundaram fell inThe love with Gladys who, like Sundaram, was a cinephile and encouraged his interests in the cinema. On returning to India in 1933, Sundaram dropped the idea of joining his family business of manufacturing textiles and instead explored the possibility of venturing into film production. He joined as a partner of a Salem-based film company, Angel Films, which produced five films between 1933 and 1936: Shree Krishnaleela (1933), Draupadi Vastrapaharanam (1934), Nalla Thangal (1935), Bhakta Dhruva (1935), and Leelavathi Sulochana (1936).3 Sundaram was involved as an associate in the production of the first two movies only.4 His experience with Angel Films exposed him to the difficulties involved in producing a Tamil film, as he along with his partners had to commute very often between Madras and Calcutta. 5 Till the mid-1930s, film production facilities were not available in Chennai. It was common for producers in the early 1930s to go to production centers such as Calcutta, Bombay, Kolhapur, and Pune.6 Sundaram, encouraged by his wife Gladys and his family, ended his partnership with Angel Films and started The Modern Theatres Ltd as an independent venture.7 In 1935, Sundaram raised finances and bought 10 acres of land on the outskirts of Salem, 326 kilometers southwest of Chennai, at the foothills of Yercaud, a hill station, in Tamil Nadu. He was aware of and highly inspired by the classical Hollywood studios and their model of vertical integration. The collections in the Modern Theatres Library, now donated to the public library by the present Managing Director of Modern Theatres Ltd, and daughter-

in-law of Sundaram, Kalaivani Ramasundaram, attest to this fact. Sundaram had a collection of issues of Photoplay and Variety from the 1920s and 1930s.8 Tamil film historian Randor Guy, who made a 90-minute film produced by the National Film Development Corporation on Sundaram for television in 2000, draws attention to his admiration for Hollywood heavyweights such as Louis B. Mayer, 23

Madras Studios

Harry Cohn, and Jack Warner.9 When he made the documentary on Sundaram in 1999/2000, Guy had access to two bound volumes 10 of Chandamarutham, the in-house journal Theatres, which was published from 1943 onward for of at the leastModern a decade.

Sundaram’s Leadership Style and the “Factory” Model of Modern Theatres Sundaram has been associated with Westernized education and tastes, not only due to his education abroad, but also because of his British wife, and he favored a Western formal dress code, including the ties and hats he wore during the shooting of his films. According to Randor Guy, Sundaram, “immaculately dressed,” and “Western in several ways,” was inspired by the Hollywood model, and Modern Theatres Ltd “was run like a factory with steel-strong discipline, and organizational methods, (which are) rare entities in the movie business.”11 Modern Theatres Ltd produced 117 films between 1935 and 1982 (Ilangovan, 2004). Of these, Sundaram produced 99 and directed 56 (Venkataswami, 2003, p. 162). The overlapping histories of development in and through the films of Sundaram and Modern Theatres are worthy of examination as part of the exploration of the multiplicity of the influences on Tamil film production under the studio system. Like the big Hollywood studio bosses Mayer and Warner, Sundaram wanted to have complete preproduction, shooting, and postproduction facilities under one roof. He devoted the entire two-year period of 1935–1936 to the construction of two huge studio floors, a soundrecording studio, editing suite, processing laboratory, and a preview theater, along with administrative offices, a dining hall, and a bungalow. Ra. Venkataswami draws special attention to the mini theater within the Modern Theatres studio complex where Sundaram, an avid reader of English novels, would watch at least two English films a week (2003, p. 148). Besides, in Madras, Hollywood films as well as stars like Greta Garbo were very popular. It was not unusual for popular Tamil cinema magazines like Silver Screen to engage 24


with Hollywood stars in depth as there was a vast audience for it. For instance, the iconic P.S. Chettiar, the editor of Cinema Ulagam, writing in theIfSiver Screen, 1938 issue, details Greta Garbo’s features: actresses suchNovember as Greta Garbo, Norma Shearer, Anna May Wong, Lupe Velez, and Jean Harlow steal our hearts, it is because of the magic of the cinematographers. “They skillfully cover the weak spots of the stars and make them look attractive instead”: Even Greta Garbo makes them work hard; her right eye is smaller than the left eye; her mouth is slanted toward the right. The responsibility, therefore, falls on the cameraman’s shoulders to make stars like her look beautiful. The film industry flourishes where there are great many cinematographers (see for details Chettiar, 1938, pp. 19–20). Ramalinga Vilas, the bungalow spread across two acres, was the nucleus of the studio as it was from the front office room here that Sundaram controlled the film production at the studios by giving instructions to various departments through his secretary and stenographer V. Ramasamy.12 Named after his father, the spacious bungalow was built in such a way that, in addition to using it as his personal office, its exteriors and interiors could play a role in his films. It had high ceilings and a long hallway that were frequently used in the films, and the exteriors were often used to suggest the exterior of a wealthy character’s house or the hotel where the protagonist stayed or went to meet the villain.13 The negotiations with external technicians (who were not studio employees) regarding their payments, and the financial transactions with exhibitors and distributors were also conducted here. Modern Theatres had its own “Distribution Office,” housed in Ramalinga Vilas, with more than 50 employees working under its wing. From the early 1940s till the mid-1950s, Modern Theatres distributed most of their films on their own in important cities and towns such as Madras, Salem, Madurai, Coimbatore, Tiruchirapally, and Tirunelveli. From the mid-1950s onward, Modern Theatres relied mostly on outside distributors who bought their films at competitive prices. As a distribution company, Modern Theatres paid for the rent, hired the theaters for exhibition, and released their films. Its representatives went and stayed at the respective cities or towns 25

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where Modern Theatres’ films were released, and depending on the films’ run, they sent daily, weekly, and monthly box-office collection reports to the headmanager office atin Salem (Venkataswami, pp. 19–20). The independent the distribution office2003, was responsible for supervising the activities of the representatives and keeping an eye on their box-office collection reports. These representatives also had the more important role of informing the distribution office of the “pulse of the people” with respect to Tamil cinema. They were expected to sit through the initial showings of new releases with the audience, gauge their reactions, and report to the distribution office. From the distribution office they received instructions at times to shuffle the reels, particularly the chunks of independent comedy tracks, or at times to chop the length with detailed instructions as to where to cut. The projectionists were not allowed to edit the final print with a splicer and cement in the projection room, as was the prevailing practice in the case of films of independent producers, and the Modern Theatres distribution representatives were held responsible for the condition of their prints (Venkataswami, 2003, p. 19). 14 After setting up the production facilities at Salem, Sundaram focused even more on the distribution and exhibition of his films. The private financing from his textile business-oriented family and relatives helped him to set up a complete production facility with a black and white film processing laboratory; however, he could only have partial control over the distribution of films, mainly in cities and urban areas, as he had to sell some films outright either due to the heavy costs of production or to honor the losses incurred on earlier films. Besides, the financial commitments to maintain and run an establishment in which a minimum of 220 people were on the payroll at any time during the four-and-a-half decades when Modern Theatres was active were also prohibitive of any ambitions to enter distribution or exhibition full time.15 In fact, from the logo of “The Modern Theatres Ltd, Salem” in early films like Uthama Puthiran (1940) to the plain “Modern Theatres Presents” in cardboard cut-outs for Aaravalli (1957),16 one can discern that the ambition to promote a joint stock company remained only wishful thinking, and Modern 26


Theatres in essence was a private limited company with the family members owning the major portion of the shares. Nonetheless, the advertisement on the inside back cover of Chandamarutham informs us of the distribution network Modern Theatres had. 17 The control that Sundaram exercised on the business side of filmmaking exerted its influence on other aspects as well: Sundaram emblematizes the juxtaposition of the feudal and the capitalist drives of studio owners in India generally. On the one hand, as a feudal boss, the proprietor could assert his power when it came to the choice of the narratives or the technical professionals, while on the other, the impact of box office and the speculative aspect of the film business power as every studio owner was looking for theundermined “safest bet” such in terms of his next film, and the team that could deliver it (Nainar, 2005). Nonetheless, studio bosses were perceived to be autocratic in their leadership. For instance, Sundaram was known for his discipline and eagle-eyed supervision of the activities of his employees. R.S. Manohar, the legendary villain of the Tamil screen, who had acted in 18 of Modern Theatres Ltd films, recalls how Sundaram adhered strictly to the shooting schedule to honor the announced release dates of his films (see for details Ramachandran, 2004, 279–281). Manohar, while pointing to the difficulties involved in pp. getting a role in films produced by the studio, describes Modern Theatres as a highly disciplined “film company,” which was easy for him to work with, as he shared Sundaram’s sense of punctuality.18 The ex-chief minister of Tamil Nadu, M. Karunanidhi, wrote the dialogues for three Modern Theatres productions, including Manthiri Kumari (1950), a landmark film in its portrayal of the anarchic dark villain and his avenging bold lover. Manthiri Kumari, which had both the story and dialogues credited to him, established Karunanidhi as a young Dravidian ideologue who could write an ideologically driven yet commercially successful film script.19 This led to his being hired as a dialogue writer for Parasakthi (AVM Studios/National Pictures, 1952), a watershed in the influence of the Dravidian movement on Tamil films. 27

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On January 5, 2000, Karunanidhi unveiled a bust-sized statue of T.R. Sundaram in the South Indian Film Chamber of Commerce precincts, recognition of his contributions the Tamil film industry. On theinoccasion, he reminisced about histodays with the technically adept Sundaram. In the manner of feudal bosses, Sundaram was addressed as Mudhalali (Master): Karunanidhi recalled how, usually, there was only one chair provided in the Rehearsal Hall where Sundaram would meet the writers and technicians, and though occasional exceptions were made for writers of proven stature like him and the rationalist Bharathidasan, these extra chairs would disappear as soon as they left (see for Chief Minister Karunanidhi’s reminiscences, Venkataswami, 2003, pp. 191–192). His official biographer, Ra. Venkataswami, elaborates on Sundaram’s direct supervision on a day-to-day basis of the art, costume, make-up, electrical, camera, stills, and sound departments along with the processing laboratory to keep track of their efficiency and needs. Nonetheless, Sundaram believed in collaboration: The ideas generated by the story, dialogue, and the lyric departments were through the contribution of several writers, and lyricists, who were on the payroll of Modern Theatres Ltd. Besides, a comic actor like A. Karunanidhi was encouraged when he came up with imaginative scenes. Although Sundaram organized the ideas and exercised control over the final screenplay of his films, he acknowledged the multiplicity of their sources by crediting the story of many of his films to Modern Theatres Kathai Elaka (The Modern Theatres Story Department; see Venkataswami, 2003, pp. 17–19).20 Aranthai Manian, in his monograph on Modern Theatres, also attests to Sundaram’s disciplinarian attitude. Sundaram often replaced actors or actresses if they were not on time for make-up or were late to arrive on the studio floor. He also describes the linear model of production adopted by Sundaram, according to which, only after the story and dialogues were finalized, was the casting done, and the characterizations and dialogues were never altered for the sake of the stars.21 The drive to project Sundaram as a perfectionist, who cared for every detail of a Modern Theatres production, gets complicated in the portrayal of Sundaram as a whip-cracking master, 28


who rode about on his horse to check on his employees and warn those who were loitering and whiling away their time within his studio whose be entered only with his permissioncomplex, (Manian,and 2005, pp. gates 9–10).could The image of a Hollywood mogul like Darryl F. Zanuck, whom Sundaram emulated in his active participation in the scripting, shooting, and editing of not only the films he directed himself but also films made by external directors hired by him, was superimposed with that of a whip-wielding director like Fritz Lang, who had his actors behave the way he wanted, to create the image of Sundaram as a producer and director in total control. 22 According to Randor Guy, who has over the last decade published significant articles on Modern Theatres and several of its films in his popular column “Blast from the Past” in The Hindu, the secret of Sundaram’s success was in his economy: He produced his films on a tight budget and scheduled two or three films to be released every year. Thus, the law of averages in a speculative industry like cinema worked in his favor, and his output could cover a “wide spectrum— mythology, comedy, and srcinal screenplays—to adaptation of classic works of literature and murder mysteries. It is, however, the James Bond style of films starring Jayashankar that are almost synonymous with the banner” (see Guy, 2008). Although Guy acknowledges the various genres that Sundaram ventured into, he privileges the “James Bond style of films” made with the action hero Jayashankar as the enduringly popular among Modern Theatres’ films. However, the only film to achieve box-office success among the James Bondstyle films, produced during the 1960s, was Vallavan Oruvan (dir. Ramasundaram, 1966). Even CID Shankar (1968) was only an average success when it was released (Manian, 2005, pp. 59–61). Venkataswami also notes Sundaram’s fondness for classic novels from the West, and describes his adaptation of Alexander Dumas’s The Man in the Iron Mask (Uthama Puthiran, 1940), the 16th production of Modern Theatres, as unparalleled in its success at the Tamil cinema box office (Venkataswami, 2003, pp. 31–32). Sundaram has thus been categorized as someone who looked toward the West for his inspiration, and by extension Modern Theatres Studios is showcased as shining in the reflected glory of 29

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the classical Hollywood studios. However, Sundaram’s huge repertoire complicates such a simple reading of the films of Modern Theatres; to the complex genealogy of their srcins thata careful is very analysis specific attests to Tamil cinema. Though Hollywood and the influence of the West played a significant role, there were simultaneously other major factors that shaped the landmark films of Sundaram. These influences beg a detailed interrogation, as they were the defining factors for most of the Tamil cinema productions coming out of the studios from the 1940s until the late 1960s. Besides, Hollywood films were not received uniformly throughout the world; for instance, N.R. Desai, Manager of Universal Pictures Corporation, Madras, writing in The Hindu Nation in 1926, points to the failure of the highly successful American film The Miracle Man (Lon Chaney, 1919) in Bombay, and the preference of some of the audience for serials and rather than feature films; while defending motion pictures for their ability to amuse “the average man,” feels that, nonetheless, when compared “to High Art, most of the pictures can’t stand the test.” He also agrees with “some of the complaints” regarding “the influence of many of the pictures” as “demoralising” (Desai, 1926, pp. 3–5). Nonetheless, the construction of Sundaram as “Western,” since he had his education in the UK and his credit line in his films read as “Direction: T.R. Sundaram B.A., B.Sc. (Leeds),”23 is understandable. As early as the 1930s, popular magazines like Guntoosi and Aadal Paadal carried articles that were rich in their references to Hollywood, and they underscore the popularity of the American films in Madras and the interest of the lay audience in the discourse surrounding their production. For instance, in the third annual issue of Aadal Paadal, there is a detailed article on make-up that praises the way actors such as Lon Chaney, Barrymore brothers, and Paul Muni change the make-up according to the characters they play. It also glorifies the make-up of the historical characters played by famous actors such as Charles Laughton (as Henry VIII), Cedric Hardwicke (as Charles II), and George Arliss (as Duke of Wellington) in films made in Britain. However, it names Boris Karloff as the best when it comes to make-up: His appearances in films such as Frankenstein (1931), 30


The Mummy (1932), The Old Dark House (1932), The Black Cat (1934), The Raven (1935), and (The) Walking Dead (1935) are frightening and(January horrendous (see forthrows details light Chandran, pp. 48–49). Guntoosi 1954) issue on how1938, make-up artists (not just the cinematographers) from the studios in Calcutta influenced the Madras film industry: Haripadha Chandra (aka Haribabu) from Calcutta is regarded as the make-up artist singularly responsible for directly or indirectly training the make-up artists in the Madras film industry and elevating the standards (see for details, Piyares, 1954, pp. 31–32). According to Arthanari, who had worked as the costumer with the Modern Theatres for more than three decades, Sundaram never “settled for less” when it came to costumes and make-up, and this helped him succeed in the historical fiction genre with films such as Uthama Puthiran (1940), Manonmani (1942), and Manthiri Kumari (1950).24 Furthermore, magazines like Pesum Padam, known for their reviews of films, frequently invoke Hollywood/English films in the context of Sundaram’s films; for instance, in the March 1947 issue, while reviewing Modern Theatres’ Chitra (1946), it compares Sundaram’s deft portrayal of the maid Kannamma “who steals the audience’s heart,” with that of the minor characters in many English films who often steal the show from the main actors.25

The Modern Theatres and Its Early Films Having examined the emergence of Modern Theatres, it is instructive, for the purposes of my project, to analyze the genealogy of the films produced by the studio. In the filmography of Modern Theatres, the official biographer Ra. Venkataswami lists 136 films as produced in its studio complex. Of these, 20 films had been collaborations with external producers. Thus, he cites 116 films as the studio’s own productions. Among these, he includes Vittalacharya’s Telugu film Jayaveeran (1959), though Modern Theatres was involved only in buying the rights and dubbing the film into Tamil and releasing it, and he excludes the Kannada version of Purandaradasa (1937), by counting the bilingual—Tamil and Kannada—version as one 31

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(see Venkataswami, 2003, pp. 169–174).26 Thus, by including all the dubbed films, the multilinguals, as well as the remakes, whose productions were117 mainly within studio Salem, we could count filmsdone as being thethe output of complex Modern in Theatres in roughly 45 years of its active life, from 1937 to 1982.27 However, among these 117 films are included films produced by R.K. Balu, son of Kandappa Mudaliyar, the elder brother of Sundaram. “Parimala Pictures,” R.K. Balu’s production company, produced films in collaboration with Modern Theatres. The significant films that came out of this collaboration were Harihara Maya (1940), Vikrama Urvashi (1941), and Sivalinga Satchi (1942). As the titles indicate, all these films were in the mythological genre, the predominant Tamil film genre of the pre-independent era till the outbreak of the Second World War. According to Film News Anandan, from Kalidas (1931), the first Tamil talkie produced by the Imperial Film Company, 195 films were made in Tamil till 1939. More than 80 percent of these, that is, 160 films, were mythologicals, and even among the rest, half of them were improvised folk versions of a myth (Anandan, 2004, pp. 1–3). After Sivalinga Satchi, Sundaram’s nephew R.K. Balu moved away from production to eventually take charge of the distribution sector of Modern Theatres (Venkataswami, 2003). It was the year 1940 in which Modern Theatres had five releases for the first time (see for details Venkataswami, 2003, p. 169; Manian, 2005, p. 17).28 It would also prove an eventful year in the history of Modern Theatres and Tamil cinema, as Sundaram was involved in his own directorial adaptation of Alexander Dumas’s famous novel The Man in the Iron Mask: Uthama Puthiran was one of the early films in Tamil to have a character playing double roles, 29 though in Tamil cultural imaginary because of its huge box-office success and P.U. Chinnappa’s versatile performance it remains the inaugural one. It also marked a gradual shift from the mythological as the favored genre of the Modern Theatres productions. The transition from mythologicals as the dominant genre to the socials marks a significant phase in the history of the Tamil cinema: Though the mythological provided an effective narrative frame to layer in the subtext of patriotism during the colonial period, the postindependence 32


preoccupation with Dravidian ideology and Tamil nationalism demanded a genre that would not exclusively privilege Hindu philosophy, and theism. Puthiran, Modern Theatres had produced Priorreligion, to Uthama 15 films, and two-thirds of these (10) were mythologicals. In 1938, Sundaram produced the first Malayalam (the language spoken in the adjacent state Kerala) talkie film Balan (dir. S. Nottani), whereas the first Malayalam film ever was Vigathakumaran/The Lost Child (dir. J.C. Daniel, 1928). It was the fifth Modern Theatres production, and their first film in the genre of family socials: Balan, “the first Malayalam sound film,” dealt with the lives of two orphaned children, Balan and his sister, and their suffering at the hands of their stepmother, and Balan’s sacrifice for the sake of his sister’s happiness. The trope of the evil stepmother in Balan had a significant impact on the narratives of early Malayalam films (see for details on Balan (1938): Rajadhyaksha and Willeman, 2002, p. 274). The success of Balan prompted Sundaram’s interest in diverse genres, and he went on to produce his first stunt film Mayamayavan (dir. S. Nottani, 1938) with the drama artist T.K. Sampangi in the lead. Mayamayavan competed with Wadia Movietone’s Vanaraja Carzan (Tamil, 1938), which was also made as Jungle King (1939), in Hindi.30 The success of these stunt films saw the launching of the “Nadia of the South,” K.T. Rukmini, whose critically acclaimed film Veeramani was released in 1939.31 Nonetheless, Sundaram’s huge box-office successes, apart from his early mythologicals, came from the folk-inspired Chandanathevan (1939), and the adapted period film, Uthama Puthiran (1940).

Chandanathevan and Uthama Puthiran : Western Tales, Adapted Texts, and Anticolonial Subtexts The significance of Sundaram’s and Modern Theatres’ body of work, for the purposes of my project, also emerges from the distinctively anticolonial narrative thread that weaves through such films as Chandanathevan and Uthama Puthiran. Sundaram’s fascination 33

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with novels and films from the West, which he developed as a student, continued well into his career as a filmmaker. According to Venkataswami, who wasinworking in Sundaram the post office within theRa. Modern Theatres complex the 1950s, appreciated his knowledge of English and his writing skills in Tamil and often entrusted him with the job of writing the synopsis of classic British novels such as The Mayor of Casterbridge (Thomas Hardy, 1886) and The Woman in White (Wilkie Collins, 1859). Even when Sundaram passed away in August 1963, Venkataswami was working on the adaptation of the film No Man of Her Own (dir. Mitchell Leisen, 1950), based on a 1948 American thriller by William Irish, I Married a Dead Man.32 (See Photo 37 in the photo group section.) Furthermore, Randor Guy, who had personally known some of the key technicians who had worked for Modern Theatres, such as the American director Ellis R. Dungan and the special effects wizard W.R. Subba Rao, draws attention to Sundaram’s habit of getting prints of popular English films from Madras, making a dupe negative and a print at his studio laboratory in Salem over the weekend, and sending them back in time. According to Guy, the highlight of the Modern Theatres film Devaki (1951) was the avalanche: “Shots staged in the Modern Theatres Studio at Salem were inter-cut with ‘duplicated’ shots from the Frank Capra classic Lost Horizon (1937)” (see Guy, 2009).33 An advertisement in The Hindu Nation (Annual Supplement, 1926), published from Madras, informs us of the easy availability of American films for exhibition, as early as in 1926: Universal Pictures Corporation, with its head office in Bombay, had branches in Madras, Calcutta, and Lahore, and most of its films made in 1926 (and few under production and released later in 1927, in the USA) are advertised as available for exhibition. This indicates the ubiquity and popularity of the American films in Madras from 34

the 1920s (for details, see Tuteja, 1926, p. 4). In 1939, Sundaram joined hands with director S. Nottani again to produce one of his Douglas Fairbanks–inspired adaptations—Robin Hood—in Tamil. The film was titled Chandanathevan. However, it had a complex agenda and critiqued the British government’s policy toward taxation, which was a volatile issue then: “What an injustice? 34


A new tax every day…. Has Madanan decided that sucking the blood of the common man is the unconditional right of the government?” The songbook of synopsis Chandanathevan (1939), from printed by Modern Theatres, opens its with this dialogue the film, underscoring the anticolonial subtext within the action-packed Robin Hood–inspired narrative.35 Nonetheless, the multilayered screenplay, conscious of the scissors of the British censors, had a benevolent King; it was his brother, the evil Madanan, who taxed people to unbearable penury. The people’s hero Chandanathevan sings along with his friends, “Let us wipe the tears of the poor, let us serve our nation,” before getting into the “national service” of looting the rich, mainly landlords government servants, to help the poor. The lyrics were writtenand by T.P. Velayuthasamy. G.M. Basheer, who had been playing negative roles till then, became the first Muslim hero of the Tamil screen with Chandanathevan, which also saw the debut of the legendary actor M.R. Radha as a villain.36 The fans of Chandanathevan, the masses in the film, endorse his activities and acclaim him as their leader by singing “The unjust tax collector’s unquestionable authority will be destroyed by the masculine Chandanam.” Chandanam, which means “sandalwood” in Tamil, is appropriated to referand to the forest dweller Chandanathevan, but its qualities here of fragrance its evanescence when burnt contribute to an oxymoron in the phrase “masculine Chandanam,” suggesting the complexity in the colonizer– colonized relationship. Lyricists played a major role in the preindependent era by couching the patriotic agenda in coded but simple language so that it could circulate easily among the masses (Narayanan, 2007, pp. 162–170). Baskaran observes that songs in Tamil cinema “have supplanted folk music in the lives of common people” (Baskaran, 2003, p. 79). Although he acknowledges the role songs played for the nationalistic cause in Tamil cinema, he critiques them for privileging the aural element and for “restricting the visual range of cinema” and for forcing cinema to “remain at a predominantly escapist level” (Baskaran, 2003, pp. 36–72). But a closer study of songs and their picturization in Tamil films, as exemplified by 35

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Chandanathevan, underscores their potential to combine entertainment with topical issues and politics. Chandanathevan Uthama an adaptation of Dumas’sprefigured The Man Sundaram’s in the Iron Mask, in Puthiran, its anti-British and pronationalist stance, and its central figure of a hero who is courageous to take on the powerful enemy and willing to speak on behalf of the people. Besides, Sundaram was interested in promoting the film as a star vehicle for the talented actor P.U. Chinnappa along the lines of the action heroes in Hollywood. 37 In the Modern Theatres Studios, Douglas Fairbanks’ posters occupied a prime place on the office walls.38 In the box at the studio (Floor 1), many copies of The Man in the Iron Mask were preserved, along with a file containing the detailed synopsis in Tamil by Velsamy, the codirector of the film.39 The script of Uthama Puthiran uses the framework of Dumas’s novel about the twin brothers, who were born to a king, but modifies it to portray the one on the throne as a stark villain, and the other imprisoned within the iron mask, as the hero. Uthama Puthiran, keeping with the general trend in most Indian films, does not acknowledge the srcinal source and credits the story to Mian (Arthanari, 2005). The characterizations in Sundaram’s Tamil version were highly influenced by the Hollywood film The Man in the Iron Mask directed by James Whale the year before in 1939 (Guy, 2007). The marking of King Louis XIV and his twin brother Philippe as the binary black and white characters in the Hollywood film enabled the double role to be effective. In a similar vein, in the Modern Theatres’ film too, P.U. Chinnappa, the hero, plays the binary roles of the incompetent, cruel, and amoral king Vikraman, and his just and kind-hearted brother Chokkanathan, apart from the good brother acting in disguise as the evil King. James Whale’s loose adaptation of Dumas’s novel paints Fouquet as an irredeemably evil minister; the Modern Theatres version makes him a pivotal character (Naganathan), in total control of the heir Vikraman’s upbringing after his father’s death, who encourages him in a life of indulgence and callousness. Naganathan is contrasted with the good minister Gunaseelan, who tries to save the kingdom by trying to put Chokkanathan, the younger of the twins, on the throne. D’Artagnan 36


becomes the foster father Surasenan, who brings him up for 20 years in his modest home and teaches Chokkanathan swordplay. The three musketeers are depicted as theisfriends of Chokkanathan, and only one among them, S.S. Cokkho, given prominence as he uses his sense of humor and mimicry skills to get the hero out of trouble in tricky situations. The plot also borrows from the 1939 Hollywood version the key turning points: The king imprisons his twin brother, who escapes with the help of his foster father and friends, and forces the evil king to take his place in prison, wearing the locked iron mask above the neck. The imprisoned king manages to sneak a message to Naganathan, who like Fouquet rushes to stop Chokkanathan from marrying Princess Meenakshi, and cementing an alliance between the Pandya and the Chozha kingdoms—France and Spain in the Hollywood version. Chokkanathan rides on his horse with his friends to stop Vikraman, and in the ensuing fight Naganathan dies, and Vikraman’s driverless coach plunges down a hill killing him. However, in the Tamil version, neither D’Artagnan/Surasenan nor his friends/the musketeers die. The film ends happily with Chokkanathan replacing Vikraman on the throne and marrying his sweetheart Meenakshi of the neighboring Chozha kingdom. A synopsis of the film along the above lines in the songbook published by Modern Theatres reads like an adaptation of the dramatic structure of the Hollywood film to suit the Tamil milieu of South India in terms of its history and family structure.40 However, a careful reading of the film, which is 5,831.00 meters and 19 reels long (as per the censor certificate issued in Chennai in the 1973 print), throws light on the various historical and sociocultural factors that exerted a significant influence on the shaping of the characters and the plot, and the dramatic structure of the film signifies the importance of the political context during the period of its production. The film opens with shots of Madurai, the capital of the Pandya kingdom. Shortly thereafter, the evil minister Naganathan appears with the king on the balcony and announces to the eagerly waiting people the birth of a son by the grace of Meenakshi and Sundareswarar, the presiding deities of the Madurai temple, and the 37

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people leave to celebrate the happy news. The entire frontage of the palace has a painted look except for the balcony where the characters appear. Thisexemplifies style of painting, backdrops used in Parsi theater, a cleverinspired mixingby of the locales. The people are on the back lot of the studio and are shot from a high angle in sunlight, and their shots are intercut with shots of the king and his minister—also shot using sunlight through reflectors. Avoiding the studio interiors and shooting the people at noon with high contrast adds to the enthusiastic but tired response of the people, indicating that they have been waiting for a long time. The script adds a touch of verisimilitude to their representation as one of the citizens is shown as having won a bet by correctly predicting the birth of a son, and she now demands acknowledgment from her husband. The counter shots of the king and his minister standing in a carved-out space amidst a huge one-dimensional painted palace front suggest that this royal family is more mythic in nature than historically authentic. Though the script refers to the historical Pandya and Chozha kingdoms, the mythic nature of the narrative is clearly indicated in giving the protagonist and his lover the names of Chokkanathan and Meenakshi, the chief deity of the historic Madurai temple and his consort. The film begins with shots of the temple and ends with the marriage of the main characters who are named after the presiding deities of that very temple, recalling the folkloric traditions in Tamil Nadu wherein invoking the local deities at the beginning and thanking them at the end of a performance is the norm. The subject of Meenakshi’s (Parvathi’s) marriage to Shiva (Sundareswarar/ Chokkanathar) in Madurai is the highlight of the summer festival in Madurai to this day.41 As soon as the common folks move out of frame from the studio back lot, we see them breaking into a song of celebration upon reaching their homes. But from the royal family/proletariat binary, the song draws the audience’s attention to contemporary politics of the 1940s as it starts with: Thaai Naadu Vazhgave!.... Indha Thaai Naadu Vazhgave! (Long live the motherland! Long live this motherland!). Any doubts we have regarding the motherland referred to (Pandya kingdom/Indian nation) is cleared by the picturization 38


of the major portion of the song in a garden, with a woman wearing a crown in the manner of familiar depictions of Bharatamatha (Mother India),her while about a glorious future as they surround and other showerwomen flowerssing upon her.42 Thereafter, the king gets the news that a twin, second son, is born. Naganathan, the cunning minister, manipulates the king to forsake the second son in order to avoid a rift between the brothers in the future for the throne. As the king gives away his younger son he looks at the camera and asks: “God, don’t I have the freedom that even a poor man has?” The response to this question is the second song of the film, sung by a woman who is passing by the woods near the palace. Though there is no composite shot to know the spatial logic, proximity is established through the mid-shot of the king in profile listening to her song. The king listens as she sings: Yetherku Ippadi…. Her words directly address the king’s plight by asking him not to worry; instead, she asks him to think of Gandhi, and gain strength from the fact that setbacks are a part of life, and thus myth and contemporary politics coalesce. Uthama Puthiran became a seminal film not merely because of its use of the double-role format to showcase the binary of good and evil but also for addressing the vestiges of feudalism supported by a colonial government and juxtaposing it with the progressive call for freedom exemplified by Gandhi and the ordinary Indians who responded to his call. The significance of Uthama Puthiran, for the purposes of my thesis, lies in the fact that in its marking of both the reactionary and the revolutionary aspects on the body of its star P.U. Chinnappa through an anticolonial narrative, it prefigured the split in the Tamil cinema, especially in the films produced by the Madras studios, between the support toward the nationalistic stance of the Congress Party and the subnational imperatives of the Dravidian ideologues immediately after independence. The Indian cinema scholar Neepa Majumdar, in her detailed study of the female stardom between the 1930s and the 1950s, while acknowledging “that double and multiple roles have always been a staple of Indian cinema and even of precinematic performance modes,” points to the criticism in “the Hindi magazine Rangboomi,” 39

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during the early 1930s (September 1932), regarding “the same actor in the same film in two roles because … the two roles don’t mix 43

together andthe theearly whole thingcinema looks bad.” Here,expected it becomes clear thatwell even sound audiences the double roles for the actor/star to be seamlessly embedded in the narrative and visually showcased through special effects with finesse. In Uthama Puthiran, P.U. Chinnappa’s clearly etched binary roles drove the plot, and the technical finesse kept the audience engrossed in the drama surrounding the lives of a good and an evil brother. Besides, while detailing how the double role intensifies star presence in Hindi cinema, Majumdar informs us of the reasons behind its ubiquity in Indian films: “… [t]he economic and ideological interests of the star system converged in films in which the same star appeared in double or even multiple roles” (Majumdar, 2009, p. 136). P.U. Chinnappa, who started his career with the successful Chandrakantha (1936), had to his credit films such as Punjab Kesari (1938) and Mathrubhoomi (1939), which had a strong subtext of nationalism as the titles indicate. The “Talkie Tiger” H.M. Reddy, who directed the first talkie in Tamil/South India Kalidas (1931), was the director of Mathrubhoomi. It was advertised as a historical film with nationalism as its theme: “For a true patriot, the honor of the nation is more important than life”; “See Veera Kumudini, the epitome of the Indian woman’s courage and sacrifice, in this amazing Tamil-historical talkie” (see for details, Narayanan, 2008a, p. 87). Therefore, Chinnappa’s role as Prathapan, the brother of Kumudini who challenges her husband when she discovers that he is a spy, in a film where “the brave Indian soldier stood up to the mighty Alexander from Greece” (see for details, Narayanan, 2008a, p. 87; see for the synopsis of the film: Baskaran, 2013, pp. 98–99) should have attracted Sundaram’s attention as he too was thinking about a historical film to address the theme of nationalism that was dear to the masses at that point of time. But he had to also think of innovations not merely at the level of the narrative but in terms of the technical possibilities that the cinema offered to tell a story and engross an increasingly impatient and aware audience. For instance, Vai. Mu. Kothainayaki Ammal, writer, journalist, and novelist, who is known 40


as Tamil’s first female writer to engage with the detective genre, and a member of the Regional Censor Board for 10 years, writes about the predictability and boredom in cinema in Aadal Paadal as early as in January of 1938: [W]hen I was young, silent movies were screened in a hall across my village temple, and we all gathered there and wondered at people “walking, running, and jumping” in the film, and “at the running train, the wavy sea, and the moving ship.” It was as if heaven had descended on the earth. Thereafter, I have seen a lot of films though the feeling of joy seems lost forever; wonder and exhilaration seem impossible when you are looking at films critically: when you are thinking “this is wrong; this is dull; this is bad; this is absurd; this is vulgar; this should have been this way; the ending is unsatisfactory; the cinematography is awful; lighting is too heavy or too subtle; photography is average.” (see for details of the erudite Vai. Mu. Ko’s observations: Kothainayaki, 1938, pp. 27–30)

Such an article in a popular cinema magazine, with its awareness of the aesthetics of cinematography, informs us of the expectations of a discerning audience and prefigures the Madras studios’ investment in narratives, which offered newer ways of engaging the audience, wherein technological explored and pushed further.possibilities offered by cinema could be The technical finesse of Uthama Puthiran, and its unparalleled success at the box office , therefore, marks it as a watershed in the history of films made in Madras studios. In addition, Uthama Puthiran’s significance also lies in its being the provenance for many Tamil films made with popular stars in double and multiple roles until this day, because of its unprecedented success at the box office. Though preproduction work of Uthama Puthiran started in 1939, the film released in 1940. (See Photo 8 in events the photo groupnationalsection.) One was of the constantly discussed symbolic in Indian ist politics was initiated on March 12, 1930, when Mahatma Gandhi started his nonviolent protest against the salt tax levied by the British government through his Salt Satyagraha. Protesting against a tax on a commodity used even by the poorest of the poor, Gandhi walked 41

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241 miles from his residence at Sabarmati Ashram to Dandi, on the Gujarat coast, with a number of his followers joining him on the way. march undertaken underscore of the man The to produce salt withouttopaying a tax the on right it ended oncommon April 6, 1930, and came to be known as the Salt March. When Gandhi broke the salt laws on reaching Dandi, millions of Indians showed their solidarity by engaging in acts of civil disobedience. Gandhi was arrested on May 5, 1930 (see for details, Kuhn, 2011, pp. 75–90). In Uthama Puthiran, acts of protest against unjust taxes play a key role in setting up the dramatic conflict between good and evil (embodied by the two kings). Invoking both Bharatamatha and Mahatma Gandhi in the very first reel of the film explains why Uthama Puthiran was publicized as a Desiya/Nationalist film.44 Sundaram’s invitation to Rukmini Lakshimipathy, the Indian National Congress leader of the erstwhile Madras Presidency, to inaugurate the shooting of Sati Ahalya (1936), his maiden venture under the Modern Theatres banner, attests to his interest in the nationalist politics of the Congress Party of that period.45 After the woman’s call in the song to draw inspiration from Gandhi, the film showcases the evil intentions of Naganathan, who delivers the second child to his henchman to be killed. However, the benevolent fencing teacher Surasenan sees a man racing to the cliff with a child and rescues the baby. As Surasenan leaves with the child Chokkanathan in his cart, an intertitle card is superimposed over the landscape: “After 20 Years: the child brought up by Naganathan grows to be a womanizer, and the one raised by Surasenan turns out to be a warrior.” In the early 1940s, Tamil cinema was dependent on its two singing stars to bring the audience in large numbers to the theaters. One was the first superstar of South Indian cinema, M.K. Thyagaraja Baghavathar (aka MKT), and the other was P.U. Chinnappa—the hero/villain of Uthama Puthiran. MKT was known for his melodious voice and was mainly sought after to play the lover-hero, as in his competing film in 1940, Ashok Kumar. P.U. Chinnappa was unique as he was invested in body-building and flexing his muscles and was promoted as an action hero who could also sing equally well—an 42


important criterion during the pre-dubbing period in Tamil cinema. The unique potential of Chinnappa—to excel both in action scenes and songs—finds fruition double role in to Uthama Puthiran, which became his its first super in hit,his catapulting him the status of the 46 biggest action hero of the Tamil cinema. The screenplay of Uthama Puthiran in fact uses Chinnappa’s multiple talents in a complex way. The cruel and arrogant king Vikraman is not so much a womanizer as the intertitle card suggests, as a weak man under the spell of his mistress Kanthamani (T.S. Krishnaveni). Even as the film portrays the evil king Vikraman as having succumbed to various vices, Chinnappa’s singing abilities are used toItthe as he sings in praise of song his paramour Kanthamani. is optimum with Kanthamani’s seductive Ananda Vaibogam (joyful celebration) that we are introduced to the prince Vikraman in his adulthood. As she sings and dances to entice Vikraman, who is in front of her, we can spot Naganathan to her left, with a satisfied smile at her success at luring Vikraman’s attention. However, when Vikraman sings Deva Amutha (heavenly nectar), the deep voice of Chinnappa and the romantic lyrics foreground him as a lost artist rather than an instrument of evil under the influence of the villain Naganathan: Vikraman’sofextolling Kanthamani’s suous beauty, and his comparison her to aofsinging peacock senand a musk deer, made the song one of the most popular of all times and canonical in the history of Tamil cinema for exemplifying P.U. Chinnappa’s highly trained and expressive voice. The third song involving Vikraman and Kanthamani is a duet, wherein S. Velasamy, who is credited as a lyricist for the film, provides equal scope for the voices of both Chinnappa and T.S. Krishnaveni (Kanthamani).47 In the 1940s, one can see that not only Chinnappa but also MKT used their voices in equal measure, if not more than their female counterparts—as far as the stretching of the pitch was concerned—to attract their lovers and secure their love. It was their voices and personae as singer-actors that led to their stardom and the huge box-office successes of their films. For instance, MKT’s film Haridas (dir. Sundarrao Nadkarni, music: G. Ramanathan, lyrics: 43

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Papanasam Sivan, 1944), released on Deepavali day (October 16, 1944), which featured the highly popular song Manmatha Leelayai 48 Vendrar Undo ran for “three Deepavalis consecutively” and “shattered all existing box-office records” till then. The December 1944 issue of Pesum Padam informs us of MKT’s unparalleled popularity on as well as off-screen: Meiyappan’s Saraswathi Store had released a double-disc album (GE 6201–02) featuring selected songs from the film (see for details, Pesum Padam, 1944, pp. 39–40). In Haridas, the role of MKT’s mistress is played by T.R. Rajakumari, the iconic seductress of the Tamil screen, and the role of the wife is played by the renowned Carnatic (South Indian classical music) singer N.C. Vasantha Kokilam. The first half of the film has MKT wooing the voluptuous T.R. Rajakumari mainly through his songs: During the popular song Manmatha Leelaiyai Vendrar Undo? (Who can withstand cupid’s love stratagems?), when MKT sensuously sings of T.R. Rajakumari’s magical spell on him, she kisses her fingers to send a “flying kiss” to him, and this was perceived to be very erotic by the audience.49 In fact, MKT had become a superstar seven years back when in 1937 two of his films, Chinthamani, directed by Y.V. Rao, and Ambikapathy, directed by Ellis R. Dungan, had become huge hits mainly because of his songs. However, a month before the release of Ambikapathy, in the February 1937 issue of Silver Screen, the inimitable Vai. Mu. Kothainayaki Ammal had expressed her apprehensions regarding the ubiquity of songs in Tamil cinema:

There are songs in unimaginable situations in Tamil cinema; for instance, “when a woman is driving a car … when a lecherous guy rapes a chaste woman … when someone wants to commit suicide … when someone is getting dressed up … when someone gets drunk … when someone is engaged in a precarious fight on the railway tracks … Alas! Tamil cinema has created an aversion for songs.” (see for details, Ammal, 1937)

Later, Silver Screen, in its annual issue of (March) 1938, informs us of the centrality of the discourse surrounding songs in Tamil cinema: M. Shanmugam asks the producers to record the songs of classical musicians as separate concerts and show them as independent 44


sequences, as he finds musicians to be bad actors; K.V. Subramanian, in his detailed article, writes about the differences in classical and light music, which as “recitative music” it cansuitable be recited or repeated easily, he andterms argues for light music asasmore for cinema as it intensifies the emotions in the narrative through wellcrafted lyrics, as in the case of MKT’s film Chinthamani (see for details on the articles on music in Silver Screen: Shanmugam, 1938, p. 35; Subramaniam, 1938, pp. 73–75). In the 1940s, as exemplified by the songs in Uthama Puthiran and Haridas, writers and directors were invested in the star capital of their heroes as singer-actors who could captivate the hearts of the voluptuous Other woman with their inimitable voices: The sensuousness of the vamp’s persona was pitted against the sensuality of the voice of the romantic hero. Many times these songs—solo or the duets between the hero and the vamp—became more popular than the love songs between the hero and the heroine. However, the technology of recording and picturizing songs through playback and dubbing the dialogues during postproduction became standard practice from the 1950s onward. Thereafter, heroes started to sing mainly to woo the heroines and the vamps or the “Other” women had to make most of the efforts to entice the heroes. Of course, by then they had the voices of highly skilled singers to help them. In Uthama Puthiran, Chokkanathan has romantic duets with the heroine—Meenakshi, the Chozha princess—but unlike in the case of the womanizing Vikraman, his skills as a fencer stand out in this role rather than his image as a romantic hero. One of the reasons for this is his portrayal as a character belonging to the milieu of the masses. Right from the first frame we see him as a young man fighting against the unjust taxes of the king. When Naganathan levies taxes on land, cattle, and even on grazing, with the approval of Vikraman, the dismayed subjects are shown discussing among themselves: “What an injustice? … A son inheriting from his father is taxed. There’s a tax even for grazing your cattle.… Tax if we sit … if we stand … even if we sneeze!” Thereafter, one of the tax offenders is whipped by the king’s agent in public, and Chokkanathan arrives at this point and strikes back at the king’s official. As the agent runs 45

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away, Chokkanathan asks the assembled people to keep away from trouble and go home. is followed a montage which theApeople are harassedThis andscene tortured in the by name of tax in collection: man tied to a pillar is whipped to death; four men pull a cartload of people, with more men tied to its wheels; men are used as cattle to plough the field; a thirsty man being dragged by a running horse is not allowed to drink water. These menacing visuals are disturbing and they illustrate the total misery of the common man under Vikraman and his minister Naganathan. From the public sphere, the tax collectors intrude into the home and stab a man to death as he asks for a week’s time to pay his dues, and they overturn the cot on which his sick wife is resting. At this juncture, Chokkanathan arrives with his friend and attacks the rude government agents who run away. However, Chokkanathan’s heroics are not enough to prevent the people from assembling at the village square and discussing how they will respond to these atrocities: “Come … come all … we should ask for the way out of this … If the tax is not reduced let’s go into the forest; let him rule over a deserted land.” As the people start walking, they are framed in a long shot with palm trees in the backdrop. The sight of ordinary men, walking to take on the might of a king through a tropical arid land marked by palm trees, recalls Mahatma Gandhi’s Salt March, as the repercussions of the Dandi Yatra lasted for a year, and almost 80,000 of Gandhi’s supporters from all over India were arrested (Johnson, 2005, p. 234). The Salt March was a symbolic act of resistance against the unjust tax practices of the British government; and protest against the salt tax itself had its srcins in the resentment against the crippling land taxes.50 The way contemporary political issues are addressed in Uthama Puthiran attains a new dimension as the marching people reach the king’s residence. Unlike at the beginning of the film, when people assemble in front of a palatial building with multiple floors, now they are stopped in front of the gate to a fort-like structure. The studio set of the fort is shown in depth, as the reluctant king arrives to listen to the grievances of his subjects. When one of them says that he has no means for food even once a day, King Vikraman cynically tells 46


him: “So you want justice …” and starts whipping him. The frightened people are attacked by Vikraman’s soldiers, who come from inside therun fortfor oncover horses with in their hands.on Ashorses the people, in panic, they arewhips attacked by soldiers from all sides. We see people getting crushed, as the horses run over the chests and heads of people on the ground. The enclosed space in the background recalls the Jallianwala Bagh massacre, which took place on April 13, 1919, at Jallianwala Bagh, in Amritsar, where around 20,000 people had gathered for a public meeting, defying a government proclamation prohibiting such gatherings. Brigadier-General Reginald Dyer went to the meeting ground with his soldiers and without warning, or giving time for the crowd to disperse, ordered his men to fire at them. In 10 minutes, 1,650 rounds of ammunition were fired. An unprecedented stampede occurred, and even according to the highly reductive figures in the official reports, 379 people died, and 1,200 were wounded by bullets or suffered other injuries (Tuteja, 1997, p. 26). The death of men, women, and children who had gathered for a nonviolent political meeting left a deep impact on the Indian psyche, and the anger and anguish led to Gandhi’s Non-cooperation Movement in 1920, which was directed at the Rowlatt Act that imposed authoritarian restrictions on the Indian people, including arresting and detaining them without evidence. The year 1920 thus marked the beginning of the Civil Disobedience Movement led by the Mahatma, which would lead to the Salt March and culminate in the Quit India Movement in 1942. Uthama Puthiran, released in 1940, two decades after the Jallianwala Bagh massacre, finds an immediate link to this dark chapter in Indian history by the action of Udham Singh in London: On March 13, 1940, at Caxton Hall in London, Udham Singh shot to death Sir Michael O’Dwyer, who was the governor of Punjab when the Jallianwala Bagh massacre took place. Later, during the trial, Udham Singh accepted the responsibility for avenging the massacre at Jallianwala Bagh, and on July 31, 1940, he was hanged at Pentonville prison (Fenech, 2002, pp. 832–833). Uthama Puthiran was shot on Floor 1 in the Modern Theatres complex beginning in 47

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July 1940 and released in Madras on October 24, 1940. 51 The centrality of the protest against taxation, as the main motif to protest against an evil king in Uthama also has be viewed in the context of its production andPuthiran release during thetoSecond World War. When the Second World War broke out in September 1939, on the 15th, the Congress Working Committee passed a resolution that since India’s entry into the war has been announced by the Viceroy Lord Linlithgow without the consent of the people of India, the Indian National Congress could not associate with it (Sen, 1994, pp. 279–280). The Salt March in 1930, almost a decade earlier, and the consequent participation of thousands of Indians in the Civil Disobedience Movement led by Gandhi had clearly shown that British control of India depended on the consent of the Indians. However, the British government announced India’s participation in the war hurriedly. The film uses the unjust taxes as the signifier of the evil king’s indifference to the sentiments and the well-being of his people. Therefore, when Chokkanathan, with the help of his foster father and friends, exchanges places with Vikraman, the first thing that he does as the king is not only to remove the unjust taxes imposed but hand over the land to those who till it. Uthama Puthiran thus presages the protest against the appropriation and misuse of power, and the call for justice and equality, the dominant Dravidian themes that mark the later films of Modern Theatres and the AVM Studios. This has great significance for my project as the critique against the colonial rule of the British transforms into a scathing attack on the Congress government—a marker of the specificity of the Tamil cinema— within a decade. Apart from the anti-British, pro-Gandhian imperatives of most Indian cinema in the 1940s, the third aspect of the anti-Congress/North Indian hegemony of the Tamil cinema would assert its voice strongly by the end of the 1940s. The signifiers of good and evil thus keep getting redefined depending on the time of the production of the film. Besides, the switching of identities between Chokkanathan and Vikraman, recalls Neepa Majumdar’s erudite observations on the switching of identities by Ashok Kumar in Afsana (dir. B.R. Chopra, 1951) wherein he plays a double role: 48


He “was able to play the part of a morally suspect character while keeping his ‘good’ star persona intact” (Majumdar, 2009, pp. 138–139). For as the rising action hero, a stainless personaP.U. was Chinnappa, even more important. While at the same time, Thestar Man in the Iron Mask, as alluded to by the mask in the title, offered a convenient ploy to switch roles, and showcase his acting skills, though only for the short duration of the switch. Thus, in the case of Uthama Puthiran, the conflict between the good and evil twins references the sociopolitical discourses surrounding taxation in the colonial history of India and is framed in a key scene during a standoff between the (twin) brothers in a unique and unparalleled song sequence. The duel between the brothers, staged through the song, Adimai Unakku Garvama? Thaguma?, where one challenges the other, offered a platform to showcase the potential of its star Chinnappa to vary his voice and emotions—as he acts and sings in his dual role as the arrogant Vikraman and the suppressed but unvanquished Chokkanathan. Besides, in its visualization the song provided an opportunity for the technicians to push the limits of what had been hitherto achieved in the pre-playback era in terms of in-camera special effects in cinematography and sound editing: The skillful cinematography uses the shadow of a pillar in between the brothers to hide the artifice of covering half the lens meticulously, shooting the actions in one half of the frame and rewinding and changing the mask on the lens, and shooting again to expose for the concurrent action in the other half; the song was sung twice by Chinnappa, but the sound editing smoothly renders it into a single version. As Vikraman challenges Chokkanathan, the quintessential conflict between the ruler/colonizer and the ruled/colonized is played out. As Vikraman asks: “ Adimai Unakku Garvama? Thaguma? (O Slave, why such pride?),” a captive Chokkanathan with an unconquerable will retorts, Kenjugindra Jenmamillai Naan, Arasanendra Garvama? (I am not begging for your sympathy, vainglorious king!). However, more than the story of the two brothers, the dramatic plot and the songs, the audience was enthralled by W.R. Subba Rao’s trick photography. During the reception, the fans expressed their 49

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amazement at the double role: “One Chinnappa in two roles.… One man as two persons in a face-off sings as well as acts” (see for details, Rao, p. 90). W.R. Subba Rao, whose name becameinsynonymous2003, within-camera special effects expertise, was credited the film for photography along with P.V. Krishna Iyer and A. Shanmugam. However, Tamil cinema scholar Aranthai Manian though acknowledging Subba Rao’s contribution to the special effects in Uthama Puthiran, credits P.V. Krishna Iyer as the first cinematographer to showcase a double role in Tamil cinema.52 Nonetheless, according to Venkataswami, Sundaram’s task of showcasing a double role on screen in 1940 was enabled by his trust and confidence in two cameramen who had come to work for his studios from Germany—Bodo Gutschwager and Baez. They had received their training in the Weimar cinema. Both came to work for Sundaram as early as 1935, assisting him in the planning and design of the studio and the interiors, including the catwalk and electrical lines. They had helped with the decisions concerning the camera and lights for the studio.53 According to Ra. Venkataswami, therefore, the trick shots involving the doubles facing each other and of one walking behind a chair on which the other is sitting were supervised by Bodo Gutschwager, though he is not credited in the film (Venkataswami, 2003, p. 32). Subba Rao and Krishna Iyer, who were credited with the cinematography for Uthama Puthiran, had their training earlier in the Modern Theatres Studios under Gutschwager for the in-camera effects. Later, seeking greener pastures, P.V. Krishna Iyer moved to Madras and started working with Pragathi Studios, where A.V. Meiyappan was a partner.54 The contesting claims as to the chief technician behind the seminal rendering of the in-camera effect of the double role points to a major objective of my thesis: to underscore the dominant role of industrial technology in influencing the aesthetics of the Tamil cinema. The availability and the type of equipment and the quality of professionals played a significant role in shaping the aesthetics specific to Tamil cinema. For instance, the “Madrasi” picture is a label used not merely to refer to melodramas with long comedy tracks but also to indicate films showcasing vast studio interiors with enormous depth, shot with sturdy cameras like 50


Mitchell offering steadiness and clarity; the spiraling staircases inside the palatial bungalows of the main characters offered the possibilities to experiment vertical diagonal cranethe movements to the high ceiling with of the studioand interiors in and availabilitydue of cranes designed to suit the interiors of the specific Madras studio floor. As per the early photographs in the studio office, in the 1950s the Modern Theatres had two Mitchell cameras—a BMC (Blimped Newsreel Camera) and an NC (Newsreel Camera)—and a Debrie and an Eyemo camera.55 However, from the production stills of Chandanathevan, one can infer that Modern Theatres had only a Debrie and a Eyemo camera in the 1940s and Uthama Puthiran, which was shot after Chandanathevan should have been produced using the (lighter) Eyemo for its outdoor shots and the Debrie for the indoor work.56 The Debrie was perhaps the most ubiquitous among the studio cameras in Madras in the 1930s and 1940s before Mitchell broke its monopoly from the 1950s. The Debrie was manufactured in France and the Mitchell in the USA, and they differed mainly in their viewing systems: The cameraman could see through the lens while shooting with the Debrie and thus be in control of his composition and framing during movement, while in the case of early Mitchell cameras the parallel viewfinders—provided on the left side—could not give the exact view of the changing composition during movement. The disadvantage with the Debrie, however, was that when the shutter was closed down outdoors to cut off the excess light the view also became too dim. Therefore, working on these cameras presupposed apprenticeship and substantial training under professionals in a studio.57 In the case of Uthama Puthiran, the Debrie camera played a major role in the planning and execution of the double role. Being heavy and sturdy like the Mitchell, it allows for the camera to be rock steady, so that one could confidently think of breaking the frame into halves and executing the exposition of the film twice without fear of either the overlap of action on frame edges in the middle or the over/under exposure of lights. Besides, the film speed was low—around 40 ASA—in the 1940s, and therefore, it entailed 51

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using an enormous amount of light for accurate exposure. Added to this was the fact that the minimum aperture—the opening through which light passes—of the cameras in the wasofrelatively bigger, the necessitating the lighting for (at least) an 1940s aperture f/5.6 and requiring the usage of an enormous amount of foot-candles inside the studio. On the other hand, outdoor shooting provided abundant sunlight, but the lenses had no antireflection coating to cut off the unwanted glare, like the advanced lenses in the four-turret Mitchell BNC cameras used by Modern Theatres in the 1950s. 58 In Uthama Puthiran, therefore, we can see the glare in the outdoor shots and the flooding of light in the indoor shots that keep everything in focus. Furthermore, the wider lens of the Debrie camera also contributed to the deep-focus photography in the film. As a result, the vast depth of field adds to the grandeur inside the palace, particularly during the songs, and the outdoor glare, and the contrast in style adds to the anxiety concerning the tax raids and apprehensions regarding the evil ruler(s). Available technology, therefore, was a significant factor in determining the formal style and aesthetics of Uthama Puthiran. Moreover, quality black and white photography meant collaboration between the cinematographer and the production designer: The panels in the backdrop in Uthama Puthiran were painted in varying shades of ochre to suggest the glossy and rich interiors of the palace. The precise shades of ochre were selected by the art director A.J. Dominic in consultation with cinematographers Krishna Iyer and Subba Rao.59 The high catwalk in the studio (Floor 1) of Modern Theatres enabled the precise adjustment of the top lights over the heads of the characters, and the background lights on the panels behind the two brothers, without any spilling over. According to Randor Guy, Sundaram had a unique style of working with “readymade sets such as pillars, staircases, facades, and chandeliers which could be bolted with the main sets in a matter of minutes” (see Guy, 2009). Therefore, after precise designing of the sets, when the heavy Debrie camera was masked and the film exposed partially for actions on one side of the frame, and then stopped and rewound, and exposed for the other side, now masking the previously exposed side, the so-called “special effects” involving the twin brothers were 52


rendered not in any specialized laboratory but “in-camera.” The excitement of watching the results at the preview theater inside the 60 the studio prefigured Sundaram andithis technicians the thrill audience was goingfor to have watching in the cinema theaters. The well-photographed and unforgettable duel thus underscored the significance of a song in heightening the melodrama through its ability to quickly shift from repartees to challenges to attacks between the antagonist and the protagonist through an increase in intensity by the careful structuring of alliterative words and the corresponding rhythm and melody in the music. Along with P.U. Chinnappa’s star text as the singing star of the 1940s, and the sociopolitical context of its production during the Second World War, the song Adimai Unakku Garvama? Thaguma? also underscores the continuing assertion of the folk tradition as the other major influence on the film’s narrative. The preeminent Tamil scholar Karthigesu Sivathamby, in his research on the srcins of Tamil drama, draws a parallel between the dialogues in ancient Greek dramas and the dramatic uralkali in Tamil theater where the accent is on statement and response. According to him, “It is interesting to note that a feature of line to line argument (sometimes it is two lines for each character) between characters could be seen in modern Tamil folk plays. It is variously referred to as Etircintu (opposing song) and Tarkkattaru (argument song)” (see Sivathamby, 1981, p. 377). S. Velsamy, the lyricist of the film, had prior experience writing for plays that adapted folk characters and narratives to address contemporary issues (Venkataswami, 2003). Apart from the conflictual song between the brothers, the folk srcins are explicit in the songs sung by Tamil cinema’s first major comedian, Kali N. Rathinam, whose theatrical background contributed to his versatility in singing and dancing as well. The two numbers sung and enacted by him in the film, Vadamalai and Inneram

Enna Seidhey, remain true to their folk roots in terms of their costumes, lyrics, and choreography. The first song Vadamalai weaves in folk elements from the Therukkoothu and the Villupattu traditions prevalent in the northern and the southern parts of the state, respectively. The continuous repetition by the chorus (the men around the comedian) of the 53

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words Enthan Peruman recalls the Villupattu (Bowsong) tradition. The song itself is designed as a situational comedy around the escape of the character by Kali N. Rathinam, whowrath is a spy disguise working for theplayed evil king Vikraman, from the of in people by getting them enchanted in the rhythmic song. The second number Inneram Enna Seidhey, where Rathinam and C.T. Rajakantham play the popular folk character couple of Ottan-Ottachi sing in their own voices and dance drawing on their vast experience in folk theater, remains authentic in its representation of the traditional folk form of Therukkoothu. In keeping with the form, the coverage of the song is mainly in long takes and musicians are present—playing their instruments and singing—in the frame along with Rathinam and Rajakantham throughout the song. The framing of the musicians along with the folk performers in a long take draws attention to the technology of live recording of song and its visualization during the period.61 The early sound cinema in India did not favor the planning of elaborate camera movements during song picturization due to both the heavy camera equipment and the absence of playback technology, which meant the presence of the “orchestra, instrumentalists and accompanists” inside the frame or just outside of it. 62 The available technology was therefore as significant as the traditions of the folk form in privileging the dominant aesthetics of frontality during the early studio era of the 1930s and 1940s, which has its impact on Indian cinema to this day. In the film, Rathinam, playing evil king Vikraman’s comic spy, boasts of his powers when his wife is shocked to see him burn the back of the tax collectors with a hot iron rod. As a spy, he conveniently uses the pagal vesham/masquerade aspect of Koothu/folk theater to hide his identity, since through a clever narrative ploy he announces himself as a folk artist in the film, and keeps performing for the camera as well as the audience within the frame. This reflexivity in drawing attention to the masquerade as an essential aspect of the folk tradition also underscores the role of the twin brothers or the double role of Chinnappa as an extension of such a mode and punctuates the narrative as designed in a historical-mythological framework to conveniently address contemporary sociocultural issues. 54


For instance, consider Chokkanathan breaking out into the song Senthamizh Nadennum Pothinile inside his home with his friend S.S. Cokkho while polishing his sword. The iconic Tamil poet Subramaniya Bharathi (aka Mahakavi/ the Great Poet, 1882–1921) and his poems were considered taboo as his patriotic writings had incurred the wrath of the British leading to his taking refuge in Pondicherry (a French territory until 1954) in 1909. It was in Pondicherry that he edited and published the weekly journal India and the daily Vijaya, which carried much of his patriotic writings and songs.63 Uthama Puthiran uses certain lines from the song: Senthamizh Nadennum Pothinile Inba Then Vandu Payuthu Kathinile Vedam Niraintha Tamizhnadu, Uyar Veeram Cherinda Tamizhnadu Valluvan Thannai Ulaginukke Thanthu Vanpugazh Konda Tamizhnadu (When I hear the words Senthamizh Nadu [classical Tamil Nadu], it feels mellifluous like honey for my ears; Abounding in Vedas, the Tamil Land is permeated with valor; By gifting Valluvan [Thiruvalluvar] to the world, Tamil Nadu has attained incomparable glory.)64 By invoking the Vedas, which are Aryan and Sanskritic in srcin, and recalling the iconic figure of the Tamil poet Thiruvalluvar, who wrote the Thirukkural, and thorough its privileging of certain lines from Bharathiyar’s poetry, the film makes explicit its publicized intention of being a Tamil film in a “nationalistic” mold. While the national pro-Congress stance of the film clearly comes through in the dramatic plot, the regional Dravidian, and the concomitant antiBrahmin, discourse drives the second comedy track of the film. This autonomous comedy track, which is unrelated to the main plot, is anchored by the legendary comedian N.S. Krishnan; he plays a Brahmin priest who is trying to seduce a Dalit woman. 65 Her husband, the innocent Amavasai, is deceived by another Brahmin priest, 55

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who asks him to dissolve his late father’s ashes in the sea so that he may be reborn as a Brahmin. Amavasai’s attempt to dissolve the ashes theabsurd, nearby Kaveri riverdrawing providesattention room fortocomedy bordering oninthe reflexively the absurdity/ irrationality of the caste system at its core. Thus, a careful reading of Uthama Puthiran on the one hand informs us of the inspiration from both Dumas’s novel and the Whale-directed film adaptation The Man in the Iron Mask and on the other hand reveals a multiplicity of additional influences: allusions to significant and symbolic events during or close to the historical period of its production; the suppression of protests and the constraints imposed by censorship in the colonial times of preindependent India and consequent resistance to the British rule; and the endorsement of the patriotic aspirations of the people as expressed through the policies of the Indian National Congress. Other significant influences include the theatrical roots of Tamil cinema, the regional folk and performative arts, Dravidian politics, and the “star text” of P.U. Chinnappa. It is as if these multifarious voices, concerns, and forms were looking for a coherent contemporary narrative frame to undergird the film’s anticolonial subtext, and a skillful adaptation and indigenization of The Man in the Iron Mask through Uthama Puthiran was the answer. The creative adaptation of the srcinal to the Tamil milieu is marked among other things by the importance given to the songs in the narrative and to their writer in the credits. The films of Modern Theatres were popular for their credit titles, and most Indian films, generally until the 1990s, had the entire credits roll in the beginning.66 In Uthama Puthiran, the design of the titles recalls the proscenium arch, as a filmstrip-like design borders the left, right, and centre of the space where each title card appears diagonally and disappears. The Modern Theatres title sequence was always one of their main attractions, and the technicians who were responsible for starting this trend were the in-camera effects specialists from Germany, Gutschwager and Baez (Venkataswami, 2003, pp. 14–15). In the case of Uthama Puthiran, the titles were designed by Gutschwager: It starts with “Directed by T.R. Sundaram,” but 56


unusually, the same title-card credits the assistant by inserting a second line—“Assisted by S. Velsamy.” It is significant that Velsamy is credited D.V. againChari” just before the by credits for “Songs: the actors appear: “Dialogues: is followed the line S. Velsamy,” emphasizing the importance of the lyric writer as he shares the first as well as the last credits given to technicians, in a movie that had 25 songs. The songs, as seen above, reinforced the subtexts of anticolonialism and nationalism. They invoked Gandhi and Bharatamatha on the one hand, and Bharathiyar and the uniqueness of Tamil language and culture on the other hand. Although songs enabled Uthama Puthiran, released in 1940, to critique the ruling British government and yet navigate through its censorship, the Second World War posed new challenges to studios and their productions: The censorship policies became stringent, raw stock was rationed, and the studios were compelled to support the British government’s “war effort.” The new ceiling on the final length of the film—not more than 11,000 feet—meant working on tighter narratives with lesser songs.

Navigating Propaganda, Censorship, and Nationalism: The “War Effort Film” and Modern Theatres’ Burma Rani Burma Rani (1945), the next film taken up for discussion, exemplifies the tenacity of the Modern Theatres to mediate through rigid government controls and its own resources, both in terms of studio facilities and professionals. Burma Rani, therefore, emblematizes the studios’ ability to thrive under adverse circumstances by keeping itself active and using the challenges of the diktats of wartime as a creative opportunity. Therefore, a detailed analysis of Burma Rani is essential for my thesis on the Modern Theatres and the diverse factors that impacted its productions. The Government of India Act of 1935 passed by the British Parliament, the last pre-independence constitution of India, gave various provinces a measure of autonomy and provided for direct 57

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elections that allowed about 35 million people to exercise their franchise.67 Accordingly, various presidencies went in for elections, and the Congress formed the government 1937 within C.Madras, Rajagopalachari as theParty Prime Minister. During this in period, there was relative artistic freedom, and censorship authorities were fairly liberal toward narratives that included coded nationalism and patriotism in Tamil movies, as exemplified by director K. Subrahmanyam’s Thyagabhoomi (Land of Sacrifice, 1939). However, such freedom was short-lived as the then Viceroy Lord Linlithgow announced on the wireless on September 3, 1939, that India was at war with Germany, and in response the Congress ministry resigned in 1939, declaration of India’s participation in protesting the Secondagainst World the WarBritish without the consent of her people.68 Subsequently, in June 1940, a Film Advisory Board was formed with J.B.H. Wadia as the chairman to promote the war efforts of the government through films supporting the British intervention and Britain’s actions during the war. 69 G.D.B. Harvey, a civil servant, was appointed propaganda officer in Madras, and distributors were compelled to screen news films on the war—the reason why, for some time, untilofthe latefilms” 1940s(Narayanan, in Madras, newsreel by the name “war 2002, pp.documentaries 226–227). Thewent British government distributed its war newsreels—the British Movietone News, and its local version, the Indian Movietone News, along with Indian News Parade. The British Movietone News, the first British sound newsreel, was produced in June 1929. The Indian Movietone News, its variation, was a collaboration between the British government in India and the British Movietone News—a Twentieth Century Fox enterprise—to cater to specific needs in India: During the war, in the early 1940s, British newsreels were released with a commentary in Hindustani, Tamil, Telugu, and Bengali. To further its objectives of war propaganda, Indian Movietone News was renamed Indian News Parade, and the weekly newsreel was screened aggressively in cinema halls through the length and breadth of the country in 1942 and 1943.70 58


Prior to the war, Agfa raw stock was imported from Germany and was the preferred film of most Tamil filmmakers; however, this stopped with the outbreak the war.and Consequently, the demand American Kodak stock roseofsteeply, the government broughtfor in measures to limit its supply—as import from war-torn Europe was difficult—by restricting the final length of movies to 11,000 feet. In addition, it imposed a condition that to get raw stock for shooting, one out of every three productions of a “studio-owning” producer had to be a “war effort film.”71 Madras was bombed during the Second World War: On January 30, 1942, a Japanese aircraft carrier bombed the naval base at Vizagapatnam.72 Studios like Pragathi (owned by AVM Chettiar) shifted out of Madras to Karaikkudi. Free movement was curtailed on account of the war, and restrictions on late night shows added to the woes of the producers. Film production in Madras dwindled from a total annual production of 39 in 1940 to 14 in 1943. 73 Kobasky, writing on “Wartime Cinema” in the July 1945 issue of Pesum Padam, traces the difficulties that filmmakers faced in Madras during the Second World War: During the initial stages of the war, though the Agfa film from Germany became scarce, the Kodak company increased their supply and the difficulty due to the shortage of raw stock was somehow managed. But the situation became unmanageable after Japan entered the war in December 1941, as shipment of raw stock was affected. In January 1943, the government imposed restrictions on both raw stock and the length of the film and made license mandatory for making a film. The film producers who were used to making longer films (18,000 to 20, 000 feet in length) struggled with the curtailment of length to 11,000 feet. More important, producers who had the license did not have the money because of the war, and others who had the money to invest did not have the license (see for details Kobasky, 1945, pp. 51–54). Such an unusual situation had its impact on the studio-driven Madras film industry in no small measure: It affected not only the production but also the distribution of films.74 For instance, in 1945, according to Pesum Padam, only 38 licenses were announced for producers in Madras; whereas, those who got the license in 1944, to finish their war-delayed/stalled 59

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film, were disqualified from applying for any new production in the allotted quota for 1945 (see Pesum Padam, 1944, p. 37). It was against this backdrop that Burma Sundaram intofilm the was production of Modern Theatres’ Raniventured (1945). The one among the four war-effort films produced that year, the others being Manasamrakshanam (in defense of honor), a Madras United Artists production, directed by K. Subrahmanyam and C.S.V. Iyer; Gemini Studios’ Kannamma En Kadhali (My darling Kannamma), directed by Kothamangalam Subbu; and En Magan (My son), produced by Central Studios, Coimbatore, and directed by A.S.A. Swamy. Of these films, Burma Rani became the most controversial, with both the British and the nationalist sides having reservations about the film, though initially Sundaram was lauded by the British for his efforts and G.D.B. Harvey, their war propaganda officer, presided over its premiere in Madras and praised the film (Narayanan, 2002, p. 226). Later, however, Harvey had reservations about the film’s representation of the Japanese, and this led to delays in the film’s commercial release (Rao, 2003, p. 177). On the other hand, after India gained independence, when the Congress government in Madras constituted a new Censorship Board on December 8, 1947, the first thing they did was to ban the professedly pro-British war film Burma Rani.75 The apprehensions on the part of both the British and the Congress governments necessitate a close reading of the narrative, and the context of the production and the troubled reception of Burma Rani. Recently, Tamil film scholars like Theodore Baskaran and Vittal Rao have revisited the film and recovered it as a historically important film in the war film genre, due to its utilization of the rigid diktats of the British government concerning wartime propaganda as a creative opportunity to mark itself as arguably the most significant film made in India during the Second World War. Furthermore, Sundaram was ambitious as far as the production value of the film was concerned: Baskaran, drawing attention to the hand-tinted color sequence of a Burmese dance performed by the heroine Rani on the orders of the Japanese General, claims that it is “one of the earliest color film sequences in India” (“Cinema: War Relic”). Fifteen years 60


later, K. Asif’s epic period film Mughal-E-Azam (1960) would still make news with its hand-tinted color sequences that it employed for 76

the picturization someone of its W.R. Subba ofRao, ofmemorable the three songs. cameramen in Uthama Puthiran, was the cinematographer of Burma Rani. With the help of technicians whose skill had been honed in his institution, the Modern Theatres Studios, Sundaram brought his experience with employing studio spaces creatively and maximizing the economy of studio productions into full play in Burma Rani. Substantial segments of the film were shot inside the studios, except for the scenes involving the sea, particularly toward the climax. The claustrophobic mood, narrow studio appears add to the fear andcreated agony through of the protagonists. Theyspaces, are caught in ato war-afflicted foreign country, Burma (present-day Myanmar), which was under siege by the Japanese during the war. Sundaram, apart from directing the film, also played the important role of the Japanese General, who is modeled after Hitler in his military costume and moustache. The general, who epitomizes the tyranny of Japan and its imperialistic designs to crush smaller British colonies like Burma, is addressed in Tamil throughout the film as Bhajjinama—punning on the popular, onion/potato fritters called bhajji, which colloquially, in its verb 77 form, means “to crush.” The tyrannical Bhajjinama, whose slogan in the film is “Asia for Asians” expresses Japanese expansionist ambitions and rules Burma like a slave colony. When the Indian pilot Kumar tries to attack Japanese-occupied Burma, his plane develops a snag and he is forced to make an emergency landing in Burma. He leaves his two copilots in a Buddhist Vihara (Buddhist Temple) in the care of the chief priest, who is his acquaintance. Later, he seeks refuge in the house of Rani, an Indian woman under the protection of Uso, the puppet Burmese minister of the Japanese dictator. When Bhajjinama attempts to sexually assault Rani, Uso foils his attempt and throws him out of his house. In retaliation, Bhajjinama tries to force Uso to sign an agreement giving seven-and-a-half tons of rice to Japan. Uso refuses and is imprisoned. However, Rangoon Radio announces 61

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that he has left for Japan at the invitation of the Chakravarthi—the Japanese monarch or the supreme ruler. Meanwhile, Singh, the patriotic Indian spy,the is leadership caught by Bhajjinama’s menRanjit and tortured to get the details about of the Indian spy ring operating in Rangoon. But the patriotic Ranjit Singh is obstinate and silent. Bhajjinama asks his men to shoot him the next morning and announces his orders over Rangoon Radio. Kumar hears the broadcasts and wants to make contact with Ranjit Singh, so that he can meet the leader of the spy ring and seek help to get out of Burma. He sends Rani, together with the chief priest of the Buddhist Vihara, to meet the reluctant Ranjit Singh, who on hearing the temple bells, changes his mind and reveals the leader’s whereabouts. Thus, while Kumar gets to meet the leader of the spy ring Miss Mangalam (played by C.T. Rajakantham), Ranjit Singh is shot dead by Bhajjinama’s men. Miss Mangalam, an Indian spy in the guise of a music teacher, sends confidential information regarding the Japanese activities in Rangoon through trusted messengers and trained pigeons. C.T. Rajakantham, one of the artists on the payroll of Modern Theatres, was usually paired with Kali N. Rathinam, and the couple became the first star comedy pair in Tamil cinema, establishing a trend that continued until the 1990s. However, the usually typecast Rajakantham gives one of her most serious and significant performances as Miss Mangalam in Burma Rani. She gives Kumar a set of documents related to the Japanese military and its secret strategic plans and helps Kumar by arranging a motor boat for him and his friends to escape by the sea. However, as she is about to escape after burning some of the remaining documents, she is shot by Bhajjinama’s henchman Koduchi (Rathinam). Rajakantham’s convincing portrayal as the patriotic Indian spy leads Baskaran to consider Burma Rani “one of the earliest Indian films to portray an assertive female character” (“Cinema: War Relic”). Later in the pulsating climactic sequence, when Kumar wants to thank the chief priest before leaving (for India), he is caught on the way to the Buddha Vihara/Buddhist Temple as he is not carrying the necessary identity card. He is brought before the foxy Bhajjinama, 62


who releases him, hoping to capture the remaining spies by tracing his movements. Kumar meets Rani and places her in the protection of waiting the chiefout priest. HeAs explains her their to escape by a boat at sea. Kumartoleaves, Raniplans is intercepted by Bhajjinama and interrogated. She pleads for time to pray and promises that she will return after her prayers and talk to him. Rani, Kumar’s colleagues, and the other spies are helped by the chief priest to escape through a secret underground tunnel to reach the boat. In the meantime, after waiting for Rani in vain, a suspicious Bhajjinama enters the temple, locates the secret tunnel, and follows it. He reaches the door, but the chief priest obstructs him and he shoots him down. However, Bhajjinama reaches the sea shore, only to see a boat receding into the distance. In fact, Burma Rani’s initial title was “Escape.”78 Vittal Rao, lauding Burma Rani’s compact and spellbinding screenplay, also draws attention to W.R. Subba Rao’s excellent cinematography in key scenes: initially when Kumar’s flight encounters problems, and he parachutes down with his friends to safety; later when the spy Ranjit Singh is tortured; and in the climactic escape sequences. Vittal Rao is equally appreciative of Sundaram’s courage, since, in Burma Rani, he chose to cast many of the artists in roles that went against their stereotypical star personas. For instance, T.S. Balaiyya, who plays the patriotic Ranjit Singh, was then a preeminent villain of the Tamil screen, who had played the dark minister Naganathan in Uthama Puthiran. According to Rao, if some of the songs and the comedy track with N.S. Krishnan and T.A. Mathuram had been edited out, Burma Rani would seem like a bold experiment even by today’s standards (Rao, 2003, pp. 175–177). Though in 1945, Burma Rani was heavily criticized by Pesum Padam: The script writer has no idea about propaganda, and his overt style has made the film into an absurd comedy. Propaganda has to be subtle, but the dramatic sequences in Burma Rani recalls earlier illogical stunt films from the North. Instead of reducing the Japanese to caricatures, if the narrative had focused on their technical finesse and on how the Indians had outsmarted them and escaped, it would have served the purposes of smart propaganda. Burma Rani, therefore, is neither appealing in its narrative nor purposeful in its propaganda (see for 63

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details, Pesum Padam, 1945, pp. 28–30). This review from Pesum Padam informs us of the chasm between the immediate reception and Nevertheless, the retrospective response. when carefully reading the film in the context of the adverse reactions it provoked from both the British government and the Congress, it leads us to the Buddhist temple as the critical locale at which the major dramatic events are played out. The status of the Buddhist priests as above suspicion and the freedom allowed for the people to visit the temple even during the war is cleverly used in the screenplay to present the Buddha Vihara as the space where antiwar activities, patriotism, love, and sacrifice (and espionage!) intersect. The Buddhist chief priest’s courage in providing shelter to Kumar’s friends and his sacrifice of his own life at the end to help the Indian spies escape undermine one of the basic premises expected of the war effort film—that all Japanese values will be portrayed as the binary opposites of the good democratic Western ones. Even as the stylized performance of Sundaram as Bhajjinama paints a successful portrait of the dark inhuman Eastern Japanese General, the other markedly Eastern element of Buddhist compassion that extends beyond borders unsettles any intention to mark and contain human values by giving them a national, Western, or Allied tag. Serugalathur Sama, a veteran character actor and another Modern Theatres regular, portrays the chief priest with grace and elegance. On the part of the Congress-appointed Censorship Board, it is understandable that they would reject a film that had the propaganda officer of the British government as the chief guest at its premiere, especially since he presented Sundaram with an ornamental sword embossed with the British government emblem at a grand celebratory function held on the occasion at the Modern Theatres complex in Salem (Venkataswami, 2003, p. 41). However, the formal appearance of a British official during wartime to laud the war effort on the part of a famous studio could not have been the only reason for the rejection of the film by the Congress Party. Insofar as obviously biased representation is concerned, it is not easy to dismiss Burma Rani as being pro-British as there are no British characters in the film. The clash is between the colonized spies 64


from British-ruled India and the Japanese, who had occupied Burma during the Second World War, between 1942 and 1945. During this period, when Burma was administered directly the British (1937–1948), the Japanese covertly helped thosebyBurmese whocrown were rebelling against the colonial rule of the British to form the Burma National Army and appointed a puppet government led by Ba Maw (see for details on Burma’s history during the Second World War: Low, 1993, pp. 25–35). In the film, the representation of Uso, a “good” Burmese subject from the British standpoint, is complicated by portraying him as a helpless puppet minister, who lives under the shadow of the dictatorial Japanese General. The script further complicates the already diffused binary of the “British-Burmese” Uso and the Imperial Japanese Bhajjinama, by positing the character of Rani as the Indian girl brought up by the Burmese Uso and portraying her as being invested in the well-being of her Indian friends rather than the Burmese, who gave her protection. After Uso is imprisoned, a significant part of the film depicts the Indian spies and the Buddhist priest on one side and Bajjinama and his coterie of local men on the other. Thus, the major conflict in the narrative is reframed as a binary plot between the British-Indian spies and the Japanese General with his local Burmese supporters. Nevertheless, the members of the Indian spy ring, though working on a British mission, are depicted as patriotic and heroic in their own right. Their thrilling escape from the Japanese General in the climax could be read as suggesting their aspiration to be rid of the British Empire’s imperialistic dominion, as the confused environment of war complicates their colonized identities as Indian/British-Indian and that of their counterparts as Burmese/British-Burmese, whose country is now occupied by the Japanese. The film declares its sympathetic intentions toward Burmese culture right at the very beginning by announcing through a title-card that “The picture does not attempt to portray Burmese life or manners.” But it does not hide its intentions to project the Japanese General as a monster who is a heartless and “illegal” colonizer. Nonetheless, the film is not overtly supportive of the British enough to invite a ban on the part of the Congress Party. 65

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Guntoosi, in its February 1948 issue, points to the reason for the ban as objection from the Burmese government regarding the representation Buddhist religion and Burmese However, Guntoosi (editorofP.R.S. Gopal) indicates that the culture. producer will be compensated by the government (see for details, Guntoosi, 1948, p. 29). The reason for the ban in December 1947 by the Madras Censorship Board, therefore, draws attention to the predicament of the producers who are always kept in the dark regarding what will ultimately get passed through the fickle scissors of the changing censor boards. For instance, if the British officials might have found Sundaram’s portrayal of the evil Japanese emperor as too reflexive andobjected metaphorical to be ignored, the Congress government would have to the condescending portrayal of the British by showing the Indians as submissively working for the success of their masters during the war. Despite making a cleverly crafted film, thus, Sundaram ran into difficulties in his efforts to please the masters and to keep his studio and staff occupied during the wartime. Nonetheless, more than Modern Theatres’ Sundaram, the Congress Party members were concerned with director K. Subrahmanyam, as he was a well-known Congress man: They were apprehensive aboutpropaganda his attempt officer, to makedespite a war the effort film on the orders of the British injunction of the Congress high command against the government imperative (Narayanan, 2002, p. 226). However, they were relieved to see his Manasamraksanam not glorifying the British and in fact singing the praise of the humaneness of its Indian protagonists who rescue a Burmese woman from the Japanese in India, in return for her saving an Indian ship from getting blown up by Japanese spies. Unlike K. Subrahmanyam, whose activities against the diktats of the Indian National Congress remained under the radar, Sundaram’s status as a Congress Party sympathizer seems to be inconsequential, as he is primarily perceived as a prolific film producer (Narayanan, 2002, pp. 226–227). Burma Rani exemplifies how judgments pronounced on cinema are not just based on the changing tastes of the local audience but extend to the quirky winds of history that blow beyond 66


borders and affect local politics and policies, stated or otherwise, which in turn have their influence on cinema.

Chandamarutham : The Magazine and Its Infl uence on Modern Theatres’ Productions The print media has played a central role in the history of the major studios of Madras. Three among the five majors—Modern Theatres, Gemini, and Vijaya-Vauhini—had their own printing press, and Gemini and Vijaya-Vauhini got into film production after entrenching themselves as successful publishers of popular magazines. Although Modern Theatres’ magazine (Chandamarutham) did not become as popular as that of Gemini ( Ananda Vikatan) and Vijaya-Vauhini (Chandamama/Ambulimama), it strongly influenced the narratives of Modern Theatres during the eventful period of the late 1940s and early 1950s, marked by India’s independence and the emergence and the ascent of the DMK (Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam/Dravidian Progressive Federation)—a defining period as far as the specificity of the Tamil cinema is concerned due to its investment in Tamil nationalism and the privileging of the marginal voices of women and the economically downtrodden. In 1940, Sundaram started a fortnightly Tamil magazine called Chandamarutham to inform readers about Modern Theatres’ films and publicize them (Venkataswami, 2003, pp. 27–29). Conceived in the format of a family magazine, Chandamarutham also carried short stories and write-ups on politics and cultural events. It was printed in the Gajalakshmi Power Press within the studio complex. S. Velsamy, who wrote the songs in Uthama Puthiran and who was popularly known as Velsamy Kavi or Poet Velsamy, was one of Modern Theatres’ preeminent lyricists and the first editor of the magazine. Chandamarutham was responsible for a phenomenon in Tamil print publishing history, the serialization of the famous story Aayiram Thalai Vangiya Aboorva Chintamani (The unique Chintamani who claimed a thousand heads). The exceptional success of the story and the enthusiasm with which a large and avid 67

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readership took the mythical characters in the novel to its collective heart inspired Sundaram to render it on celluloid in the year of India’s independence, 1947. twists andofturns, written to keep the eager readership panting inThe anticipation the next installment of the serial, were retained in the srcinal screenplay, resulting in an edited length of almost 4 hours when the first print of the film was produced (Venkataswami, 2003, pp. 42–43). Later it was reduced to 20,050 feet, which was the norm before the war, though this was still almost twice as long as the wartime limit of 11,000 feet; Burma Rani was 10,367-feet long when it was released in 1944 (Anandan, 2004, pp. 28–39). The plot of the film focuses on the tests set by the eponymous heroine Chintamani (V.N. Janaki) for the suitors who wish to win her hand. Those who fail are beheaded. Thus far, 999 heads have rolled, and the 1,000th candidate—the handsome Meiyazhagan (P.S. Govindan)—foils the plans of Chintamani’s guru, an evil magician, and passes the test. The hero, who has already lost his father and brothers to tricks of the evil magician, goes with his friend in search of the answers to Chintamani’s three questions and to solve the mysteries surrounding those questions. This main story encompasses another story, which leads to yet another story and so on. These stories are linked through the characterization of the hero, who has a role in all of them, as he travels to unravel the mysteries to outwit the magician guru. Directed by Sundaram, Aayiram Thalai Vangiya Aboorva Chintamani was critically acclaimed as a suspense film. W.R. Subba Rao was lauded for the in-camera special effects and his “trick” photography. In the climax, in a single shot, Rao had the king throwing the knife and the magician-guru’s head rolling down (Rao, 2003, p. 73). The screenplay, though borrowing loosely from the storywithin-a-story genre of the Arabian Nights and the locally wellknown Vikaramadityan-Vethaalam folkloric myths about paying with one’s head for failing a test, vastly differs from them in its structure. Although multiple stories-within-a-story generally necessitate an episodic structure, in Aayiram Thalai Vangiya Aboorva Chintamani, the binary conflict between the hero and the evil guru and the plight of Chintamani who is caught in between haunt the 68


explorations of the hero Meiyazhagan. This is threaded through a narrative marked by his continuous presence (in all the episodes) and The seemingly conflicts thatare are juxtaposed finally resolved. hero’sunending interminable travels with haunting songs, and they prefigure the importance of songs in Indian films of the suspense/mystery genre; for instance, Kamal Amrohi’s suspense thriller Mahal—starring Ashok Kumar and Madhubala with haunting songs and music—was released two years later in 1949. It must be noted here that the Tamil film industry by now was gradually embracing the playback method: The system of recording the song prior to the filming and playing it back while visualizing the song for the actors to emote came into vogue in the mid-1940s. Modern Theatres’ productions entered into the playback mode with their film Diwan Bahadur (1943) when the famous singer of the 1940s, U.R. Jeevarathinam, sang for the actress Susheela. However, their first song that became popular as a prerecorded one was sung by Bageerathi, when she lent her voice for V.N. Janaki in Aayiram Thalai Vangiya Aboorva Chintamani (see for details, Vamanan, 2006, pp. 124–125). This film also reveals the tendency of Modern Theatres to look for a narrative that is already popular (in this case, Chintamani’s reception as a popular serialized story in their own magazine, Chandamarutham) and then to use that structure for experimenting with the technical possibilities of playback recording, special effects, and so on. Thus, Sundaram explored the possibilities that cinema offers through the device of transitions—fades, wipes, dissolves, and iris effects—to travel from story to story, and narrate parallel stories, as in a novel, and enriched it by layering in a haunting melody on the soundtrack, which by connecting two distant and dissimilar places, adds a spectral dimension to this narrative of rolling heads told in the mythic-suspense genre. Among the illustrious editors of Chandamarutham, Modern Theatres’ fortnightly magazine, was Kavignar (Poet) Kannadasan— arguably the greatest lyricist of the Tamil cinema of the last century.79 In a prolific career, he wrote the lyrics of around 5,000 film songs, 6,000 poems, and 232 books, in addition to his involvement 69

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in politics.80 It was in 1949 that the DMK—Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam/Dravidian Progressive Federation—was formed under the of C.N. Annadurai,17, and the81inaugural function was heldleadership in Royapuram, on September 1949. Kannadasan’s involvement with the Dravidian movement as a young writer, inspired by the other orators and playwrights of the movement, influenced Sundaram’s decision concerning the sources for the narratives of his films Ponmudi and Manthiri Kumari in 1950.82

Ponmudi and Manthiri Kumari : Modern Theatres and the Writers of the Dravidian Movement A number of the illustrious writers associated with the Dravidian movement, including the very founder of the Dravidian Progressive Federation, C.N. Annadurai, contributed their capacity for fiery rhetoric and poetic imagination to create screenplays, write dialogues, and compose lyrics for films produced by the studios in Madras. It is important for us to examine their influence in shaping the impact that Modern Theatres was able to have on the Tamil cinema of this period because this collaboration resulted in couching the strident voices of the Dravidian ideologues within the popular melodramatic format of the Modern Theatres, thus prefiguring a trend in popular Tamil cinema of co-opting alternative voices. The critical and/or the commercial successes of these films partly explain the lack of parallel or art cinema movement in the history of the Tamil cinema. Ethir Paaratha Muththam (The unexpected kiss), the long poem by the preeminent poet of the Dravidian movement, Bharathidasan, was chosen as the subject for the Modern Theatres’ film Ponmudi. Ellis R. Dungan, the American director, who had already carved a niche in Tamil cinema as the director who had introduced stars like M.G. Ramachandran (aka MGR, unarguably Tamil cinema’s most popular star of the last century), T.S. Balaiyya, N.S. Krishnan, and the legendary singer M.S. Subbulakshmi, was hired as the director. His films with M.S. Subbulakshmi, Sakuntalai (1940), and Meera (1945), were already considered classics by then.83 70


Ponmudi revolves around the tragic love story of the hero Ponmudi and his beloved Poongothai. Their love is caught in the bitterness their feuding families, ledfather by Ponmudi’s father Mana Naickan onofone side and Poongothai’s Chokkalinga Naickan, who has married Mana Naickan’s sister. The practice of marrying a maternal uncle’s son or daughter is quite common in the Tamil tradition. The play weaves its plot around the drama of the love and conflict between the close relatives and the character of the flower seller who acts as the messenger between the lovers. Poongothai’s father intercepts a letter in which she asks Ponmudi to visit her in the guise of the flower seller. Ponmudi duly turns up but is caught by Poongothai’s father who ties him to a tree and beats him up badly. Despite this, Ponmudi keeps hankering and pining for his love, and Ponmudi’s father, to distract his lovelorn son, sends him north along with other traders on business; in the meantime, Poongothai’s marriage is being arranged against her wishes. A group of Kapalikars, who believe in human sacrifice, approach the travelling traders for alms. Ponmudi refuses, saying that Tamilians like him are believers in Lord Shiva and do not give charity to the bloodthirsty Kapalikars. The enraged leader attacks the Tamil traders along with Ponmudi and takes them captive to be sacrificed at the Kali temple. In Bharatidasan’s poem, Ethir Paaratha Muththam, toward the end, Poongothai, who has escaped from her home and cross-dressed as a man to join another group of businessmen traveling north in the hope of meeting her lover, meets Ponmudi at the climactic moment and kisses him only to find that he is dead. The unexpected kiss, which Poongothai receives from Ponmudi, is one of the iconic moments in the Tamil literature wherein drama, action, and tragic love intersect. On seeing Poongothai, as Ponmudi approaches her, the sword that is thrown at him from the back, cuts off his head. The head, carried by the momentum of the throw, travels to reach Poongothai and fulfills its desire to kiss her. Poongothai is in ecstasy at the “unexpected kiss” received from her lover, but she too dies at that very moment, of grief. This sublime moment as described by the poet, impossible as it was to creatively translate on screen, was altered to change the tragic climax and end the film on a happy note. 71

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Bharatidasan, known as the Puratchi Kavignar/Revolutionary Poet, idolized the seventeenth-century Saivite Tamil poet 84 Kumarakurupara Swamigal for “singing the and sweetness of the Tamil language.” Kumarakuruparar wentglory to Varanasi learnt the North Indian style of Hindustani classical music and composed some of his hymns in those ragas. The film recalls those times through its characters traveling to the North and ends with the marriage of Ponmudi and Poongothai in the presence of Kumarakuruparar and transposes us to the seventeenth century. The juxtaposition of a contemporary sensuous love story of the 1950s with an iconic seventeenth-century poet who chose to tread unknown paths underscores

the continuity of the elements of and sacrifice surrounding antilove. However, it also complicates therisk Dravidian ideology–driven, Vedic, pro-Tamilian stance of the film, expressed primarily through its dialogues, by invoking the figure of Kumarakuruparar, who was a bridge between the South and the North through his desire to seek out other languages and cultures, and the music of G. Ramanathan, which draws from the traditional ragas or melodic scales of the North as well as the South, for this love story.85 Besides the climax, the script took liberties to include the scenes featuring thebetween bloodthirsty tribeand of “Kapalikars,” well were as extended love scenes Ponmudi Poongothai, as which picturized on the foothills of Yercaud in exquisite locales. J.G. Vijayam’s cinematography was critically acclaimed as one of the most outstanding pieces of outdoor work done in Tamil cinema by a cameraman till then. Ellis R. Dungan, who was already known for his classical Hollywood-inspired idiom, brings in his knowledge and experience, particularly through the crescendo he builds, by establishing dramatic scenes through a long shot, and then cutting to shot-reverse shots at an increased pace to draw attention to the underlying tension. The film, however, became popular for its “highly intimate” scenes between the lovers, played by Narasimha Bharathi (Ponmudi) and Madhuri Devi (Poongothai). Sand bags were imported from the Adyar beach in Madras to create a seashore on Floor 1 of the Modern Theatre Studios, and the lovers were shown rolling on the sand by 72


the sea. Long shots of Elliot Beach in Madras were seamlessly edited with the shots in the beach inside the studio, to leave the audience spellbound the love passionate of theoflovers on the dunes. However, allbythe scenes,embraces the backdrop the Romeo-Julietinspired family saga, and the exotic segment with the “cult” element of the Kapalikars with M.G. Chakarapani, MGR’s brother, playing their leader and the villain, were not enough to make Ponmudi a huge success like Aayiram Thalai Vangiya Aboorva Chintamani at the box office (Guy, 2009, Blast from the Past: Ponmudi 1950). The rationalist poet Bharatidasan had earlier collaborated with Sundaram by writing the dialogues for Modern Theatres’ production of Aayiram Thalai Vangiya Aboorva Chintamani; however, he had refused to take credit for the film because of the strong mythic and folkloric elements in the narrative (Guy, 2008). Sundaram took liberties with Bharathidasan’s srcinal script of Ponmudi as well: After seeing a preview of the rough-cut version of the film, Sundaram felt that the story must be stretched, and the rising star on the horizon, the young Dravidian writer and playwright M. Karunanidhi, was brought in to work on Ponmudi’s script. He wrote the mythical segment with the Kapalikars into the narrative (Venkataswami, 2003, pp. 48–49). Ponmudi, released on the occasion of the Pongal festival, in January 1950, was advertised as “an innocent love story in the traditions of the sweet Tamil Nadu” (Narayanan, 2002, p. 341). During the production of Ponmudi, Karunanidhi was appointed as a dialogue writer on a monthly payroll in the Modern Theatres story department from December 1, 1949, and Sundaram entered into a contract with him for adapting his popular play Manthiri Kumari (The Minister’s Daughter) as the next Modern Theatres’ production (Venkataswami, 2003, pp. 49–51). He hired the Ponmudi director-cinematographer team of Dungan and Vijayam for the new movie. Manthiri Kumari is loosely based on one of the five canonical epics of Tamil literature—the seventh-century Buddhist literature Kundalakesi. (The others are Valayapathi, Civaka Cintamani, Chilappathikaram, and Manimekalai.) Theri Kundalakesi’s story is a part of the stories from the Dhammapada (Chapter VIII: The Thousand (Sahassavagga) Verses 102 and 103: VIII [3]) in the 73

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Buddhist canon; they appear as verses uttered by the Buddha to his disciples while residing at the Jetavana Monastery.86 a rich man, falls with aspirit thief and Kundalakesi, marries him. the He daughter tricks herofinto believing thatinalove guardian in the mountain has been protecting him and that he has to appease the spirit that has saved him from getting killed. When he goes to the mountain, the credulous Kundalakesi goes along with him since she fails to see his greed for her jewels and inheritance. On reaching the top, the thief bluntly reveals his intentions of killing her for the jewels. She is shocked and pleads unsuccessfully with him to take away the jewels but spare her life. Thus pushed to limits, she realizes that she has to be “cautious and crafty” and she comes out with a plan: She requests him for her last wish of circumambulating him and paying the respects of a dutiful wife toward her husband. When he agrees, she goes respectfully around him, and just when she is behind his back, pushes him off the crag, “taking him unaware” (“Story of Theri”). The story, screenplay, and dialogue-writer Karunanidhi uses this plot element from Kundalakesi to create what would become a huge cult film from Modern Theatres—Manthiri Kumari. This film espouses some of the tenets of Dravidian ideology and prefigures Karunanidhi’s dialogues in the landmark film Parasakthi, two years later in 1952, which was produced by the AVM Studios, and will be discussed in the next chapter. The twist in the story of the wife pushing her husband off a cliff was central to his play as well, though the play and the film do not acknowledge the Buddhist literary source (Narayanan, 2002, p. 347). The transition from the romantic Ponmudi to the radical Manthiri Kumari informs us of Sundaram’s cautious approach in testing the willingness of the audience before venturing into unorthodox narratives and revolutionary ideologies. In Manthiri Kumari, the roles of the Rajaguru (M.N. Nambiar in a seminal role that foreshadows his eventual position as the predominant villain of the Tamil cinema for the next four decades) and his son Parthiban (S.A. Natarajan in his most memorable role), the chief villains, are the dominant ones apart from that of the title role of Manthiri Kumari, the minister’s daughter, Amudhavalli. 74


Madhuri Devi played this role, which made her an iconic star signifying the rebellious wife in the history of Tamil cinema, even though she was activeVeeramohan in films for and lessJeevarekha, than a decade. MGR and G. Sakunthala playing the lead roles in the film, were rendered secondary by Karunanidhi’s privileging of the darker aspects of the scheming father and son, who hold a nation ruled by an inept king to ransom. MGR playing the commander-inchief of the king, gained by the film’s critical and box-office success as it catapulted him on his way to becoming an unparalleled star of the Tamil cinema. (See Photo 10 in the photo group section.) The figure of the Rajaguru, who appears with the Vedic and Brahminic Poonool or the sacred thread worn acrossreligious his bare symbols chest andofa the string of rudraksha beads around his neck, symbolizes the unquestioned Aryan-Vedic power that the Brahmans exerted over the people, through an ignorant king, in the name of religion and tradition. The Rajaguru’s persona is contrasted with the crude and brash villainy of his son, who is as cruel as he is delusional, with his self-proclamations about being an artist par excellence in his banditry, raising the assault and murders of innocents to a fine art. The Rajaguru plays on the superstitious beliefs of the with his supposedly spiritual cursing the kingdompeople and the people when things do notpowers go thebyway he wants. His son Parthiban, on the other hand, is less interested in any kind of supernatural power, and when he is caught and imprisoned for his crimes, he cynically dismisses his lover Amudhavalli. In a reference to the Hindu myth of the devoted wife, who is able, by her wit and integrity, to save her husband even from death, he says that she is no Savithri to bring him back from the jaws of certain death, and the Lord of Death—Yama—in the present times, is no ignoramus to be taken in by her arguments. He genuinely believes that the looting and killing of the people, which he has resorted to in revenge because they did not elect him as their commander-in-chief, is an expression of his artistry, whereas the Rajaguru is concerned about his image and wants his son to mend his ways, Parthiban does not relent, and expresses his willingness to die and be free. 75

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Rajaguru invokes his favorite goddess Parasakthi repeatedly in moments of crisis. When he is first caught and sentenced after a trial, he invokesbythe goddess and curses the when land: “This country see its sunset tomorrow’s dawn.” Later, he attempts to will kill the king when he is asleep, the loyal commander Veeramohan foils his attempt. However, he turns the tables on Veeramohan during the trial in the king’s court. He claims that the goddess Parasakthi had come to him in a dream and informed him about the impending danger to the king’s life and ordered him to protect the king from Veeramohan’s evil designs, at that untimely hour in the bedroom. During the climax, when the king orders the Rajaguru to be hanged until dead, he curses the kingdom and the people, and wishes to see the sun reduced to dust. Significantly, the Dravidian Progressive Federation, which later entered electoral politics in 1957, with the scriptwriter Karunanidhi as one of its central figures, chose the rising sun as its emblem. Parasakthi is a goddess worshipped across all social strata in Tamil Hindu culture. Rajaguru’s invocation of the goddess is a manifestation of the manipulation of the theistic beliefs of the Tamil people by the powerful priestly class who are higher in the caste hierarchy as well. Parthiban’s death wish and melancholy can also be read as an anarchic streak of the subnationalist despair among the Tamils immediately after India’s independence, at the perceived threat of the Congress/North Indian/Aryan manipulation and dominance of the South/Dravidian. Parthiban’s characterization can also be read in relation to the representation of the despairing protagonist Anandan in Velaikkari (The maid servant, 1949), whose scriptwriter was C.N. Annadurai, the founder and head of the Dravidian Progressive Federation. Besides, Parthiban prefigures the despair and melancholy of the iconic hero of Parasakthi—Gunasekaran— 87

as well. But Manthiri Kumari’s enduring popularity rests on its central character Amudhavalli, the minister’s lovelorn daughter, played by Madhuri Devi. Madhuri Devi, who, in Ponmudi, played Poongothai, the lover of the eponymous hero, plays the doomed and tragic lover and wife of an incorrigible antagonist who is not willing to redeem 76


himself in Manthiri Kumari, which was released a few months after Ponmudi in 1950 (Anandan, 2004, pp. 28–53). Reinventing the Theri Kundalakesi, is sketched as a petty vivaciousrole butofhelpless young womanAmudhavalli who easily trusts Parthiban’s lies and repeated promises about new beginnings. Though she lies to her minister father, in the voice of the goddess Parasakthi from behind the deity’s statue, in order to save her hardcore criminal lover, she vacillates between trust and suspicion. She catches him red-handed when his addictive looting and womanizing lead him to abduct the princess Jeevarekha, whom he attempts to assault sexually. Amudhavalli, wearing a mask, and in disguise as a swordsman, arrives in time to save her, as she had suspected Parthiban’s moves and followed him when he had disappeared from the bedroom. Soon after, when Parthiban promises to change his ways and invites her on a trek to a hilltop (Maruthamalai), she is easily swayed. It is this quality of her innocence and profound love for Parthiban that gets a jolt when on reaching the top, he calls her a prostitute who is an obstruction between him and the Rajakumari, and more important, an enemy of his art. This particular sequence, during Parthiban’s diatribe in the climactic moments, cuts from mid-long shot to long shot to extreme long shot in silhouette. Sundaram had to direct the final sequences of the film, as Ellis R. Dungan had left before the climax on urgent personal work to the United States. Maruthamalai, of course, was simulated through the hilly terrain and cliffs of the Yercaud hills— a favorite and proximal location for Sundaram. Vijayam’s cinematography, which had used the day-for-night effect for the earlier sequences of Parthiban’s banditry with finesse, in this sequence combines deftly framed outdoor shots with indoor studio shots, matching the sky and the cliff where the action takes place. On the soundtrack, the absence of the echo effect—later a cliché in such scenes on hills—reflexively draws attention to the on-location recording techniques with cumbersome machines, prior to the arrival of dubbing, as was typical during the period of the film. The Radio Corporation of America system of sync recording, which gave very good final outputs, was in vogue at Modern Theatres until the 77

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late 1960s.88 From the over-shoulder shot of Parthiban, when he says that a woman like Amudhavalli is an insignificant insect, instead of her fromwhen the camera above his shoulder, weeach see her countershot neutral close-up she asksplaced him whether their love for other was as ephemeral as lightning. Over her face is overlapped his harsh response: “You have to die!,” and thus one of the significant moments in the history of Tamil cinema draws attention to its aesthetics of frontality, which favors the subjectivity of the audience rather than the characters in the film, a trait inherited from the theater.89 Then as he asks her to worship her favorite deity, she says, “Deity … Husband is god … I will worship you.” He responds, “Worship quickly. I wishthe to maleficent be relieved planet. from the clutches ofthe Saturn,” equating his wife with Employing familiar Hindu ritual of worship, she circumambulates around him twice, but half way through the third round, when she is behind him, she pushes him down the crag, and he falls and dies. Then, when she is tried in the court, she says, “Yes, I killed my husband, but I killed a sinner who considered all women as insects creeping in the mud…. I killed a poisonous insect that tried to kill me…. I killed a man who forgot that a woman, who has love in her has courage too….” Shehave asks killed the king and his court: “If I had heart, not killed him, would he not me?” During the trial, Amudhavalli’s shots are cut with countershots of the king, Rajaguru, ministers, and the people who have assembled to witness her defense, to delineate her predicament as a woman and the injustice meted out to her in the name of marriage. Furthermore, the use of nondiegetic sound effects of birds chirping—recalling the Marudhamalai hill—heightens the drama so that Amudhavalli’s statements to the court and the camera seem to present her as seeking justice directly from the members of a patriarchal society both inside and outside the frame. Thus, the film is suddenly transformed from a period drama full of the intrigues and conflicts about royalty, power, and the exploitation of the masses to a debate about the plight of women from time immemorial. This sequence is also the first expression of Karunanidhi’s penchant, as a scriptwriter, for writing climactic 78


courtroom sequences, during which his protagonists deliver long cathartic monologues, and address the camera/audience directly. The Rajaguru, in the end, the throws his knife at her, and Amudhavalli asks her friend, princess Jeevarekha and the her dying lover Veeramohan, to take care of her father, search for Parthiban’s remains, and bury them along with her. However, this statement in no way tones down the portrayal of her heroism, as the film ends with a full-length song in front of her bust-sized statue, in which the princess, along with the other women at the court, sing her praises in the presence of Veeramohan, Amudhavalli’s father, and the king. The song, Kadhal Baliyagi Neeyum Thyagathin Chinnamaai … describes Amudhavalli’s endless suffering for having loved an evil man but praises her for setting an example to women through her courageous act and thanks her for protecting her country and killing her husband so that justice can prevail. Her statue is dominant in the frame till the very end. Nevertheless, the song that became a cult classic was the duet— Vaarai Nee Vaarai—sung by Tiruchi Loganathan and the rising star G. Krishnaveni (Gikki) under the baton of the preeminent music director of the 1950s, G. Ramanathan, which is picturized on Amudhavalli and Parthiban as they climb the hill. The other popular number by the same singers was Ulavum Thendral Katrinile, a duet picturized on a boat, when Amudhavalli initially falls in love with Parthiban. The cinematographer Vijayam effectively used the red filter to show the sun as the moon and captured its rays on the water to depict a romantic moonlit night for the lovers’ tryst. These shots were juxtaposed with matching close-ups in the studio to represent the setting sun and its fading light. The silhouetted long shots on locale, where the sky is bright with the reflected rays of the sun that has set, with the boat on the water’s silvery-dark surface framed by the darker outline of the trees, reveal Vijayam’s artistry and technical excellence. Vijayam who joined the Modern Theatres’ camera department as an apprentice made his debut as an independent cinematographer with Modern Theatres’ Sri Andal (1948) directed by Velsamy Kavi, and his painterly camera work in Ponmudi and Manthiri Kumari was critically acclaimed.90 Kumudam, in its review 79

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of Manthiri Kumari, appreciates the rising star MGR’s subtle and sensitive acting as the commander, while criticizing S.A. Natarajan’s unnuanced and flat expressions. It acclaims theParthiban foreboding thrilling climactic scene on the mountain where triesbut to kill Manthiri Kumari as recalling the “tempo of an English film” (see for details, Kumudam, 1950, pp. 19–23). “English film” here not only alludes to the collaboration between Ellis R. Dungan and Sundaram on the film, but specifies the rhythmic editing and the visual flourish of the climactic sequence. While the history of technicians underscore studios in India as the primary institutions prior to the arrival of the film schools in the 1960s, the trajectory of the narratives privileged by the studios offer an insight into the type of technicians it nurtured.91 For instance, Modern Theatres’ cinematographers were known for their expertise in special effects and meticulous lighting of huge interior sets as exemplified by Aaravalli (1957). Aaravalli exemplifies the union of the fantasy-driven lavish production of a major studio with the subversive potential of folklore to invert accepted norms and satirize normative behavior. Aaravalli also foregrounds the possibility of reflexivity in mainstream cinema and questions its clichéd and patriarchal universe through wit and humor bordering on the absurd. Such a bold and self-aware film challenges the general criticism of Tamil cinema as overtly formulaic and regressive. In fact, films like Aaravalli not only underscore the specificity of Tamil cinema by drawing from regional folklore for its source and suggesting the possibilities of an aesthetic particular to the Tamil ethos and culture but also simultaneously celebrate the eclectic nature of Tamil films by freely borrowing from Hollywood and popular Hindi cinema. Aaravalli, being at the intersection of many influences, begs a detailed analysis.

Aaravalli: Challenging Patriarchal Norms Modern Theatres had produced a number of films with very strong female roles, including the husband-killing Manthiri Kumari— minister’s daughter—Amudhavalli, and the leader of the Indian spy ring in Burma Rani, Miss Mangalam. This trend reached its 80


apotheosis in Aaravalli (dir. S.V. Krishna Rao, 1957), a Tamil film that Sundaram produced alongside his first Hindi film, Kitna Badal Gaya Insan. and Sundaram hired I.S. from JoharBombay: to wield Ajit the megaphone, the entire castactor-director was transported and Nalini Jayawant played the lead roles. The entire shooting took place in Salem in the Modern Theatres Studios and nearby locales around Salem. Hemant Kumar provided the music, and Geeta Dutt’s song Tum Naheen To (lyrics: S.H. Bihari) became very popular. Nonetheless, Sundaram’s only production in Hindi, loosely adapted from Seven Brides for Seven Brothers(Stanley Donen, 1954), a failure like Modern Theatres’ English filmThe Jungle (William Berke, 1952). For Aaravalli, Sundaram relied on his own earlier production in the 1940s as the source: It was a remake of Modern Theatres’Aaravalli Sooravalli (1946), which reinvents a folk narrative in the romantic ballad style into a full-length movie. Classifying Aaravalli under the “Mahabharata Group” and categorizing it as a romantic ballad, the Tamil scholar M. Arunachalam draws attention to the popular Tamil ballad’s invention of a sister for the Pandavas, in keeping with the folk tradition of introducing supplementary characters and alternative versions of myths and stories.92 In the folk story, the Pandavas, Bhima and Arjuna, help their nephew Allimuthu to enter the fortress of the autocratic queens—sisters Aaravalli and Suravalli—and subdue them by resisting their magic and witchcraft. Allimuthu eventually marries the daughter of Aaravalli, Alankaravalli, before returning victoriously from Nellore to the palace of the Pandavas. G. Varalaksmi, who was already a big star in Telugu films by then, played the role of the queen Aaravalli. This was, in part, because Modern Theatres had its eye on the Telugu audience as well. However, Aaravalli (Tamil), when released on October 22, 1957, did good business in the semiurban and rural areas—the b and c business centers—but not in the major cities. Hence, the plan to dub and release the film in Telugu was given up. In the film, Aaravalli rules her kingdom Aaravallinadu as an unquestioned dictatorial monarch with the help of her sister Suravalli. Men work and women whip them if they laze around or slack off on their household chores. The film is unique and unparalleled in terms 81

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of the huge scale of the production employed to create Aaravalli’s matriarchal kingdom. The plot draws its dramatic element from the srcinal (1946)—a plot element that was repeated in AayiramAaravalli Thalai Vangiya Aboorva Chintamani—of the hero later having to solve three riddles if he wished to conquer Aaravallinadu, enslave Aaravalli and her people, and marry Aaravalli’s pretty daughter, the princess Alankaravalli, played by the bewitching actress Mynavathi. The hundreds of men who had attempted the test but failed are put to work as slaves. Bhimasenan, the hugely built and physically strong Pandava from Hasthinapuram, attempts to tame Aaravalli’s arrogance but fails to answer the riddles and is imprisoned as a slave. However, he escapes, only to be brought back by Suravalli, who convinces his elder brother—the just king Dharmarajan—that Bhima had broken the terms on which he had taken the test, after he had failed. Allimuthu (S.G. Eshwar), the son of Thangavathi, sister of the Pandavas comes to Aaravallinadu with his friend to avenge his uncle’s defeat. Alankaravalli falls in love with him, and he reciprocates her feelings for him. With her help, he is able to overcome the magic and witchcraft and answer Aaravalli’s trick questions. Aaravalli and Suravalli sign a contract whereby they and their people are now his slaves, and Alankaravalli is promised in marriage to him. As Allimuthu wants his mother and uncles to be present for the wedding, he leaves for Hasthinapuram with Alankaravalli to make the arrangements. On the way, Aaravalli poisons Allimuthu using the food served to him by her daughter. But Allimuthu is saved by his astrologer uncle, who has faith in his longevity, and sends messengers to catch a rare snake whose poison was used to kill Allimuthu and which can also provide the antidote. Once Allimuthu is saved, he goes back to Aaravallinadu and arrests Aaravalli along with Alankaravalli and brings them to trial in his uncle’s court. Aaravalli and Suravalli, trying to exploit the King Dharmajaran’s sense of fair play and justice, feign innocence and charge Allimuthu with dragging them unnecessarily to court and insulting them as women. Dharmarajan castigates Allimuthu for wrongfully attacking Aaravallinadu and her people and sentences him to death but then is perplexed to find Alankaravalli confessing 82


to her attempt to poison and kill Allimuthu since he had tried to undermine her mother’s authority. Dharmarajan now sentences Alankaravalli to deathfor instead and decrees thatAllimuthu her head be heldhis in position by Aaravalli the deathblow when brings sword down on it. As Allimuthu gets ready, Aaravalli relents and confesses her dictatorial ambitions and her attempt to poison and kill Allimuthu. Dharmarajan banishes her and her sister from the country. Unlike the general pattern in such films, in which the long melodramatic climax is used to try to undo the transgressions of the female characters, in this film, Aaravalli’s case is heard by Dharmarajan in the court only during the last 14 minutes of the film, and Aaravalli confesses to her crimes just 7 minutes before the end. When Dharmarajan decrees that she be banished from the country along with Suravalli, she looks at her daughter and Allimuthu, blesses them, and walks away with her sister like a queen. It is almost as if, once her daughter has accepted the heterosexual norms of marriage and the concomitant “slavery” for women, Aaravalli and her sister Suravalli are happy to be banished from the country that demands these compromises. Aaravalli thus remains true to the real spirit of the folk traditions to question and undermine the status quo through humor, songs, and celebration. The film made news with its song Pazhakkamillatha Kazhudhai Kitta … in which 100 donkeys were milked by 100 scenic actors, along with the comedian A. Karunanidhi, so that Aaravalli can have a bath in donkey’s milk, thus referring to the myths surrounding another autocratic queen, Cleopatra.93 Aaravalli also draws from the music of films as varied as The Man Who Knew Too Much (Alfred Hitchcock, 1956) and Naya Daur (Yash Chopra, 1957), the connection being that these were films that were play94

ing in the theaters in Madras during its production in 1957. The dream song Chinna Pennana Pothile (music: G. Ramanathan, lyrics: lyricist: Pattukkkottai Kalyanasundaram, singers: A.M. Raja and Gikki), a duet sung by Alankaravalli and Allimuthu, directly lifts the tune of Que Sera Sera (singer: Doris Day, music: Bernard Herrmann) and is very popular to this day.95 G.O.R. Nathan, another prodigious 83

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talent from the Modern Theatres camera department, gives a dreamy ethereal effect through his lighting to match the imaginative production design of A.J. Dominic, extending the romantic imagination of the folk theme in thethus narrative seamlessly to the songs. The other hit song from the film was Ela Misaiyulla Aangalellam, which was based on the melodious and romantic Uden Jab Jab Zulfein Teri (singers: Asha Bhonsle and Mohammad Rafi, music dir.: O.P. Nayyar, lyrics: Sahir Ludhianvi) from Naya Daur. However, in Aaravalli, the situation in which the song is picturized is unique in the history of the Tamil cinema. Two dancers, Rita and Saroja, choreographed by the veteran dance director, P.S. Gopalakrishnan, sing and dance to entertain not a male king and his courtiers, but Aaravalli and Suravalli, in front of an all-female audience at the court of Aaravalli, in celebration of the death of Allimuthu. The very next year Naya Daur was dubbed and released in Tamil as Pattaliyin Sabatham (1958), with Tamil lyrics written for the same tunes as in Hindi, and the songs were quite popular (Anandan, 2004, pp. 10–11). However, the most popular song in the dubbed version was Vazhvinil Korikkai Pole (singers: T.M. Soundararajan, P. Susheela), the counterpart of the melodious Maang Ke Saath Tumhara (singers: Mohammad Rafi, Asha Bhonsle). The differences suggest that the same tunes may not always invite the same emotional responses, and the success of a song depends on catchy lyrics and the singers as well. The risk related to the relative popularity of remade songs functions almost as a synecdoche for the risk in remakes themselves. It also reinforces the vagaries of the box office: The success of a Tamil film depends on the contingency of factors as varied and unpredictable as the popularity of a song or a dialogue or a sudden twist in the climax.96

Films of the Modern Theatres and the Contingency of Multiple Factors When we look at the films analyzed so far, the eclectic sources and the inspirations for Sundaram’s films become clear: Not only Hollywood

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films and classic novels from the West but also folklore and Buddhist tales from the East exerted their influence on his productions. The successful and tunes Hindi films from villages the North as well as the narratives changing tastes of the of audiences in remote in the South dictated what went into the planning and execution of his films. The timings of the productions also had their say, depending on whether the film was produced before, during, or after the Second World War, and the significant events surrounding the independence of India. The discourses surrounding the colonial British government, the patriotic and the nationalist preoccupations of the Indian National Congress party and its successive governments at Madras, and the Dravidian movement and the rise of the Dravidian Progressive Federation impacted the productions in myriad ways. No less was the effect of the developments in the film industry with respect to the availability of newer and sophisticated equipment, and the changes in camera, sound, and editing technology, apart from the aesthetics inherited from traditions both Western and Eastern. These multiple influences could be said to intersect at the core of the genealogy of Tamil cinema as perceived through the first two decades of productions offered by Modern Theatres, when the studio could dictate terms with the stars it created and could withstand the challenges posed by their increasing popularity.

Notes 1. See Baskaran (2009d, p. 24). According to Baskaran, Company Dramas were the predominant form of popular entertainment in the Madras Presidency before the arrival of cinema. After a few Parsi and Marathi itinerant theater companies traveled the Madras Presidency, from the 1870s onward, local drama companies organized their own traveling units, and their productions came to be known as “Company Dramas.” They were inspired by the Parsi Theatre from Bombay whose rich patrons had in return borrowed the “proscenium stage, drop-curtain, flats, painted backdrops, and other trappings” from the British Theatre tradition. 2. My interview with documentarian and popular film historian, Randor Guy in Chennai in July 2007. Guy has written regularly on Modern Theatres and its founder T.R. Sundaram in his popular column, “Blast from the

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Madras Studios Past,” in The Hindu, the preeminent newspaper in English published from Chennai and 12 other cities in the South. 3. Silver Screen, November 1938 issue, informs us of the buoyant mood in the film industry when Sundaram arrived in India in 1933: Between 1932/33 and 1936/37, the imported (film) rawstock increased more than two and a half times from 25,597,887 feet to 67,832,111 feet. See Fernando (1938, p. 10). 4. See Manian (2005, p. 8). Also see Ra. Venkataswami’s biography for the details (Venkataswami, 2003, pp. 6–7). However, according to Randor Guy, Sundaram was associated with Angel Films in their productions such as Draupadi Vastrapaharanam (1934), Dhruva (1935), and Nalla Thangal (1935). See Guy (2008). 5. I am using the name Madras, as the focus of my book is on the period prior to 1996,Correspondent, when officially 2005. Madras was renamed as Chennai. See for details, Special 6. My interview with Tamil film historian and connoisseur Film News Anandan in Chennai in July 2007. 7. TRS, as Sundaram was referred to, was inspired by his wife, and promoted Modern Theatres Ltd as a joint stock company. See interview with Randor Guy, in Chennai, July 2007. Also see Guy (2000, p. 27). 8. The Vijaya Ragavachari Memorial Public Library houses some of the technical books on photography, processing, editing, and sound. In Modern Theatres Studio (Floor 1), was the box (no. 1) containing the notebooks pasted with the cuttings from Photoplay and Variety (my visit to the Modern Theatres Studio complex in July 2005). 9. See for Guy’s film (2000) on Sundaram produced by the National Film Development Corporation: Guy, 1951. For Sundram’s admiration for Hollywood studio icons like Mayer, Cohen, and Warner; see Guy (2000, p. 27). 10. My interview with Randor Guy in Chennai in June 2014. The issue of Chandamarutham, 2(2), dated 25 January 1944 (edited and published by K. Parasu, printed at the Gajalakshmi Press, Salem, available at the Raja Muthiah Research Library, Chennai) gives statistical details of the number of workers (total 3,336, of which Bombay has 2,224; Madras has 462; and Calcutta and Lahore has 650) working in the Indian film industry, and the number of theaters (1,351, including 245 in Madras Presidency and 223 in Bombay) in India, on p. 22. Besides a very informative Q&A section (p. 21), there are essays on cinema and the state of the film industry in the South (Kumarasamy, 1944, p. 15) and on “How to Write a Story for Cinema?” (Director, 2006, p. 4). It is unfortunate that presently the bound volumes of Chandamarutham are missing from the Modern Theatres archives.

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A Multiplicity of In uence Nonetheless, Guy’s column “Blast from the Past,” particularly on the films made by Modern Theatres in the 1940s and the early 1950s, informs us of the access he had to one of the top in-house studio magazines in the country, and his own meticulous research as far as Modern Theatres is concerned. I have, therefore, found his column in The Hindu to be a valuable resource, particularly in the context of the films made during the late 1940s and early 1950s when iconic Tamil literary figures like Kannadasan and Bharathidasan were associated with the magazine. 11. See Guy (2000, p. 27), for Sundaram’s admiration for Hollywood moguls. See for the “rigid code of conduct” that was enforced on the employees of the Modern Theatres, which was “run like a factory”: Guy, 2008. 12. Later, V. Ramasamy would float the Mukta Arts film production house in Madras, and became a major producer along with his director-brother V. Srinivasan, tooSrinivasan was trained in the Modern Theatres (my interview with who Mukta in Chennai, in March 2007).Studios The Mukta banner produced 65 films, of which V. Srinivasan directed 40 films. They were the initial promoters of Mani Ratnam’s critically acclaimed Nayakan (1987) with Kamalahasan. See for details Kumar (2007). 13. A.J. Dominic, the eponymous art director, worked with Sundaram right from the beginning of the Modern Theatres. Dominic was instrumental in designing the removable panels, pillars, and walls, which, as it enabled the quick planning and economy of production due to their portable nature, also contributed to the easily readable “Modern Theatres signature backdrop” (my interview with costumer M. Arthanari at the Modern Theatres Studios, Salem, in July 2005). Arthanari, the celebrated head of the costume department, worked from the 1940s till the curtains came down on Modern Theatres in 1982. Randor Guy also spoke to me about the innovative readymade panels used by Sundaram to alter his sets efficiently according to the needs of his production (my interview with Guy in Chennai in July 2007). 14. My interview with Durairaj, a distributor, at Madurai, in July 2005. A. Nainar, another distributor in Tirunelveli, recounted how a chunk of the comedy track of N.S. Krishnan and Mathuram were moved toward the end in Uthama Puthiran (1940), though the film was doing very well, during the second week of its release. Nainar, however, was involved in the redistribution of Modern Theatres’ films in the 1960s, though his family has been in the distribution business since the 1940s (my discussions with Nainar, at the office of the Tirunelveli Distributor’s Association, in July 2005). Guntoosi, November 1944 issue, informs us about comedy tracks of N.S. Krishnan and T.A. Mathuram shot in a separate schedule from the main film(s) by Modern Theatres; in fact, the comedy tracks of two of their films Burma Rani (1945) and Rajarajeshwari (1944) were shot (together)

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Madras Studios just prior to November 1944. See Guntoosi (1944, p. 19). Shooting comedy tracks as independent capsules, often not intricately tied to the narrative, also enabled editing or shifting the order of those sequences at will. 15. See my interviews with Ra. Venkataswami, T.R. Sundram’s daughter-inlaw, and the present managing director of the Modern Theatres Kalaivani Ramasundaram, at Salem, in June 2007. The details regarding the number of employees are from the records at the MD’s office, at the marriage hall: T.R. Sundaram Thirumana Mandapam, at Salem. 16. The cardboard cutouts in box (no. 2) at the Modern Theatres Studio (Floor 1) during my visit in July 2005. However, the usual logo and the inaugural card in the credit-titles of the film, “The Modern Theatres Ltd Salem,” remained the same in Aaravalli too. 17. The inside back cover of Chandamarutham carries an advertisement for the Arundhati, which (Broadway, informs us of theweek), cities and theaters where 4th the filmfilm is running: Chennai 13th Madurai (Central, week), Bangalore (Shivaji Talkies, 7th week), Tenkasi (Devasakayam, 6th week), Mysore (Motilal, 5th week), Virudunagar (Rainbow, 4th week), Chengalpattu (Thirumalai, 4th week), Namakkal (Swarnambika, 3rd week), Aambur (Saraswathi, 3rd week), Thiddakkudi (Jothi, 2nd week), and Aarani (Saraswathi, January 25, 1994 onward). Below the list it says, “For details contact Modern Theatres Limited, Salem and Madurai,” informing us that Modern Theatres had major distribution offices at Salem and Madurai. 18. R.S. Manohar had his own theater troupe, “National Theatres,” which was

19.

20 . 21.

22.

famous for its mythologicals like Lankeshvaran and its spectacular special effects. M. Karunanidhi wrote the dialogues for Manthiri Kumari (1950), Devaki (1951), and Thirumbippaar (1953), produced by the Modern Theatres Ltd. See for details, Venkataswami (2003, p. xix). The trend to credit the story to the Modern Theatres story department is, however, noticeable only from the 1950s. See Manian (2005, pp. 9–10). However, the later films of the Modern Theatres like Vallavan Oruvan (1966) and CID Shankar (1968), directed by Sundaram’s son, Ramasundaram, tried to capitalize on their hero Jai Shankar by drawing from his persona as an action hero and projecting him as the “Tamil James Bond.” Even during the times of Sundaram, in films like Alibabavum Narpathu Thirudargalum (1955), the screenplay was tailored to the swashbuckling image of its hero MGR, who was a selfconfessed fan of Errol Flynn. See for Fritz Lang’s reputation as a merciless director and Lang’s denial of such charges: Grant, 2003, pp. x–xi.

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A Multiplicity of In uence 23. See the advertisement of the about-to-be-released film Sati Ahalya (1937, Modern Theatres) in Aadal Paadal, 1937, p. 50, wherein it is publicized as “Direction: T.R. Sundaram, B.A. B.Sc. (Leeds),” like in the initial credits of most of the Modern Theatres’ films in the 1940s and the 1950s. 24. My personal interview with M. Arthanari in July 2005. Arthanari, the wardrobe in-charge of T.R. Sundaram, was a treasure house of knowledge on the history of the Modern Theatres. 25. For the review of Chitra (1946), see Chettiar (1947, pp. 62–63). Here the invocation of “English films” seems deliberate, as the reviewer’s intention to paint Sundaram’s sensibilities as Western is very conspicuous. 26. The bilingual film Purandaradasa in Tamil and Kannada was produced in collaboration with an outside producer: It was a coproduction of Modern Theatres and Devi Films. The film was directed by Sundaram and was shot the Modern Theatres Studios. See for (2005, p. 12). 27. in Sundram was born on July 16, 1907 anddetails passedManian away on August 29, 1963; see Manian (2005, p. xx). After his demise, his son Ramasundaram was in charge of Modern Theatres till 1982. 28. Till then they had a maximum of four releases a year: 1937 (3), 1938 (4), 1939 (3). However, Venkataswami credits only four films to 1940, by shifting Uthama Puthiran to 1941. But it was released on October 24, 1940. 29. Baskaran has claimed Dhuruvan (1935), as a Tamil film prior to Uthama Puthiran, to showcase an actor in a double role. The popular director H.M. Reddy directed the epic film Mathrubhoomi (1939), which couched the Indian patriotic fervor in a Greek-historical genre, and had T.S. Santhanam playing a double role of Ukrasenan and Jayapalan. According to P.N. Sundaram, in terms of characters playing multiple roles, there should have been many during the early Tamil cinema of the mythologicals, but if we define the “doubling” as being central to the narrative and categorize the double role on the basis of the technical finesse of the masking, then Uthama Puthiran was unparalleled at the time of its release. 30. In Vanaraja Carzan, the Tamil version of Jungle King (Tarzan), K.R. Chellam created a sensation by appearing in “seminude” costumes. The Tamil movie was a collaborative venture between Wadia Movietone and the Madras United Artists Corporation (see Anandan, 2004, pp. 16–17). Wadia Movietone produced Vanaraja Carzan with Madras United Artists Corporation. 31. Rukmini in the role of Shanta suffers as her lover is jailed, and her uncle forces her to marry an old man. She changes her name to Madhavan, and cross-dressing as a male she avenges the injustice. See rides on her bike and jumps between buildings to loot the rich and help the poor. Veeramani was a bilingual in Hindi and Tamil produced at the Mohan Pictures Studio.

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Madras Studios 32. See my interview with Sundaram’s biographer Ra. Venkataswami at his home in Salem, in July 2007, and the telephonic conversation I had with him on January 12, 2010. The novel The Woman in White was the inspiration behind Modern Theatres’ film Kavitha (1962). No Man of Her Own, according to Venkataswami, was adapted by Saravana Pictures into a successful film, which was shot at the AVM Studios—Panchavarna Kili (1965). However, Venkataswami’s script for Sundaram could not be realized on screen after Sundaram’s passing away due to a heart attack on August 29, 1963. 33. For details of the “dupe” negatives made for the Modern Theatres’ archives, see Guy (2009). Guy mentions that the staged shots inside the Modern Theatres Studios were intercut with the “duplicated shots” from Capra’s film. 34. The newspaper-size The Hindu Nation (Madras) allows Universal to publicize format 21 of its of films as available for exhibition in India: It includes Poker Faces (1926), Her Big Night (1926), The Flaming Frontier (1926), Butterflies in the Rain (1926), Taxi Taxi (1927), and Perch of the Devil (1927). 35. Songbooks containing the lyrics of the film songs were very popular from the 1940s till the ubiquity of television and videos in the 1980s, when songs started getting broadcasted—and were seen rather than heard—repetitively. The songbooks, by publishers like Srimagal Co., usually carry a spicy synopsis often replicating the trailers of films in their energy. For Aranthai Narayanan’s observations on Tamil cinema’s contribution to the freedom movement, see Chandanathevan: Narayanan, 2007, pp. 168–169. 36. G.M. Basheer retained his Muslim name on screen, unlike in Hindi cinema where Dilip Kumar (Muhammad Yusuf Khan) had to change his name, which informs us of the relatively secular nature of the Southern film industry and its audiences. The 1945 July issue of Pesum Padam carries a question from its reader regarding the whereabouts of N.P. Abdul Khader who had acted in Alli Arjuna, and the popular journalist with the pseudonym Guntoosi (P.R.S. Gopal) replies that he is working in the music department of Saraswathi Stores (owned by A.V. Meiyappan). See Guntoosi (1945, p. 15). The secular nature of the Madras film industry is epitomized by one of the most successful production company, Jupiter Pictures, owned by a Muslim and a Hindu: S.K. Mohideen and Jupiter Somu (M. Somasundaram), who produced many successful Tamil films, including the iconic Kannagi (1942). Mohideen and Somu, businessmen from Thiruppur, produced many of their films in the famous Central Studios in Coimbatore, before they relocated to Madras and Neptune Studios became their studio of choice. Their long and successful partnership has become

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A Multiplicity of In uence part of the folklore of the Madras film industry when it comes to secularism and inclusiveness. For details, see Guy (2002). For details on Jupiter’s Kannagi, which gave “immortal fame” to P. Kannamba, see Vamanan (2012, pp. 124–126). 37. My interview with Aranthai Manian in Chennai, in August 2007. 38. My interview with Arthanari at Salem, in July 2005. 39. The box (no. 1) at the Modern Theatres Studio (Floor 1), during my visit in July 2005, contained the old copy of the book, Douglas Fairbanks in Robinhood, written by Elton John. It was published by Douglas Fairbanks Corporation in 1922. However, the front cover and the first two pages along with the back cover were missing. Besides, Randor Guy spoke to me about the influence of Douglas Fairbanks not only on Sundaram and the Modern Theatres’ productions but also on iconic actors like M.R. Radha M.G.R. (my interview withPuthiran Guy in Chennai, in July 2007). 40. and See the songbook of Uthama (1940): Uthama Puthiran Padalgal (Chennai: Srimagal Co., 1940). 41. The Chithirai Thiruvizha or the Chithirai Festival is celebrated every year in the month of Chithirai or Chaitra (April/May) for 12 days. The celestial wedding or Thirukkalyanam of Sundareswarar with Meenakshi was celebrated recently on the 10th of May as per the temple calendar. The initial flag-hoisting ceremony took place on May 1, 2014. See the official website of the temple in Madurai for the details and the video of the “Celestial Wedding”: “Arulmigu Meenakshi Sundareshwarar Thirukkovil”; retrieved from http://www.maduraimeenakshi.org (accessed July 22, 2014). 42. The Mother India persona with a crown is inspired by the poster and calendar art during the colonial period. See the reprint of a poster in Ramaswamy (2001, p. 105). 43. See for details Majumdar (2009, p. 136). For the details of Rangabhoomi (issue September 10, 1932), see note 41 in Majumar (2009, p. 224). Parameshwari Lal Gupta’s article, “Reasons for the Failure of the Talkies,” is translated by Majumdar. 44. The poster of Uthama Puthiran (1940) announces it as “Tamizhil Oru Desiya Padam” (A Nationalist Film in Tamil); my visit to the Modern Theatres’ studio in July 2005, and the poster was in the box (no. 2) at the Modern Theatres Studios (Floor 1), Salem. 45. See Manian (2007, p. 11). Rukmini Lakshmipathy was the first woman to contest for the Legislative Council in Madras in 1936. See for details Sehgal (1997). 46. In fact, Modern Theatres’ subsequent film Manonmani has an entire sequence devoted to elaborately showcasing P.U. Chinnappa’s muscular body in the beginning of the film.

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Madras Studios 47. In the VCD of Uthama Puthiran (1940), released by Columbia Video Films (M) Sdn. Bhd., in the back cover, the music of the film is credited to S. Velsamy (Velsamy Kavi). 48. There has been no consensus among scholars on the exact number of days Haridas ran in theaters, though no one disputes its record of having seen three consecutive Deepavali days in Madras. See for details Balakrishnan (2010a, pp. 190, 203–204). The song “Manmatha Leelayai” sung by MKT has spawned many Tamil films, including the Kamalahasan starrer Manamatha Leelai (dir. K. Balachandar, 1976). 49. The song “Manmatha Leelayai” sung by MKT has spawned many Tamil films, including the Kamalahasan starrer Manmatha Leelai (dir. K. Balachandar, 1976). Also see Guy (2008). For the public response to the sensuous T.R. Rajakumari, and the intimate scenes in, and the notoriety of see Balakrishnan (2010a,inpp.the 192–195). 50. Haridas, In the beginning, it was levied form of “land rent” and “transit charges.” See for detail, “Defiance of Salt Tax”; retrieved from www. gandhimuseum.org 51. See Manian (2005, p. 17). However, Venkataswami considers the film as released by Modern Theatres in 1941. See Venkataswami, 2003, p. 169. Nevertheless, Film News Anandan too ranks it under the category of films released in 1940. See Film News Anandan (2004, p. 3). 52. According to Aranthai Manian, P.V. Krishna Iyer, who had photographed the previous Modern Theatres’ film Chandanathevan had his training in camera in Kolhapur and later in Madras at Srinivasa Cinetone. When Sundaram saw Iyer’s work in films like Krishna Thulabaram (1937), Rajasekaran (1937), and Vipra Narayana (1938), he was impressed, and hired him as the cameraman for his film Thayumanavar (1938). See Manian (2007, pp. 57–58). 53. My interview with Ra. Venkataswami at Salem, in July 2007. According to Aranthai Manian, Sundaram may have met Bodo Gutschwager and Baez in Calcutta, when he went to the studios there as a partner of Angel Films for the shooting of their films. My interview with Aranthai Manian; Manian had worked for the preeminent film journal Bommai (Tamil) published by the Vijaya-Vauhini Studios, from 1966, for two decades. However, according to Randor Guy, Gutschwager and Baez must have been “interned” in India during the First World War, and Sundaram may have met them on arriving in India from U.K (my interview with Randor Guy in Chennai). 54. See Nath (1945, pp. 10–13). The article says that P.V. Krishna Iyer, who had his training in Kolhapur, is skillful in special effects and is now working at Pragathi Studios. Earlier he worked in Modern Theatres for a while, but came to Madras seeking greater opportunities, and joined Pragathi

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A Multiplicity of In uence Studios for a lesser salary. Nath’s article throws light on Sundaram’s plight in running a studio at Salem, 340 kilometers to the Southwest of Madras city. 55. According to the leading cinematographer Kabir Lal (Pardes, 1997; Taal, 1999; Kaho Naa Pyaar Hai, 2000), Modern Theatres had Eyemo and Debrie cameras initially and later procured Mitchell cameras in the early 1950s, when his father S.S. Lal joined as a camera attendant, and graduated to become the cinematographer of Vallavanukku Vallavan (1965)— Modern Theatres’ 100th film. Modern Theatres, according to his father, was an institution, as Sundaram encouraged him while he was an attendant by giving him footage to expose and learn. Vallavanukku Vallavan was shot by his father using Arriflex 2 C (B). Besides, his father’s elder brother S.D. Lal too had learnt his craft at the Modern Theatres, and directed the Telugu of Vallavanukku Vallavan— Monagallaku Monagadu (1966). My version interview with Kabir Lal, and telephone conversation, on January 18, 2010. 56 The printed photographs (shot during the production of Chandanathevan) from the Tamil cine magazines and the stills from Chandamarutham pasted in a note book titled “Production” (inside box no. 2) at the Modern Theatres Studios (Floor 1) illustrate the use of the Debrie and Eyemo cameras in the 1940s (my visit to the studios in July 2005). According to veteran cinematographer P.N. Sundaram, the (heavier) Mitchell camera was extensively used for indoors as well as outdoors in Madras studios starting from the 1950s until the early 1970s. Mitchell’s monopoly was broken by the preference of the filmmakers for the lightweight Arriflex 2 and 2C cameras in the late 1960s and early 1970s. Arriflex cameras were known as “War Cameras,” since they facilitated the coverage of the Second World War through their light weight and the easily rotatable turret mount that had three lenses. In India, however, the demand for Arriflex cameras coincided with the preference of the filmmakers to shoot their films outdoors on location, when they switched over to color from black and white (my interview with P.N. Sundaram in Chennai, in April 2007). However, an informative and detailed article on studios in Pesum Padam informs us about the presence of a Mitchell and two Debrie cameras in 1945 (five years after Uthamaputhiran’s release) at the Newtone Studio, which was famous for its technical facilities, as it was founded by technicians. Newtone was also well-equipped sound-wise: It had an RCA, a BAF, and two Fideltone recording equipment. See Nath (1945, p. 3); Newtone (1945, p. 3); Pesum Padam (1945, pp. 8–11). According to the legendary cameraman V.K. Murthy, who had collaborated with Guru Dutt in many of his films, Eyemo cameras came with film magazines for 100- as well as

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Madras Studios 400-foot length and had spring-wound and motor-operated models. When he entered the film industry in the 1950s, Eyemos were quite popular (my interview with him in July 2007, at Prasad Academy, Chennai, and my telephone conversation on February 15, 2010). 57. For details on the popularity of, and the technical differences between, Debrie and Mitchell cameras in the 1930s, see Nihalani (2003, p. 245). Govind Nihalani, the well-known cinematographer of Shyam Benegal (Ankur [1974], Nishant [1975], Manthan [1976], and Bhumika [1977] among others) and director-cinematographer of seminal films like Aakrosh (1980) and Ardh Satya (1983), had worked as an assistant to the celebrated cinematographer V.K. Murthy. 58. My telephonic conversation with M.S. Sundaresan, on January 16, 2010. He is a cinematographer, and a research scholar on early cinema, especially on cameras and lenses, and Professor Cinematography Woods International, thethe premier filmof school in Mumbai. at the Whistling 59. Art director Dominic had an eye for representing glossiness in a black and white film; for instance, the reflection from an ochre painted backdrop may add to the gloss and richness of a palatial life depicted in a raja-rani story shot in black and white, whereas a color film may not take the reflection well. Similarly, costume designer M. Arthanari too worked in terms of shades matching the production design (my interview with Arthanari, at the Modern Theatres Studio complex at Salem, in July 2005). 60. My interview with Kannan, who had worked as an apprentice-projectionist, at the Modern Theatres, Salem, in July 2007. 61. Vittal Rao, appreciating the song Inneram Enna Seidhey and its visualization, credits Rathinam and Rajakantham’s singing as “natural and melodious”; see Rao (2003, p. 91). 62. Nihalani, 2003, p. 246. Nihalani uses the term “song picturization” to refer to the visualization of songs, which I too use in these chapters. 63. See for the details on Bharathi’s life and his times in Pondicherry, when he published Vijaya: Subramanian, 2004; retrieved from www.hindu.com. See for Bharathiyar’s revolutionary life: Ramasamy, 2009. 64. The translation is mine. 65. The casting of Brahmin and Dalit characters as signifying the caste hierarchy was often used by N.S. Krishnan to foreground the injustice meted out to the Dalits, and the hypocrisy at the heart of the Indian/Hindu society. In the film, as his wife (T.A. Mathuram) points out, he lusts after a Dalit woman and invites her home, though in the public sphere he treats her as an untouchable. 66. In fact, the title design of the Modern Theatres were so popular that people refused to see their films if they were even a little late to arrive for the show,

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67.

68. 69.

70.

as it meant they would have missed the credit titles in the beginning (my telephonic conversation with ace cinematographer Kabir Lal in Bombay, on January 18, 2010). Though Nehru considered the act “a new charter of slavery,” it enabled the Congress to form its government in the Madras Presidency. See Keay (2000, pp. 490–491). See for the Viceroy Lord Linlithgow’s declaration of India’s participation in the Second World War, Lawrence (1994, pp. 423–424). For details on the setting up of the Film Advisory Board, see Kaul (1998, pp. 193–194). For the details on the imperatives of the Film Advisory Board, see Baskaran (2006); retrieved from www.hinduonnet.com. See for a concise online history: Cowan, www.Bufvc.ac.uk. For a detailed history on the British Newsreels in India during the Second World War,

71. see See Woods for the (2000, details pp. on 89–110). the British war-effort films in India: Baskaran, 2006. For details regarding the British War News films, and the rationing of the raw stock to Indian producers, see Rao (2003, pp. 170–171). 72. Vizhagapatnam, in the east coast of Madras Province, was bombed. See for details Bayly and Harper (2005, p. 192). 73. See for the details on the dwindling film production during the war: Theodore Baskaran, 2006. However, Anandan mentions the total number of Tamil films made in 1940 as 38, and 1943 as 12, with production further dwindling down to 10 in 1944 (Anandan, 2004, p. 21). 74. For instance, according to Jadayu, there were 11 films made in 1945 in Madras, but even after the war was over, the production of films only gradually increased to 13 in 1946, while at the same time distribution was unbalanced: During 1945 there were 4 times more distributors than producers (due to the difficulty of getting the license), whereas after the war in 1946 the situation had reversed as most of the distributors had turned producers, and finished films were waiting for proper distribution. See Jadayu (1947, pp. 49–52). 75. On December 8, 1947, a new censorship board was constituted in the place of the old one under the British rule. Twenty new members were appointed to the Board of Censors by the Congress government under Rajaji; the police commissioner of Madras was appointed the chief of the board, which included the director of information and broadcasting department, and the eminent playwright Pa. Sambandha Mudhaliyar. For details, see Narayanan (2002, p. 285). 76. Though Mughal-e-Azam’s song was shot in Technicolor, the camera had to be hidden from the mirrors during the song picturization skillfully. The legendary cameraman R.D. Mathur, in an interview in a documentary on

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Madras Studios the production of the film Mughal-E-Azam, recounts the challenges posed by the epic canvas of the movie and the technical constraints—particularly the picturization of the song “Pyar Kiya To Darna Kya”—and explains how he overcame them; see Sethia (2004). 77. Baskaran claims his name to be Bakjina. However, in the film he is referred to as Bhajjinama only. Therefore, he is addressed as Bhajjinama in the chapter. 78. See the Q&A section in the popular film magazine Pesum Padam (1945, p. 15). In fact, the reader is asking the reason for the delay in the release of the film “Escape” by Modern Theatres, and Guntoosi (P.R.S. Gopal) replies that the title of “Escape” has been changed to “Burma Rani.” 79. Unlike in Tamil, the “greatest lyricist” tag has many contenders in popular Hindi cinema: Though Majrooh Sultanpuri got the prestigious Dadasaheb Phalke Award 1993, and Shahir Ludhianvi and Shailendra also have a great track record as in creative successful lyricists. 80. See Kannadhasan Publications’ (owned by his son Gandhi Kannadasan) official website for details on poet Kannadasan’s biography and works; retrieved from http://kannadasanpathippagam.com/about/ (accessed July 22, 2014); Gandhi Kannadasan was the president of Booksellers and Publishers Association of South India (BAPASI) from 2006 to 2009. 81. See for details, Sumathi Ramaswamy’s detailed work on the Dravidian movement and the Dravidian Progressive Federation: Ramaswamy, 1997, p. 64. Also see Aranthai Narayanan for the inaugural function at Royapuram: Narayanan, Tamil Cinemavin Kathai, p. 329. See Robert L.

82. 83.

84. 85. 86.

Hardgrave’s book on the history of the Dravidian movement from its origins in the Justice Party to the formation of Annadurai’s DMK: Hardgrave, 1965. For Kannadasan’s interest in Nedunchezhian and Karunanidhi as prolific speakers and writers, see Kannadasan, 2008, pp. 102–123. For details on Dungan, see Muthiah (2004); see also Karan Bali’s illuminating documentary on Dungan: An American in Madras (dir. Karan Bali, 2013). See for the details on Kumara Kuruparar’s life and works (1625–1688): Mutharasu, 1973. For a detailed analysis of G. Ramanathan’s music in Ponmudi, see Vamanan (2006, pp. 178–185). My interview with the preeminent Prof. Karthigesu Sivathamby at his residence in Colombo on January 30, 2007. For Kundalakesi’s story, see Pillai (1985, pp. 132–133). Also see Zvelebil (1975, p. 177) for the surviving Buddhist epic of Tamil literature, and Kuntalakeci’s (Kundalakesi’s) narrative.

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A Multiplicity of In uence 87. I will be focusing on the AVM and Gemini Studios, in the context of the Dravidian movement, in my next chapter. I will, therefore, be presenting Parasakthi (AVM Studios, 1952) in detail as a key text of the Dravidian movement. 88. The Modern Theatres’ title cards acknowledge their sound technology and equipment from the Radio Corporation of America with an RCA logo. 89. These shots were indoor studio shots (matched with the exterior location ones), and therefore it is not the difficult terrain that has dictated the choice of the mise-en-scene of this particular segment. 90. See for details on Vijayam’s collaboration with the American director Dungan, and the critical appreciation of his cinematography: Guy, 2008. According to Venkataswmai, Manthiri Kumari was the biggest hit of the Modern Theatres after Aayiram Thalaivangiya Aboorva Chintamani. See Venkataswmai, 2003, 56–57.Kumari According to Manian, Vijayam’s innovative camerawork in pp. Manthiri was appreciated, and his work in Ponmudi got him an award for cinematography from France (my interview with Aranthai Manian in Chennai, in August 2007). 91. However, Pesum Padam, in its “Editorial” in July 1945 informs us of how the state government, even before the independence, was aware of the need for training technicians to meet the increasing demands of the film industry. In 1945, it started offering courses in cinematography, sound engineering, and processing at the technical school in Madras, where cinema was one of the subjects; see Pesum Padam (1945, p. 1). However, Adyar Film Institute, which was a part of the Central Polytechnic from 1945, shifted to Tharamani in 1965 and, on a sprawling 45 acres, blossomed into South India’s preeminent film school only in the 1970s. The Madras studios, therefore, played a major role in training technicians from the mid-1930s onward, through the 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s. 92. See for details on the genre of romantic ballads, and Aaravalli, the folkplay: Arunachalam, 1974, pp. 95–108. 93. See for the difficulties surrounding the handling of donkeys during the production: Venkataswami, 2003, pp. 101–104. 94. Though the legendary G. Ramanathan was the music director, “Oriental” Parthasarathy, who composed the BGM (background music) of Aaravalli, is supposed to have composed the popular song Chinna Pennana Pothile set to the tune of Que Sera Sera from The Man Who Knew Too Much. This was because frontline music directors were often reluctant to directly lift popular tunes. However, according to Tamil cinema music specialist Vamanan, the biographer of G. Ramanathan, as per the wishes of Sundaram, G. Ramanathan himself had fitted that tune into a Tamil “mold.” For details, see Vamanan (2006, p. 273). T.P. Muthulakshmi, the famous

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Madras Studios “company artist” of the Modern Theatres, had seen Naya Daur at the preview theater inside the studio. She made her debut in Ponmudi and had acted in Aaravalli (my interview with her in Chennai, in July 2005). 95. See for details on the popularity of the song Chinna Pennana Pothile: Saravanan, 2006. 96. My discussions with popular writer Sujatha, Mani Ratnam’s collaborator in many of his films, including Roja (1992) and Kannathil Muththamittal (2002), in Chennai, in February 2007.

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Chapter 3 AVM and Gemini Studios: The Dravidian Movement and the Competing Narratives

T

his chapter looks at two landmark films in the history of the Tamil cinema, Parasakthi (1952) and Avvaiyar (dir. Kothamangalam Subbu, 1953). The films produced by the AVM Studios and the Gemini Studios, respectively, enable a focus on two of the five major studios in Madras that were prolific in their productions from the 1940s onward; Vijaya-Vauhini and Prasad, the other two major studios, will be dealt with in the next chapter.1 If Modern Theatres is the first major studio of Madras, then AVM Studios is its last—Prasad Studios would be the last in terms of chronology— when it comes to productions: Mudhal Idam, released on August 19, 2011, under their banner AVM Productions was their 175th film (see for details, Aishwarya, 2011). AVM’s landmark film Parasakthi was a watershed in Tamil cinema, with its Dravidian ideology-driven narrative; Gemini Studios released their lavish production of Avvaiyar the very next year, with its narrative directly responding to the rhetorical sequences in Parasakthi. If Parasakthi was the most critically and commercially successful film of 1952, Avvaiyar was critically acclaimed and the biggest hit at the box office in 1953. 2 Overall

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Gemini Studios produced 78 films between Madanakamarajan (1941) and Ellorum Nallavare (1975).3 My srcins objective togenealogy read theseoftwo films as texts that reflect the diverse and isthe these studios: A.V. Meiyappan, the founder of AVM Studios, had his beginnings as a retailer, and in the gramophone recording industry, while S.S. Vasan of Gemini Studios started his career as a retailer who sold articles through post, and as a writer and the editor of the popular Tamil magazine Ananda Vikatan. This chapter looks in detail at the way their early career impacted and defined their approach toward the production of their films—specifically, Parasakthi and Avvaiyar. Both are melodramas as they highly invested songsto to critique propel their dramatic narrative, butare Parasakthi uses itsinsongs contemporary social realities, whereas Avvaiyar repurposes many of the songs composed by Tamil’s ancient and mythical bard/poetess to drive its assemblage of religious content. A detailed analysis of the songs in these films enables us to understand the vastly different narrative structures of these films, though they are in the mold of classic melodramas, as well as their similarities in their imperatives to appropriate Tamil language and culture, albeit one for its agenda of pro-Dravidian (Parasakthi) and sheds the other ( Avvaiyar ) rhetoric. While Parasakthi lightfor on its the anti-DMK history of the Dravidian movement and its writers during the 1950s, Avvaiyar recycles the myths and legends surrounding the figure of an old canonical poetess to invoke a primordial Tamil land of peace, benevolence, and unity. A detailed reading of these two films, therefore, offers insight on the discourses of the Dravidian movement and cinema, besides throwing light on the politics of subnationalism and the divided responses to the hegemonic rule of the Congress Party.

Meiyappan and the Gramophone Industry An understanding of Meiyappan’s srcins informs us of his business acumen and the way it enabled the production of Parasakthi, when the situation in the Madras Presidency in post-independent India 100

AVM and Gemini Studios

was ripe to address the growing disenchantment of the people with the nationalist agenda of the Congress Party. AVMhad Studios, bearing initials its founder A.V. owned Meiyappan Chettiar, its srcins inthe A.V. andofSons, the stores by Meiyappan’s father Avichi Chettiar in Karaikkudi, situated 400 kilometers southwest of Chennai.4 A.V. Meiyappan had to inherit the responsibility of running the shop at a very early age when his father had to retire due to cataracts in his eyes. Avichi and Sons had expanded its business by the time Meiyappan took charge to include gramophone records and Baby Austin cars among its products. 5 They were also the distributors for HMV (His Master’s Voice) and Columbia, the major manufacturers of gramophone records, for Madurai, Ramanathapuram, Tiruchi, and Tirunelveli districts, apart from Pudukkottai Samasthanam. The young Meiyappan was interested in tapping the growing market for gramophone records by entering into the production of Tamil gramophone records. In 1932, he joined hands with two equally enthusiastic partners and opened a shop in Madras, Saraswathi Stores on Mount Road. 6 In the 1930s, because gramophone records were not manufactured in India, Meiyappan entered into a business contract with the German Odeon Recording Company, whereby the recoded material on wax—the wax disc—would be sent to Germany and from that master multiple copies of gramophone records would be manufactured. These shellac records, mounted on a graphite base to run at 78 RPM (revolutions per minute), were exported back to Saraswathi Stores for sale in the local market (Maindhan, 2002, pp. 11–12). The shellac records were made from a combination of shellac (the resin secreted by the female lac bug), powdered slate, wax lubricant, and a cotton compound used as filler material. In India, the shellac records were in vogue till the 1950s when vinyl records gradually replaced them.7 The gramophone market of South India in the early 1930s was flooded by the Carnatic vocalists singers in the traditional mold of the South Indian classical music. Contrary to the popular trend of banking on the market for classical music, Meiyappan perceived a demand for the songs of the popular theater artists, who generally adapted a folk-inspired style in the semiclassical tradition and set a 101

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new trend by releasing records of songs from successful plays. The increasing demand for songs led him to record the entire play and release on Set” a setofofthe gramophone records. of the “Dramathem Record mythological HinduThe epicrelease Ramayanam and Kovalan based upon the Tamil epic Silappathikaram proved highly successful particularly with aficionados, who carried their gramophone players during their long-distance journeys in trains. According to early Tamil cinema specialist Stephen P. Hughes, Meiyappan’s Saraswathi Stores was the first recording company to have its own artists on payroll for the production and promotion of drama record sets. Kovalan was the first set to be released with 10 8

gramophone records in May Meiyappan’s success in 1934. the gramophone industry led him to compete with HMV and Columbia for releasing the songs from films on records. In the mid-1930s, songs were recorded live for films with the orchestra—placed out of frame, by the side of camera—lending support to the performing singer-actor. However, these songs would be recorded again, using the same singers and orchestra in acoustically better equipped sound studios, for their circulation through gramophone records. When the singer-actor M.K. Thyagaraja Bagavathar (aka (dir. MKT) became a superstar with thefrom success of his film Chintamani Y.V. Rao, 1937), his fees, apart his remuneration as an actor, for later singing for the recording companies was a phenomenal 10,000 rupees per song. Meiyappan refused to part with such an amount and instead hired Thuraiyur Rajagopala Sharma, who had a similar voice to MKT’s, to sing for his Odeon Records (Maindhan, 2002, pp. 15–17). As the labels on the records just carried the logo of “Odeon” since it was not mandatory to reveal the name of the singers, the sales escalated and it led to other songs of MKT from his earlier films similarly being released by Odeon successfully. MKT, who initially refused to reduce his remuneration, finally caved in, and signed the contract on Meiyappan’s terms and sang for the Odeon label.9 Nonetheless, as early as in 1936, one of the oldest magazines in Tamil Aadal Paadal, which focused on cinema and music, reveals the increasing charisma of the stars 102


and their economic clout that drew producers to sign them up as partners, particularly the ones who were famous like MKT, S.D. 1936,Subbulakshmi, pp. 17–21). and M.S. Vijayal (see for details, Aadal Paadal, The recording companies prospered in the early 1930s, as sound had not yet arrived fully in Tamil cinema, although Kalidas (dir. H.M. Reddy), the first Tamil talkie, had already been produced in 1931 by the Imperial Movietone Company of Bombay, which had also produced the first Hindi talkie Alam Ara the same year. In fact, the director of Kalidas, H.M. Reddy (Hanumappa Muniappa Reddy) was assistant to Director Ardeshir Irani in Alam Ara. There were 50 songs in 10 Kalidas, and the characters Tamil, Telugu,with and Hindustani. Hughes extrapolates fromspoke this in trend beginning Kalidas and other early Tamil films and argues that the appeal of these films lay in the universality of music rather than in the specificity of the Tamil language (Hughes, 2007, p. 13). This explains Tamil cinema’s obsession with Hindi film tunes, as melody was privileged over lyrics, and the lyric writer had to tailor his words to the music: Nandanar (1935), produced in the early years of Tamil talkies, prefigures this trend as the tunes of three of its songs were lifted from the Hindiclaim film concerning Chandidas (1934; Baskaran, 2013, p. 46). gets However, Hughes’ the specificity of the language complicated when we look at the significance of T.P. Rajalakshmi, the heroine of Kalidas. According to Baskaran, she was a well-known star in Tamil dramas and sang some of her already popular numbers for the film on stage. She had two “nationalistic songs” unconnected with the main plot: one on the need to unite, and the other praising the charka (wheel), the symbol of Gandhian nationalism. According to Anandan, she sang the Carnatic compositions of Thyagaraja as well (Anandan, 2004, p. 16; Baskaran, 2013, p. 91). Apart from these compositions in Telugu, she spoke and sang in Tamil throughout the film, whereas the hero spoke in Telugu. Thus Kalidas, publicized and marketed as the first Tamil talkie, had its main attraction in the multifaceted persona of the popular Tamil drama artist and singer-actor T.P. Rajalakshmi. 103

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T.P. Rajalakshmi also wrote two Tamil novels, Kamalavalli and Vimala.11 She also became the first woman director of the Tamil cinema when the she creative adapted talent her novel Kamalavalli Miss. Kamala (1938). Thus, of popular dramainto artists, who could write, act, and sing, was waiting to be taken beyond the confines of the stage to every nook and corner of the Tamil-speaking land and Meiyappan’s vision of the drama record sets also filled this void. In fact, the recording industry created its own stars out of the drama artists by promoting and publicizing the lead singers through magazines, and many among them went on to later become successful stars of the early Tamil talkies. For instance, the legendary M.S. Subbulakshmi first a disc for HMV 193012 before her debut in Sevasadanam (dir. K.cut Subramanyam) inin 1938. As observed by Hughes, the early Tamil talkies in their quest for music-based entertainment tried to emulate the success of the gramophone recording industry by drawing from the resources of the drama artists—writers, musicians, singers, and actors. However, as seen in Meiyappan’s enterprise of marketing MKT’s songs in 1937, once cinema created its stars the flow was in the other direction as well: The recording industry now used the star capital created by the talkies. Thenetwork gramophone recording companies had established successful of musicians, singers, and consumers in thea early 1930s, whereas the acute need of the film industry for singeractors from Tamil theater arose only by 1935 when all Tamil films were made with sound. The turning point was in 1934, when A. Narayanan established Srinivasa Cinetone, the first studio with sound-recording facilities in Madras, and produced the first Tamil film shot entirely in Madras—Srinivasa Kalyanam (Baskaran, 1981, p. 35; Baskaran, 2009, p. 98). Narayanan’s wife Meenkashi was the chief sound recordist of the film; the first woman technician of the Tamil cinema thus made her debut with the very first film produced in Madras (Anandan, 2004, p. 16). Narayanan’s efforts contributed to Tamil cinema’s total transition to sound as more studios came up in the next few years, and it became feasible to use the services of the local drama artists and musicians. 104


Meiyappan’s Experiments with Sound A.V. Meiyappan’s background as a veteran of the gramophone recording industry prefigures his pioneering attempts in playback, postsynchronization of sound, and dubbing technology in the Tamil film industry. His attempt to reign in an unparalleled superstar like MKT throws light on his acumen as a shrewd businessman, who could exploit market conditions through his swift decisions and actions. His enormous financial success in the gramophone industry gave him the confidence to try his hand in film production. In 1934, he started “Sarawathi Sound Productions” as a partnership firm and produced Alli Arjuna (1935); however, the film failed at the box office, leading to a change in the partners, and Meiyappan renamed his company “Saraswathi Talkie Producing Company.” When Ratanavali (1936), his second production, also failed at the box office, Meiyappan, who went to Calcutta for his productions (Alli Arjuna was shot in the studios of the New Theatres, and Ratnavali in the Pioneer Studios) decided to have his own studio (Maindhan, 2002, pp. 23–24). But it was only in 1945 that his desire to own a studio became a reality. In the meanwhile, the Marathi film Director Narayanrao D. Sarpotdar was planning his bilingual Nandakumar in Hindi and Marathi. Meiyappan bought the rights for the Tamil version from him and cast T.R. Mahalingam in the role of the young Krishna. Meiyappan and the director of the Tamil version, Keshav Rao Dhaibar, were not happy with the voice of the artist who played Devaki, Krishna’s mother in the film.13 Meiyappan thought of replacing the songs, and he invited the famous Carnatic vocalist Lalitha Venkatraman from Bombay and recorded the songs in Madras. Later, the songs were played back and reshot with the artist synching her lips to the song while performing: This was the first instance of the use of playback technology in the Tamil film industry, and Nandakumar was released on July 6, 1938. 14 Despite Meiyappan’s innovative efforts, Nandakumar too met with a lukewarm reception at the box office. Nonetheless, Meiyappan was successfully releasing 105

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his gramophone records of Lalitha Venkatraman along with his “talkie songs.”15 hismade first under successthe asbanner a producer with hisPictures. Telugu film Meiyappan Boo Kailashtasted (1941), of Pragathi Pesum Padam, June 1945 issue, gives us an idea of Pragathi Studios, which informs us of the gradual rise of A.V. Meiyappan to a studio tycoon: The studio owned by Pragathi Pictures was at Bangalore initially, and the Saraswathi Film Laboratories was at Madras in the United Club building in Mount Road. Since both were under the same management, it was decided to shift the Studio to a 27-acre land on the way to Adyar in Madras, where the palatial Vijayanagar Fort was there. Once shifted, the Pragathi Studios in Madras had their 12,000-feet office on the ground floor, and the first floor had sophisticated projection facility, a Moviola for editing, and an RCA portable PM 33 recording equipment. Pragathi had one big and two small sound stages, and the Saraswathi Film Laboratory in an adjacent building (see for details, Nath, June 1945, pp. 10–15). A.V. Meiyappa Chettiar, who was the senior of the three partners, owned The Saraswathi Stores, Famous Talkie Distributors, Saraswathi Cine Laboratories among other establishments. Pragathi also had a reputed team of technicians: V.S. Ragahavan was in-charge of sound, and M.V. Raman supervised the editing; P.V. Krishna Iyer was the cinematographer, and A.T. Krishnaswamy Iyengar was the associate director and dialogue writer, as he had earlier written dialogues for many musical-dramas released as gramophone record sets (see for details, Nath, July 1945, pp. 10–13). More important, Meiyappan retained his ties with the recording industry stalwart(s) by appointing P.L. Narayana Iyer as the general manager at Pragathi. He was a professor who later went to the Bangalore Science Institute for three and a half years to research on radio engineering and was hired by the Bombay Gramophone Company that gave him further training as radio and refrigeration engineer. Iyer discovered that there was a great market for recorded songs sold on gramophone records, and he recorded popular songs like “Suno Suno,” “Tumne Mujhko,” and “Main Ban Ki Chidiya,” which sold 200,000 to 300,000 copies, and enabled Iyer to visit Persia 106


(Iran) and Iraq, and record songs there (see for details, Nath, July 1945, pp. 10–13). Boo Shiva, Kailashand wasMeiyappan a mythological basedthe onplay Ravana’s to Lord had seen at thedevotion famous Otrai Vadai Theatre, performed by “Sri Saraswathi Sahitya,” the drama troupe of the iconic theater artist Gubbi Veeranna. Boo Kailash, released on May 31, 1941, had unique distinctions: The film was in Telugu, produced by a Tamilian; the artists were Kannadigas and the director the Marathi-speaking Sunderlal Nadkarni. Only the writer Balijipalli Lakshmikant Kavi was proficient in Telugu (Maindhan, 2002, p. 30). Boo Kailash emblematizes the spirit of integration in the South Indian film industry from the mid-1930s onward till the late 1970s, when shooting in studios was the norm and most films in all the four major South Indian languages—Tamil, Telugu, Kannada, and Malayalam—were produced in Madras (Chakravarthy, 2007). After the success of his first directorial venture Sabapathy (1942), Meiyappan went back to Karaikkudi due to the Second World War and the apprehensions surrounding the bombing of Madras by the Japanese.16 When he came back in 1943, the war had still not ended but he started the production of the film Harishchandra in Kannada, as a joint venture with a Kannada drama troupe SSS Natyamandali. R. Nagendra Rao, who was one of the artists in Gubbi Veeranna’s theatrical production of Boo Kailash, was hired as the director. Due to the wartime regulation of raw stock, the edited length of the film was restricted to 11,000 feet, yet the film was a huge success when released. It was one of the rare concise mythologicals and its economy of narration attracted the audience. The success of the film propelled the chief of the AVM sound department, the innovative sound engineer V. Srinivasa Raghavan (aka V.S. Raghavan), to experiment with dubbing. Raghavan shared his thoughts with the assistant director of the film, A.T. Krishnaswamy, who wrote the lines in Tamil to approximately match the lips of artists as they spoke in Kannada. 17 Raghavan recorded a few lines in Tamil and took out a sample print—with the visuals from the srcinal Kannada film and the dialogues in Tamil on 107

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the sound track—and screened it, and convinced the initially skeptical Meiyappan, who asked him to proceed with his idea of recording the Tamil forwith the entire film. music Finally,and when the track Tamiland dialogue trackdialogues was mixed the srcinal effects a new print was made, everyone, including Meiyappan, was thrilled at the results. Thus, Harishchandra (Tamil, released on January 6, 1944) became the first dubbed film in the history of the Tamil/Indian cinema. The pioneer V. Srinivasa Raghavan had his training under the legendary audiographer C.E. Biggs of the Gemini Studios.18 The year 1944 also saw the release of Sri Rajarajeshwari Film Company’s srcinal Tamil version under the same title Harishchandra withand P.U. Chinnappa and P. Kannamba playing Harishchandra Taramati. However, Meiyappan shrewdly released his dubbed film earlier and secured its box-office success. The next venture of Meiyappan’s Pragathi Pictures was another mythological based on the Murugan–Valli love story adapted from very popular Tamil folklore. T.R. Mahalingam and Rukmini played the lead roles. The film, remaining true to the folk traditions, had a number of songs, and the songs were shot live as the actors performed and sang mainly in the interiors of Madras studios. R. and Rajagopala Sharma wereKrishnaswamy. the music directors, andSudharsanam Meiyappan codirected the film with A.T. After the songs were shot, Rukmini’s voice was found wanting during the preview as it did not match up to the trained voice of Mahalingam. Meiyappan consulted with his audiographer Raghavan and then decided to replace the songs of Rukmini with the voice of the then famous P.A. Periyanayaki, who had already sung for his highly successful Sabapathy. It was no easy task for a singer to sing according to the lip movements of an actor projected on screen. Nonetheless, singer Periyanayaki’s efforts and Raghavan’s “magic hand,” which could make the transition from dialogue (in the voice of Rukmini) to song (in Periyanayaki’s voice) seamless, enabled the substitution of Rukmini’s voice in the songs after the entire film was shot: Periyanayaki’s songs were recorded by the music directors with the musicians from Meiyappan’s in-house Saraswathi Stores Orchestra 108


and were postsynchronized to the lip movements of Rukmini (AVM, 2004, pp. 43–44). This was the first instance of postsynchronization 19 in the history Tamil cinema. film a huge success at the box office when itofwas released on The April 14,was 1945. Thus, Meiyappan’s gramophone recording company experience led not only to his successful transition into a film producer by providing him with the financial buffer needed to withstand the initial failures of his productions, but even more significantly by enabling him to withstand the creative crises his films encountered by providing the space for his technicians to take risks and innovate through the soundtrack in a cinema that privileged songs and modeled itself after the dialogueoriented Tamil folk plays and popular dramas.

Meiyappan’s Studio and India’s Freedom Struggle Meiyappan’s dream of owning his own studio still remained unfulfilled as the government had already imposed restrictions on power supplies through its electricity department due to the war; there was no possibility of power for new studios even after the war ended in 1946, while at the same time, in his hometown Karaikkudi, the electricity supply was in the hands of a private company, Meenatchi Sundareshwarar Corporation. Since they promised a power supply, Meiyappan started his own studios near Devakottai Rastha railway station where the local landlord had built a drama hall. Meiyappan took over the thatched-roof hall on rent along with the empty space within that vast compound and constructed cottages for machinery, technicians, and artists in a similar economical thatched-roof style using the locally available palm leaves. It was here that Meiyappan started producing under the AVM Productions banner (Maindhan, 2002, pp. 36–38). Meiyappan wanted to make an impact with the first film he was planning as his own studio venture, and he wanted to limit his risks by going in for a subject that had already been tried successfully on stage: His own films similarly adapted from successful Tamil dramas had never failed him at the box office: Boo Kailash was a hit play staged in many places by SSS Natayamandali; Sabapathy was a very popular comedy written by Tamil theater’s preeminent 109

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icon of the twentieth century, Sambandha Mudaliyar, and staged by his famous troupe Sugunavilas Sabha; Sri Valli was inspired by 20 the ubiquitous Vallikkoothu, theshot folkportions play staged over South India. Meiyappan had already of hisall film Vethaala Ulagam based on the myth of Vikramaditya and Vethaal, but saw that among the masses, there was an anticipation of India’s freedom, which was reflected in the popularity of social themes on stage and poet Bharathiyar’s patriotic songs among the people (AVM, 2004, pp. 59–61). At this juncture in mid-1946, Meiyappan saw N.S.K. drama troupe’s staging of the Tamil play Naam Iruvar (We Two) at the

Otrai Vadai Theatre inhad Wall Tax Road, nearplay thethat Madras Central Station. P. Neelakantan written the social was set in the wartime “black market” milieu and had woven Bharathiyar’s famous songs into its narrative. Meiyappan then bought the rights for adapting the play from its writer P. Neelakantan and paid him 3,000 rupees besides hiring him as the assistant director. Meiyappan thought that a social drama like Naam Iruvar, unlike the grandeur demanded by a historical, fit in with his scheme to shoot in the thatched-roof drama hall that was to be his main studio floor. However, he perceived that it was Bharathiyar’s made thepp. narrative was being enacted onsongs stage that (AVM, 2004, 62–63).come alive as it But the copyright to many of Bharathiyar’s famous songs was owned by Surajmal and Sons, a recording company, and Meiyappan paid 10,000 Rupees and acquired the rights from them, during the production of Naam Iruvar (AVM, 2000, pp. 64–65). Later when Tamil theater veteran T.K. Shanmugham and his brothers tried to use Bharathiyar’songs in their film Bilhanan (1948), which was adapted from their successful play of the same name, Meiyappan tried to restrict their use of Bharathiyar’s songs by sending them a legal notice as the rightful owner (Narayanan, 2002, pp. 286–287). Nonetheless, in 1948, Bharathiyar’s songs were ubiquitous in the print media, radio, and theater, and Shanmugham went to the then Chief Minister Ommandhur Reddiyar to seek redress, and on Reddiyar’s initiative Meiyappan gave away his private ownership 110


of Bharathiyar’s songs freely to the government, and later they were legally made into public property.21 But what’s of interest for our purposesIt isstates the very firstrights clausefor in recording the legal notice issued by Meiyappan: that the Bharathi’s songs on gramophone records and films belong to him (Narayanan, 2002, p. 286). His interest in Bharathiyar’s songs was thus propelled by both his interests in the gramophone recoding industry and in the production of Tamil films that privilege songs and music. In fact, the prioritizing of gramophone recording rights indicates the preeminent place it occupied even after he had become a successful producer and a studio owner. In Naam (1947), song songs of played crucial roleofasfreedom, the film opened with Iruvar Bharathiyar’s the acelebration Aaduyvomey Pallu Paduvome, picturized on Baby Kamala dancing on a huge drum. Naam Iruvar was one of the films that was responsible for Kamala attaining cult status as a dancer whose solo “items” were advertised as the highlight of Tamil films from 1947 onward for a decade. Another popular Bharathiyar number in a celebratory vein was Vettri Ettu Dikkum Etta Kottu Murase; Kamala’s dances were choreographed by the traditional Bharatanatyam dancer and legendary teacherforVazhuvoor Pillai. Meiyappan’s penchant items in theRamaiah form of songs andNonetheless, dances that 22 were often “thrust” into the narrative was criticized. Between the opening song and the climactic event of the donation of 100,000 rupees for the Harijan Relief Fund, Naam Iruvar narrated the story of two partners, Ramasami Pillai (Sarangapani) and Subbiah Pillai (V.K. Ramasami), who had minted money through the black market during wartime. Their greed and lust plays havoc in their as well as their children’s lives leading finally to the murder of Subbiah at the hands of Ramasami to bring order into the lives of their children. The film capitalized on the pre-independence buoyancy and the nationalistic zeal for freedom by having the characters in the film wear the white Congress caps and greet each other with the patriotic Jai Hind (Victory/Salutation to India). Meiyappan, with his experience with singers, chose D.K. Pattammal 111

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to sing the popular Bharathiyar numbers under the direction of his in-house music director, the creative R. Sudharsanam: D.K. Pattammal had the sungdocumentary a song in praise of Gandhi’s spinningpainstakwheel— the charka—in pioneer A.K. Chettiar’s ingly shot Mahatma Gandhi, which was released on August 23, 1940. According to Baskaran, however, Pattammal’s song in the film could be considered the first instance of the use of playback technique in Tamil cinema.23 Nonetheless, if we take the release date into account, AVM’s Nandakumar was released much earlier. Naam Iruvar was released in Madurai on January 14, 1947, and two months later in Madras. Ananda Vikatan, the popular Tamil weekly, in its the issue dated for January 23, 1947, gave a favorable and analyzed reasons the huge success of the film: Thereview film’s generous use of slogans in praise of Mahatma Gandhi along with the photographs of freedom fighters and its dialogues that capture the mood of the people contributed to its tremendous success (Narayanan, 2007, p. 312). On India attaining freedom in August, Meiyappan, ever the shrewd businessman, added Bharathi’s lines Thayin Manikkodi Pareer (Look at our Mother’s Flag) in the resonating voice of D.K. Pattammal at the end of the film, in the older prints, and the audience up againtoward to make Naam a watershed in the turn ofqueued Tamil cinema socials andIruvar away from mythologicals. Released under the banner of “AVM Studios, Karaikkudi,” the film shot in the thatched cottages 431 kilometers away from Madras generated an immediate response in the form of letters of appreciation from the Gemini Studio owner S.S. Vasan, and in the silence of the critics of Meiyappan’s “hay and rope” studio efforts.24 The gramophone record of the songs became so popular that D.K. Pattammal’s voice became synonymous with Bharathiyar’s 25

nationalistic and patriotic songs. Pesum Padam informs us of the impact Naam Iruvar had on filmmakers in Madras: “They are now trying to insert popular and topical ‘events’ into their narrative.” It praises the meticulous work of Meiyappan who delivered a film like Naam Iruvar from his thatched studio at Karikkudi (see for details Pesum Padam, 1947, pp. 44–48). 112


AVM and the Preeminence of Songs For his next production, while Meiyappan was looking for a popular subject during his regular trip to Madras, he happened to see the Hindi film Ram Rajya (dir. Vijay Bhatt, 1943) at the Sagar Theatre, which used to screen Hindi films regularly in Madras. 26 Ram Rajya, the only film ever seen by Mahatma Gandhi, deeply impacted Meiyappan through its depiction of the travails of Sita after her husband Rama defeats her kidnapper Ravana and brings her home to Ayodhya. After one of King Rama’s subjects, a washerman, raises doubts concerning Sita’s chastity, she has to go through the trial by fire—Agni Pareeksha. Despite her success at enduring the fire ordeal, doubts persist and she is banished by Rama to the forest where she gives birth to her twin sons Lava and Kusha. Sage Valmiki teaches them the Ramayana—the story of Rama—without revealing their identity to them. The film then focuses on the action sequence of the wandering horse, which the soldiers of Rama are chasing under the leadership of Rama’s trusted commander Hanuman. They want to guide the stallion back into the palace for Ashwamedha Yagna— the Horse Sacrifice—the ritual kings perform for the prosperity of their kingdoms. Lava and Kusha block the horse near their hut and valiantly fight Rama’s soldiers: Hanuman recognizes who they are through their courage, skill, and beauty. Finally, as Lava and Kusha unite with their father Rama, Sita prays to her mother—the Earth— to accept her back. The earth cracks open and Sita enters it, and it closes back again. The people assembled sing to the glory of Rama, Sita, and their family.27 Meiyappan was emotionally moved by the performance of the iconic actress Shobana Samarth who played Sita in the film. 28 He was also impressed with the superimpositions and the in-camera special effects in the climax when Mother Earth accepts Sita’s prayers. He wanted to dub the film and release it in Tamil and got the dubbing rights from the copyright holders, Evergreens, in Bombay (AVM, 2004, pp. 74–75). However, Meiyappan had a challenge to face: Vijay Bhatt’s Ram Rajya starts with the last chapter, which is 113

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the seventh in the Ramayana. The chapter, named Uttarakanda (literally the Later/Subsequent Chapter) has been a subject of debate 29 it is not written by the author among as many believe that Valmikischolars, and is a later interpolation. The great Tamil poet Kamban in the twelfth century wrote the Rama Kathai aka. Ramavatharam, a retelling of Valmiki’s Ramayana. Kamban’s version, later known as Kambaramayanam, had 11,000 verses compared to Valmiki’s 24,000, and 6 chapters to the latter’s 7.30 The Kambaramayanam attained a very respectable status as an srcinal work of a poet both among the Tamil literati and the general public. 31 The Uttarakanda in the Ramayana was thus not a very familiar story in the Tamilspeaking world, and so it was popular cinema that made Lava and Kusha household names in the South: One of the early color films, Lava Kusha (dir. C. Pulliah and C.S. Rao, 1963), starring the preeminent mythological hero of the Indian screen NTR as Rama and Anjali Devi as Sita, was a bilingual (Tamil and Telugu) film and was a huge hit in both languages (Anandan, 2004, pp. 28–123). Nevertheless, when Meiyappan was planning to release a dubbed version in 1947, the unfamiliar part of the story that the film treated was good from the point of view of novelty (for the masses), yet the risk was in going against their expectations since the local versions generally have had a happy ending with Rama’s coronation and the subjects of his kingdom living happily. Meiyappan tried to overcome this anticipated risk by relying on the soundtrack again by adding a song to the beginning of the Tamil version: He recorded a six-minute devotional song written by Arunachala Kavirayar in the voice of D.K. Pattammal, and during the song had the story of Ramayana up until the Uttarakanda— Rama’s coronation—run as a “shadow play” (Maindhan, 2002, p. 46). Released on December 10, 1947, the Tamil Rama Rajyam was

also a big hit. The music for the newly added song was by the inhouse music director R. Sudharsanam, and the soundtrack too was hugely popular when the disc was released later. In fact, the advertisement for the film foregrounds the names of D.K. Pattammal and T.S. Bagavathi and mentions the names of seven other singers beneath their names (S. Rajeshwari, K.V. Janaki, P.G. Venkatesan, 114


K. Devanarayanan, D.B. Ramachandran, and K.P. Chandran) in a relatively smaller size and adds a line in the end, “and others,” for all those for the film. There no mention of the names of just the actors,who andsang the title is Tamil RamaisRajyam with “Tamil” placed below “AVM Productions’” and above Rama Rajyam (AVM, 2004, p. 76). The fact that the Tamil version advertises all the singers so prominently in the poster indicates Meiyappan’s trust in the commercial potential of these singers and underscores his interest in promoting talented singers and expanding the market for already established ones as a producer of films as well as gramophone records. 32 For his film Vethaala Ulagam (1948), the posters similarly advertise next the added attractions of a musical drama, Pavalakkodi, and a dance drama, Pambatti. Pambatti, which was a snake dance featuring the debut in Tamil films of Padmini, one of the leading actresses of the Tamil cinema of the last century, who danced along with her sister Lalitha.33 When Vethaala Ulagam, advertised in English as The Demon Land, was released, the popularity of the snake dance was one of the reasons for its box-office success.34 Nevertheless, Meiyappan’s penchant for indiscriminately inserting contemporary events into histo narratives shocked some of thefan viewers, as exemplified by a question Guntoosi: To a bewildered who wonders how a rishi (sage) in a forest could get hold of an atom bomb, Guntoosi (P.R.S. Gopal) replies that it could be because Meiyappan could have found the links to atom bombs and his Vethala Ulagam (Demon Land) through demons like Hitler and Mussolini (see Guntoosi, 1949, p. 22). Despite such puzzlement on the part of discerning fans, repeated success of Meiyappan’s films led to the Devakkottai landlord, Somanathan Chettiar, asking for 10,000 rupees as rent for his space, which was more than three times the rent—3,000 rupees— Meiyappan was paying. Around the same time, toward the end of 1948, electricity became available in Madras, and Meiyappan, who was tired of having to frequently send his canned films to Madras for processing, decided to shift his studio and production to Madras (AVM, 2004, p. 83; Maindhan, 2002, p. 47). 115

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Thus, AVM Studios, as we know of it now, on 10 acres of land in Vadapazhani in Madras, appeared in 1949. The land srcinally belonged a Muslim tannery owner, after who had opted to close downtohis businessleather and leave for Pakistan the Partition: Meiyappan chose that land as it was announced as an “evacuee property,” and therefore, could be bought at a cheaper price, besides being close to Vauhini Studios started by B.N. Reddy and his friend Moola Narayanaswami, which Meiyappan thought could be of help in the future.35 Meiyappan, because of his experience in Devakkkottai, added a preview theater and a black and white laboratory when he shifted his entire setup from Devakkottai to Madras. The first film from AVM Studios Madras, Vazhkai (Life), released on December 23, 1949, introduced Vyjayantimala in the female lead and went on to become a huge success spawning its remakes by AVM in Telugu (Jeevitham, 1950) and Hindi (Bahar, 1951). (See Photo 9 in the photo group section.) While in the Tamil and Telugu versions Vyjayantimala and T.R. Ramachandran acted in the lead roles, in the Hindi version except for Vyjayantimala all the other actors were replaced: In Bahar, the hero was Karan Diwan, and other actors included Om Prakash and Pran. It was the first instance of stars from Bombay coming to a Madras studio and acting in a Hindi film production. Although Meiyappan was inspired by the efforts of Gemini Studio owner S.S. Vasan and his phenomenal success in the all India box-office with his film Chandralekha (Tamil/Hindi, 1948), Vasan’s film had the same stars who had acted in the Tamil version, and their close-ups were reshot for the Hindi version, and later the film was dubbed with suitable voices (Anandan, 2007). Vazhkai was the last film directed by Meiyappan; the Telugu and the Hindi versions were directed by M.V. Raman, the associate director of the Tamil version. However, the popular song Un Kan Unnai Emattrinal … Dada Da Da (singer: M.S. Rajeshwari), which was one of the reasons for the film’s 25-week run at the Paragon Talkies in Madras, was based on the famous Bombay music director C. Ramchandra’s tune in the Hindi film Khidki (1948), which Meiyappan had seen with his music team (AVM, 2004, p. 98). However, when Vazhkai was remade as Bahar, S.D. Burman composed new tunes. 116


The Dravidian Movement, AVM Studios, and Parasakthi When Meiyappan was busy with the production of Vazhkai in 1949, the DMK (Dravidian Progressive Federation) was formed, and its activists were particularly busy as writers and playwrights. In February 1949, two films written by Annadurai, the leader of the DMK party, were released and both elicited strong reactions from the people and the press: Annadurai’s play Velaikkari, written for his friend and fellow party member K.R. Ramasami, was made into a successful film by Jupiter Pictures, a major producer of Tamil films in the 1940s and 1950s, and Annadurai also wrote the screenplay and dialogue for Nallathambi, adapted from Frank Capra’s Mr. Deeds Goes to Town (1936), for the actor-producer N.S. Krishnan.36 Meiyappan, looking for a subject for his next venture, came to know about Annadurai’s successful play Ore Iravu (One Night), which was staged successfully in Thanjavur for more than 100 days by K.R. Ramasami; Meiyappan saw the play and decided to adapt it for his next film. Annadurai charged 10,000 rupees to adapt his play for the screen and came to the AVM Studios and wrote the screenplay of 300 pages in one night: Ore Iravu (One Night), though invoking Frank Capra’s It Happened One Night (1934), was far removed from the Capra film due to its focus on a thief who unexpectedly meets his father, who had abandoned him a long time back, when he goes to steal. However, in Ore Iravu, the Dravidian rhetoric of equality and rationality of his earlier scripts was missing as the focus was on entertainment. But for one of the songs, the film used a poem by Puratchi Kavignar (Revolutionary Poet) Bharatidasan, Thunbam Nergaiayil Nee Yalheduththu Nee (When you’re sad won’t you play the Yal/ 37

lute), which extolled the Tamil tradition, and invoked “Tamil God” Thiruvalluvar to provide clarity during confusion, and advocated playing the ancient Tamil string instrument the Yal during times of profound sorrow.38 However, Ore Iravu, released on July 14, 1950, was not as successful on screen as on stage. It was at this juncture that P.A. Perumal, 117

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who had earlier distributed Meiyappan’s Naam Iruvar, Vazhkai, and Vethaala Ulagam wanted to produce a film in collaboration with AVM and of Perumal sawKazhagam the play Parasakthi, writtenStudios. by M.S.Meiyappan Balasundaram Dravidar (Dravidian Front)—the srcinal party from which the DMK was born—and staged by K.N. Rathinam’s Boys Company.39 When Meiyappan and Perumal saw the play, they were highly impressed. Perumal, a staunch Dravidian movement activist, wanted M. Karunanidhi, the writer of the hit film Manthiri Kumari (Modern Theatres, 1950), to write the dialogues. So following his leader Annadurai, the Dravidian ideologue Karunanidhi was also frequenting the AVM Studios in the early 1950s writing the dialogues for the film to be adapted from Balasundaram’s play. When it came to casting, Meiyappan wanted to cast the then popular star K.R. Ramasami, who was the hero of his earlier film Ore Iravu, and the highly successful Nallathambi, which had dialogues by Annadurai. However, Perumal insisted on casting new theater artist Sivaji Ganesan, whom he had seen in a female role in the play Noor Jahan, staged by Sakthi Nataka Sabha run by Sakthi Krishnaswamy.40 Though Meiyappan went and saw the play, he had his doubts but finally caved in to Perumal’s insistence: Meiyappan was wondering whether a thin young man known for his female impersonations could carry the burden of playing the lead in a big film: V.C. Ganesan, who started his career in theater at the age of 10, was well known for his female impersonations; his role of Sita in Ramayanam catapulted him to a celebrity status. Later in Noor Jahan, V.C. Ganesan, now popular as Sivaji Ganesan, played the main role of Noor Jahan, and had grown very long hair to look more natural in the role.41 Perumal, however, was keen that Sivaji Ganesan should play the role of Gunasekaran, the protagonist of Parasakthi, and Meiyappan, who normally bet on successful plays and their tested themes, though impressed by the narrative of Parasakthi, was not fully convinced, yet he reluctantly agreed to the choice of Sivaji Ganesan as the hero, as the film was his studio’s collaboration with an outside producer. According to Tamil cinema scholar Venkatesh Chakravarthy, this 118


was the first instance of a Madras studio offering its facilities to an outside producer: Perumal as an outside producer could only have his of the and profits Productions, whichrights had paid for the share story rights heldafter the AVM negative and distribution for the film, subtracted all its expenses, including the payments for artists and technicians and the rent for its production facilities, from the box-office collections. On the other hand, if the film were to fail at the box office, Perumal as the producer would be fully responsible for the loss (Anandan, 2007; Chakravarthy, 2007).42 For the studio, such an arrangement enabled its facilities and personnel to be continuously utilized; for instance, the legendary cameraman Maruthi Rao, who was the cinematographer of Parasakthi, started his career with the AVM Studios as a still photographer and moved on to become the cinematographer in Ore Iravu. Similarly, the gifted music director of Parasakthi, R. Sudharsanam, responsible for many of the hits of early AVM films, was on the studio payroll along with his team of eminent singers like M.S. Rajeshwari. On the other hand, for Perumal, this arrangement offered him an opportunity, given his experience in distribution, to produce a film that was driven by his particular interest in the Dravidian agenda and to cast the actors he was interested in, though the financial equation was loaded against him. Parasakthi, which went onto become a watershed in the history of the Dravidian movement and the Tamil cinema, thus exemplifies the vision of an independent producer who was willing to take an enormous financial risk for his passion. The narrative of Parasakthi revolves around the fortunes of a family during the outbreak of the Second World War in 1942: Manickam Pillai (Durai Swamy) lives in Madurai with his daughter Kalyani (Sriranjani); his eldest son Chandrasekaran (S.V. Sahasranamam) and his wife Saraswathi live in Rangoon, along with his other two sons Gnanasekaran (S.S. Rajedran) and Gunasekaran (Sivaji Ganesan) (for a detailed synopsis of the film see M.S.S. Pandian’s essay on the film: Pandian, 2005, pp. 65–96). Manickam Pillai gets his daughter betrothed to Thangappan (Venkataraman) who is invested in the Dravidian ideology. As the letter arrives informing the brothers of the oncoming marriage of 119

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their sister they plan to leave for Madurai, but tickets being scarce due to limited space on the ship, the youngest brother Gunasekaran is advised by backdrop Chandrasekaran to attend the wedding their behalf. In the of the insecurity surrounding war on is juxtaposed the misfortunes of the Manickam Pillai family: The ship that Gunasekaran boards runs into trouble, and he is not able to arrive in time for his sister’s wedding. Kalyani gets married, and delivers a child, but loses her husband Thangappan in an accident just at the moment of the arrival of her son, the shock of which leads to her father’s death. Kalyani loses the house her father had pledged for her marriage and becomes destitute. Analogous to Kalyani’s plight is the situation of Chadrasekaran: As a barrister-at-law he was leading an affluent life, but due to the worsening situation in the war-ravaged Rangoon, he decides to leave for India with his wife and his other younger brother, leaving behind his house and his belongings. Kalyani’s considerate neighbor Parvathi (A.S. Jaya) advises her to open an idli (savory rice cake) shop. In the meantime, Gunasekaran, after a prolonged journey, reaches Madras to be welcomed by beggars as he hires a cab. The naïve Gunasekaran is followed by a stereotypical vamp Jolly (Kannamma) to his lodge, where she lures him despite his nonchalance to attend the dance of Kumari Kamala, who dances to a selected audience in privacy for money. During the dance, Jolly gets Gunasekaran intoxicated through an adulterated brew, and after looting his money and belongings, throws him out on the street. As Gunasekaran is overcome with self-pity, there is a montage of stock shots of war; in an aerial bombing of civilians who are walking to their destination, Gunasekaran’s other two brothers get separated from each other: Chadrasekaran and his wife get separated from Gnanasekaran, and land in a refugee camp. In a series of sequences, we see Gunasekaran go through a rite of passage, which erodes his earlier innocence and through an exposure to the harsher reality of everyday life the survival instinct flares up in him: We see him being chased by a cop for sleeping on the pavement, and a woman vendor (K.S. Angamuthu) roughs him up for stealing bananas from her. But when a madman comes running and throws her entire basket with the fruits she runs for cover, and 120


Gunasekaran watches the madman go scot-free, so he decides to act mad to pull his tricks on people. The wandering Gunasekaran ultimately reaches Madurai tries tooflocate his sister and throughthat the neighbor Kamala comesand to know the series of misfortunes have struck his family: his father’s sudden death, Kalyani’s widowhood, and her running of the idli shop alone at the far end of the street. In the convenience it offers to hide his identity, he continues to play the madman and tries to spend his time across the way from Kalyani’s hut. The forlorn Kalyani, alone with her child, becomes an easy target for the scheming Venu (T.K. Ramachandran), who in the garb of a well-wisher trying to bail her out against the North Indian moneylender Pathan, tries to take advantage of her. Helpless Kalyani, who addresses him as a brother, is shocked when he attempts to rape her. Gunasekaran, on hearing her cry for help, rushes in and after pouncing on Venu beats him up and throws him out. The next day when Gunasekaran goes to meet Kalyani, he is shocked to find that she has left with her son. The traumatized Kalyani leaves for Tiruchi, only to find a job with another vulture, Narayana Pillai. He is a black marketer, who poses as a religious person with white ash smeared over his forehead and hires her as his maidservant. In trying to be alone with Kalyani, he sends his wife Kantha (T.P. Muthulakshmi) to a movie (Krishna Leelai) with his assistant and starts lusting after Kalyani. As he tries to molest her, the suspicious wife who had left the cinema hall early, catches him red handed, and saves Kalyani. Kantha puts her head down in shame, as Kalyani leaves. The despairing Kalyani looks doomed as she and her son are both without food for days. Gunasekaran, in the pursuit of his sister, comes to Tiruchi, and as he tries to steal the suitcase of Vimala (Pandari Bai) is caught by the people around them. However, Vimala sympathizes with his plight. When Gunasekaran narrates his story of successive misfortunes from the time he left Rangoon, Vimala castigates him for being obsessed with the plight of his sister Kalyani alone: A charged Vimala talks about the thousands of Kalyanis who are in this world, and thanks the vamp Kannamma, who brought Gunasekaran to street level as otherwise he would not have come down from his affluent world 121

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to look at the plight of the poor and the helpless. When Gunasekaran, who is initially shocked at her angry outpouring instead of the sympathy he expected from her, understands and appreciates her radical Dravidian philosophy-driven thoughts, she points to her progressive “Anna” (brother) being her mentor. As Vimala romantically dreams about him, Gunasekaran leaves from her house since Kalyani’s plight haunts him. In the meantime, Chandrasekaran and his wife reach Tiruchi, and he gets employed as a judge under a new name, S.C. Sekar. The other brother Gnanasekaran, who had lost a leg in the Japanese bombings, lands in a refugee camp where he is denied entry by the North Indian officer. He, along with many other war victims, including the limping Gnansekaran, ends up as a beggar. Begging for food and pleading for the sake of her child, Kalyani reaches Judge Sekar’s house where a party is going on, but she is thrown out by the judge himself as he is busy with his elite guests. With no way out, a desperate Kalyani goes to a temple of Parasakthi and stands outside, pleading for help. The priest comes out and invites her inside the temple; as she enters and prays he tries to rape her, and the priest’s assistant Kuppan (M.N. Krishnan), listening to Kalyani’s shrieks, rings the temple bell and enables Kalyani to escape. (See Photos 14 and 15 in the photo group section.) The forlorn Kalyani, overcome with grief that she could not feed her child, walks across a bridge and throws her son into the river that is running beneath. Later, as she jumps in to commit suicide, she is saved and brought to the court on charges of killing her child. Her brother, who is the judge, does not recognize her and keeps intimidating her with questions. When she finally recounts her plight from the time of her marriage and reveals the details of her family and brothers, the judge, her eldest brother, faints. Meanwhile, Gunasekaran attends a political meeting addressed by Vimala’s brother, wherein he talks about the desperate plight of mothers in Tamil Nadu by drawing attention to the news about Kalyani. Gunasekaran, upon learning about Kalyani, rushes to meet her and on the way dashes against Kuppan, who reveals the priest’s attempted rape of her. (See Photo 17 in the photo group section.) An infuriated Gunasekaran 122


goes and attacks the priest at the temple with a knife. Consequently, Gunasekaran is arrested and brought to trial in the same court as Kalyani. During trial, in Gunasekaran long monologue, perhaps the mosthis quoted the history delivers of Tamilacinema, narrating his story in defense of Kalyani (see for the entire dialogue in Tamil: Narayanan, 2002, pp. 396–99). At the opportune moment during the proceedings in the court, Vimala arrives with Kalyani’s son, who serendipitously landed up on her boat, when she was rowing in the river. Kalyani and Gunasekaran are acquitted, and the family reunites: The only still missing brother Gnanasekaran now joins them, when he comes knocking on their door collecting funds for the beggars’ conference he and his fellow refugee friends are organizing. Gunasekaran and Vimala express their desire to get married without any rituals, invoking the rationalist theme of the Dravidian movement, and the film concludes with the inaugural ceremony of a home for orphans made possible by the contribution of Chandrasekaran. Parasakthi was released on Deepavali Day—October 17, 1952— and went on to become a huge commercial hit: It ran for a minimum of 50 days in all the 62 centers it was released, and in Ceylon it ran at the Mailan Theatre for almost 40 weeks (see for details, Deenadayalan Pa., 2006, p. 32). The huge success of Parasakthi attains significance in the context of the stiff competition Tamil films faced from Hollywood, Hindi, and Telugu films in the 1950s. 43 The controversies surrounding its release contributed to the initial interest of the audience; M.S.S. Pandian’s detailed essay on Parasakthi analyzes the film in the context of its status as a transgressive DMK film in the cultural milieu of the social élites who were generally Congress Party sympathizers. His astute analysis of the Dravidian politics-driven text points to its anti-Brahminical, anti-Congress, and pro-Tamil nationalistic character, and he focuses on the controversies surrounding the release and reception of the film in 1952 to underscore the film as prefiguring the coming days of consensual politics of the DMK in Tamil Nadu (Pandian, 2005, pp. 65–96). However, my purpose in analyzing Parasakthi, here is to read the film in the context of the genealogy of the AVM Studios and the studio’s srcins in the gramophone recording business and to 123

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foreground how AVM productions (like Modern Theatres as we have seen in the last chapter) was driven by the popularity and success DMK playwrights like Balasundaram and Karunanidhi theirof box-office potential rather than by sympathy for the politicsand of 44 the Dravidian movement embedded in the narrative. Parasakthi’s narrative too follows the trend seen in AVM’s earlier films like Naam Iruvar of beginning with a song: If it was the nationalist-driven Bharathiyar’s song, Aaduvome Pallupaduvome, Ananda Sudhanthiram Adainthu Vittomendru (Let’s sing and dance on having attained the joyous freedom), in Naam Iruvar, it is the Dravidian ideologue poet Bharathidasan’s song, Vazhga Vazhga Vazhgave Valamaar Emathu Dravida Nadu (Long live! Long live! The fertile Dravidian Land), which opens Parasakthi. The poet, as he sings of the glory of Dravida Nadu, describes it as being surrounded by Bengal in the north along the shore and by the seas on the west and the east: the Dravida Nadu/Dravidian Land and its cartography recall the claim made by Dravidian movement activists for a separate Dravidian Land that would include not merely the people speaking Tamil but its offshoots, the other Dravidian languages. The next line invokes the ancient Tamil language in the Dravidian imagery of the Tamil Thaai (Mother Tamil) and describes how the other languages—the lyrical Telugu, Tulu, Malayalam, and Kannada, which sound like her anklet—were born from her. The Dravida Nadu or Dravidasthan, a sovereign independent Dravidian nation sought by Periyar and his followers, has to be seen in the context of their linguistic and cultural politics: The Dravidian movement stands for a constellation of ideas espoused by successive party members and activists from the beginning of the last century in Madras Presidency and later in Madras State/Tamil Nadu. The first platform they united under was in the Vellala (the non-Brahman elitists)-driven Justice Party (1916–1944), when the dominant imperatives were anti-Brahmanism, anti-Congress politics, and anti-Hindi/North Indian imperialism. One of their objectives was to replace Sanskrit, the symbolic language of the Aryan/ North Indian, with Tamil, the source of all Dravidian languages, and to foreground its ancient religious texts. However, rationalist Periyar 124


E.V. Ramasami questioned the elitist Vellala-driven objectives of replacing one set of Brahmanical beliefs with another, and in his imperative to cleanhe society of his all superstitious on which tradition and religion, started Self-Respect beliefs Leaguebased (1926), then became the platform for Dravidian party members and activists to unite in their anti-Brahman, anti-Congress, and pro-Dravidian agenda. From the Self-Respect League was born the DK or Dravidar Kazhagam (The Federation of Dravidians) in 1944. However, rationalist Periyar’s relationship with Tamil was not one of simple valorization or idealization. He wanted his party to be inclusive in its claim for a Dravidian Land, which would embrace other southern languages and their speakers. Sumathi Ramasami, in her seminal book Passions of the Tongue: Language Devotion in Tamil India, 1891–1970, gives a detailed reading of the genealogy of the Dravidian movement in the context of its passionate and complex relationship with the Tamil language: On the one hand, the traces of the Justice Party, in the form of writers invested in deifying Tamil, were present in DK, while on the other hand they were equally interested in Periyar’s rationalism, anti-Brahmanism, and his ideas of the Dravida Nadu/Dravidian Land insofar as it contested the unchallenged monolithic politics of the Congress and its Indian nationalism and cultural chauvinism.45 However, the younger activists’ interest in participating in active politics and the inner contradictions in the DK led to its splitting, and the breakaway faction led by C.N. Annadurai formed the Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam (DMK; the Dravidian Progressive Federation) in 1949. Around the time of the formation of the DMK in the late 1940s, until the late 1960s, Annadurai and his trusted lieutenants like Karunanidhi were busy in theater, cinema, and politics; however, their interest in electoral politics meant that more and more of their time from the mid-1950s on would be devoted to politics rather than cinema. After the huge success of Manthiri Kumari, produced by Modern Theatres in 1950, Karunanidhi became a soughtafter dialogue writer: Manthiri Kumari was the first Tamil film to advertise the name of its story and dialogue writer prominently on 125

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the posters (Venkataswami, 2003, p. 52). In the case of Parasakthi, the intermission—Idai Velai—card also announced that the songs of the film were available on Columbia In that fact,they afterwere the release of the film, the dialogues became Records. so popular also released on gramophone records and much later on audio cassettes (Baskaran, 1996, p. 115). Therefore, reading Parasakthi as a space where the interests of the AVM Studios, and Dravidian movement activists—producer Perumal and dialogue writer Karunanidhi—intersect sheds light on the structure of the film. For instance, the inaugural song by Bharatidasan, Vazhga Vazhga Vazhgave Valamaar Emathu Dravida Nadu live! Long live!had Thewritten fertile Dravidian Land!), is composed out of(Long the verses the poet earlier, with R. Sudharsanam, AVM’s in-house music director, repeating exactly what he did in the earlier AVM film Ore Iravu with its popular song, Thunbam Nergaiayil Nee Yaleduththu Nee (When you’re overcome with grief, why don’t you play the Yal). Thus, the studio’s predilection for lines from Bharatidasan’s poems, which had already been tested for their popular success through film and gramophone records, could be predicated as the determining factor for the success of the opening sequence. On the hand, asfor Baskaran observes, the film could be read as a piece ofother propaganda the rationalist ideas of the DMK, and its characters as the mouth-pieces of its ideology (Baskaran, 2013, p. 115). In such a reading, the opening song with its exaltation of Dravidian Nadu and culture would be the ideal bracketing of the film to prepare the audience for its Dravidian rhetoric of questioning social injustice and critiquing superstitious religious beliefs. In fact, the choice of Bharatidasan’s song, which suits the different objectives of the studio and its independent producer, as the lead to the events in the life of Kalyani, enables the positing of a Dravidian utopia—a land of unimaginable plenitude—as the backdrop, against which the acute deprivations and the harsher realities of contemporary life are layered. The song, besides informing us of the history of Parasakthi’s production, encapsulates the teleology of the DK and the DMK with respect to their investment in the Dravidian Land. 126


The narrative of Parasakthi, where Gunasekaran moves from Rangoon to Madras, and later to Madurai and Tiruchi, locates the Dravidian Landand of its within theofcartography Tamil Nadu of today theimaginings Madras Presidency the time of of itsthe narrative in 1942 and thereafter. Bharathidasan’s song, however, in mapping a broader Dravidian Land, invokes an all-inclusive Dravida Nadu, which was the prime objective of the DK when it was formed in 1944: The “achievement of a sovereign independent Dravidian republic, which would be federal in nature with four units corresponding to the linguistic divisions (Madras, Kerala, Mysore, Andhra) each having residuary powers and autonomy of internal administration” (quoted in Hardgrave, 1964–1965, p. 399). However, after the States Reorganization Act of 1956, which restructured the Indian states along linguistic lines, Periyar gave up his demand for Dravida Nadu/ Dravidasthan. Nonetheless, the DMK continued with the demand for Dravida Nadu until 1963, when the Indian Parliament unanimously passed the 16th amendment to the constitution to restrain secessionist tendencies—a response mainly to the DMK’s demand for Dravida Nadu—in the immediate aftermath of the Sino-Indian War in 1962 (Hardgrave, 1964–1965, pp. 396–411). Although the DK, from its inception in 1949, was using the rhetoric of Dravida Nadu, its agenda with regards to the cartography of the Dravidian Land was not clear as Periyar’s actual interest was in the space where his ideals of rationalism and egalitarianism would be realized to challenge the cultural chauvinism of Congress and not so much in the delineation of the geographical place called Dravida Nadu/Dravidasthan. However, for the DMK the boundaries of the Dravida Nadu were critical due to its interest in the active electoral politics within the Madras Presidency: The names of the parties exemplify this, with “Dravidar Kazhagam referring to a group of people (the Dravidians), while Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam refers to a country (Dravidam).”46 Besides, unlike Periyar’s DK, which was primarily a social movement, DMK right from its inception in 1949 focused on electoral politics; therefore, it was also invested in the cartography of the Dravida Nadu. Bharathidasan, who was closely associated with 127

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Periyar’s DK and later with the DMK party and its leader Annadurai, draws a map of the Dravida Nadu through his poem. However, the Dravidian Landnot as dreamt the southern activists of the Dravidian movement included only thebyfour states (Madras, Kerala, Mysore, and Andhra) as suggested by Bharatidasan’s song but also parts of Maharashtra and Orissa before diagonally reaching the base of Bengal, thus truncating India into Northern/Aryan and Southern/ Dravidian halves.47 This binary not of just the Tamil population but of the entire Dravidian population of the South posited against the North would form the basis of its preeminent populist slogan during the elections, Vadakku vaazhkirathu, Therkku theykirathu/The north flourishes, as the south decays (Subramanian, 2002, p. 143). Parasakthi, released 5 years before 1957, when the DMK would actively enter electoral politics and win 13 of the 100 state assembly seats it contested in Madras Presidency, prefigures the faith of the DMK leaders in the role of cinema as a medium of political communication and change.48 Though Annadurai’s story and dialogues for Velaikkari (dir. A.S.A. Samy, 1949) and his dialogues in Nallathambi (1949), directed by Parasakthi’s directors Krishnan-Panju, were forerunners to Parasakthi, the success of Parasakthi in its status as heralding the Dravidian era in the politics of Tamil Nadu remains unparalleled. Though Annadurai insisted that DMK’s main preoccupation was with social change and not politics when he launched the DMK in 1949, Parasakthi undergirds the populist ambitions of the DMK to mobilize the Tamil-speaking population toward its ideology through effective dialogues in an alliterative, florid, rhetorical style exemplified by its “propagandist par excellence” Karunanidhi’s dialogues in Parasakthi. The AVM studio’s choice of Parasakthi’s rhetoric-inflected narrative, whose key moments are punctuated by the long-winded alliterative dialogues of its characters, ultimately leads to a long climactic court scene, wherein the major characters address the camera directly, underscoring the aesthetics of frontality seen earlier in the similar climactic court scene in Modern Theatres’ Manthiri Kumari. Apart from the court scene, which was shot indoors, some of the other significant sequences, where the focus is on rhetoric and 128


frontality, reflexively underscore the relationship between imaginative mise-en-scene and the available spaces in the relatively new AVM Studios—not only within but between various floors.

Studio Space as Stage of Rhetoric and Intimacy Parasakthi was shot mainly within the newly constructed AVM Studios complex, which had made its complete transition from Karaikkudi; the thatched cottages and the materials inside were transported from Karaikkudi by truck, and the cottages were transformed into concrete buildings in Madras.49 Therefore, the film innovatively blocks of the studio space as a constructed stage, due to uses theirvarious enclosed and intimate quality, mainly for its protagonist Gunasekaran to deliver his monologues and for Kalyani to share her plight directly with the audience, either through her dialogues or songs. For instance, the mise-en-scene in the sequence where Gunasekaran resolves to deceive people by acting like a madman exemplifies the economy of space in Parasakthi; this sequence occurs after Gunasekaran loses his belongings and is admonished by a cop for sleeping the we pavement. In an establishing long shot from slightly high on angle, see him walking into a street at night, whicha has a lamp post on the right side, a public water tap in the background against a compound wall, and a post box on the left side of the frame. On looking at the tap, the thirsty Gunasekaran is excited. From the same axis, there is a cut to a mid-close shot where he opens the tap but is disappointed to find that there is no water. 50 Then, reverting to the initial long shot, he is framed walking disappointedly to the post box and standing nearby. There is a cut to the midshot from the same at axis, Gunasekaran—almost leaning on the post box—looks thewherein camera and says: “Parasakthi, look at your son! … he doesn’t have food to eat … clothes to change … a place to sleep.” Toward the last line, there is a cut back to the master long shot set up as an exhausted Gunasekaran sits down leaning on the post box for support. 129

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After the sequence at Kalyani’s idli-shop the next day—back again in the same studio space—we see the camera track back with a fruit lady. an From same the sequence the previous night,seller but from eyethe level andaxis in aasmid-long shot, on Gunasekaran is again framed standing besides the post-box, as the fruit-seller lady comes and stands near him. She asks him to take care of her fruit basket and leaves to drink water at the tap at the back. Later, we see her drinking the water while the hungry Gunasekaran hurriedly peels the bananas and eats. As she returns, she notices him eating her fruit, and she comes running, and in a mid-shot we see her thrashing him. Reverting to the master-shot setup, in the mid-long shot we see her leave with her basket on her head, and the camera pans minimally to cover her walk to the right and stops, as the off-screen voices of a few men are heard on the soundtrack: “Oh! Madman … mad fellow…” Then from the right of the frame, the madman enters and dashes against her and as he tries to take a bunch of fruit from the basket, it falls on the ground and fruits scatter, and the frightened fruit seller runs for cover. There is a cut from the back of Gunasekaran to another mid-long shot—from a different axis—in which a cop enters from the left and tries to catch hold of the madman, who laughs and leaves from the right of the frame as the helpless cop just stands there. Again in the master mid-long shot, we see a few men helping the grieving fruit seller to gather her scattered fruits; she then leaves with her basket by the right side of frame. From the same axis in a mid-shot, Gunasekaran looks at the camera and says: “Insane world! … Did I steal to buy a cloth or to build a house? … To satiate my hunger, I took a fruit, and was rewarded with thrashings … whereas a madman steals a bunch of fruits, and the world is scared of him.… Hereafter, I have to change my ways … only then can I survive.” The scene tries to suggest that the sane Dravidian voice for just needs will not be heard by those in power, and a masquerade of insanity in the garb of theatricality and rhetoric is the need of the hour. Thereafter, the setup changes to the mid-long shot from Gunasekaran’s back, and a woman walks across the frame. After she leaves from the right of the frame, two men enter the frame from the same direction and the first asks: “Could we get such stuff (looking 130


at the off-screen woman)?” The other guy responds: “We could, if we spent money.” Gunasekaran charges on the men with a heavy slap ontheir theirpockets back with ofmoney his hands. When they turninback, they empty andboth place as well as cigarettes his hand and try to leave hurriedly. Gunasekaran follows and snatches the hat from one of them, and they leave murmuring, “Oh! … mad fellow …” through the right of the frame. From the initial frontal axis in a mid-shot Gunasekaran laughs, puts on the hat, and addresses the camera with the burning cigarettes in his left hand: “Success … from today I’m going to fool the people.” (See Photo 16 in the photo group section.) This sequence first creates within its enclosed space a theatrical setting for us to watch along with Gunasekaran the drama of the fruitseller and the madman. Then, by focusing on Gunasekaran through mid-shots, and isolating the other characters like people walking into the scene, it enables his addressing the audience directly like the narrator in the traditional Tamil folk play, the Kattiyakaran. The chief narrator in Therukkoothu, the preeminent form of folk theater in Tamil, informs the audience in advance about the events that are to occur during the course of the play and also recapitulates the story at the end of significant sequences. 51 Besides, the Kattiyakaran often is a performer taking on a role within the plot who keeps directly addressing the audience on significant social issues.52 Here in this sequence in the name of Parasakthi, Gunasekaran recapitulates his plight and then informs us of his role in the future as a madman. Such a theatrical ploy is made possible by the stage-like frontal setting and the camera axis focusing on a limited space, the enclosed studio space between the walls of an office and the compound wall of a temple, adding to the simulated reality of the scene as occurring on the street and setting up the environment for Gunasekaran to connect to the audience intimately as if from a dais nearby in a village folk play, in which characters enter and exit and seem to perform with and for Gunasekaran, who in return is performing and narrating to us in close confidence. The minimal production design with a post box, signifying an intimate communication (with the audience), the water tap 131

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emblematizing the drought that hit Madras Presidency in 1952 (the time of the film’s production and release), and the lamp post in the public sphere symbolizing the sum government’s power over and light (i.e., of people’s lives) up the theme of the filmdarkness by narrating social issues through a personal story to advocate for a change in governance, the central theme in the films of the playwrights of the Dravidian movement. This sequence, as it acknowledges the theatrical srcins of Parasakthi, also informs us of the way ordinary studio space is creatively transformed (by production designer A. Balu) through the aesthetics of minimalism: the bare props and the confined space set up an (intimate) podium for the protagonist Gunasekaran to deliver his populist Dravidian rhetoric as if it were a personal introspection of his life and advice to us from his lived reality. Gunasekaran’s uttering of the word “Success,” after he successfully play-acts and deceives has become part of the folklore on Tamil cinema: It was the first word uttered (in the AVM Studios on the first day of the shooting of the film) by the iconic Tamil actor of the last century, the thespian Sivaji Ganesan, who starting from Parasakthi went on to act in 288 films in five languages in a career spanning five decades from 1952 to1999.53 Since Sivaji Ganesan passed away in 2001, his 50th year of entering films was commemorated in the AVM Studios on October 17, 2002, exactly 50 years after the release of the film, by the erection of a monument at the site where he uttered his first word of dialogue—“Success”—with a bust-size imprint of Sivaji Ganesan as Gunasekaran with his hat and at the base of the monument are embossed the details of the artists, technicians, director, and the songwriters. Kamalahasan, the iconic actor of the current Tamil cinema, unveiled the memorial (see for details T.S. Shankar, 2002). What’s significant in the above memorial for my purposes is that it was erected at the spot where Sivaji Ganesan spoke his lines for the inaugural shot of the film, and this location is not inside the studio: the site where the shot was staged was outside an office at the studio, and across from a Ganesha temple, where all AVM films used to have their inaugural ceremony (Gandhi). Although in the Tamil 132


cinema tradition it is not unusual that a positive word like “success” is uttered on an auspicious occasion like the commencement of the shooting, the pooja/ceremonial shotboiling involves participation of thenormally major stars, and activity like the ofthe milk or rice, traditionally believed to be a good omen (Anandan, 2007). The very launching of Parasakthi on the street thus prefigures the plight of Gunasekaran and sister Kalyani who wander homelessly in isolation through significant segments of the film.54 Besides, the staging of the above sequence on the street, and the privileging of a theatrically driven mise-en-scene, recalls the Tamil folk tradition of Therukkoothu: The name literally means “streetplay.” The sequence also invokes the old village tree, the signifier of the locale where most Tamil folk theater performances take place, through an impressionistic shadow whose source is not revealed: Maruti Rao’s painterly cinematography presages the events to occur by creating the deep shadow of a tree on the moonlit ground in the very first long shot we see of the locale. While such lighting foretells the enclosed theatrical quality of the sequence that’s going to be staged, it also indicates through its chiaroscuro style both the darkness of Gunasekaran’s confused plight and the light of a bold decision he will make. Besides, in Tamil folkloric tradition, trees are associated with Goddesses who are worshipped before geographically marked boundaries are crossed in times of war.55 In the case of Gunasekaran, the transgression is symbolic as he wants to deceive people by taking on a mask of insanity and confront a world where there is no place for his honesty. Thereafter, when Gunasekaran has confided in us by directly addressing the camera, he sings and dances with his hat while jumping on and around the water tap. After he tosses the coins in his right hand in a close shot, two children enter from either side of the frame in a mid-long shot and are joined by other people as they form Gunasekaran’s audience. The song, Desam Gyanam Kalvi Eeasan Poosai Ellam, Kasu Mun Sellathadi (Nation, knowledge, education, religious rituals, these cannot challenge the might of money), the first one sung by Gunasekaran in the film, was written by Udumalai Narayana Kavi, one of the canonical lyric writers of the 133

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Tamil cinema from the Dravidian camp. At that time, the Congress Party ruled at the centre with Nehru as the Prime Minister, as the Congress triumphed the first245 Lok Sabha tions in early 1952 byinwinning seats. The(Parliamentary) Congress Party elecwon 152 of the 372 seats in the Madras Legislative Elections as well, and Chakravarthy Rajagopalachari was sworn in as the chief minister of Madras Presidency on April 10, 1952.56 Therefore, Udumalai Narayanakavi’s song starting with an attack on the nation indicates a trajectory that is running counter to the discourses surrounding Nehruvian socialism in later films like Naya Daur (dir. B.R. Chopra, 1957) where there is an attempt to strike a balance between tradition and modernity. On the contrary, in Parasakthi, there is a sarcastic attack on all institutions: Gunasekaran does not spare even the institution of law as he sings that even witnesses would not come to court without a bribe. As the song travels from its theme of rationalism to an anarchic critique of institutions, it turns reflexive: Gunasekaran extols artists to be pragmatic and to keep an eye on “money.” As Gunasekaran keeps singing and dancing, he encounters a small troupe of traditional Koothu performers, who are walking toward him. Gunasekaran addresses the Sthreepart lady (a man impersonating a woman) first, and the lady moves toward the centre to be framed frontally, and her lover/husband faces Gunasekaran in profile as he sings and dances. Here the film reflexively draws attention to its own source of inspiration, the Tamil Koothu tradition, while at the same time recalling its hero Sivaji Ganesan’s beginnings in Sthreepart roles like Sita and Noor Jahan. (See Photo 19 in the photo group section.) Ganesan’s first appearance on stage at the age of 10 was in the play Krishna Leela, when he played the role of the infant Rukmini, the wife of Krishna in Dwarka, which prefigured Ganesan’s famous Sthreepart roles. He would spend the next 14 years of57his life on stage essaying various roles before he acted in Parasakthi. Unlike the usual trend in the Tamil cinema of the 1950s, Parasakthi had no independent comedy track in the narrative. This song, therefore, wherein Gunasekaran addresses the Koothu artists and dances with them in abandon, became one of the biggest 134


attractions when the film was released, as it couches its social message in the humor-driven celebratory tone of Koothu. Gunasekaran tells hisKaariyathil fellow performers Aariya Koothadinaalum Kaasu Kan Vaiyadaa ThaandavakkoneThaandavakkone (Even when you perform the Koothu of the Aryans [from North India], keep an eye on money). Here as we see Sivaji Ganesan dancing with the Koothu performers, the reflexive layers become multiple: The humble Koothu performers and their skeletal troupe exemplify Sivaji Ganesan’s own early difficult years as a child and an adolescent trying to support himself and his family through traditional theater and “Company Drama” performances. Besides, Arya Koothu stands for the narratives from Ramayana and Mahabharata, unlike the Dravidian Tamil folkloric narrative of Sudalai Madan, and by extrapolation cinema itself could be claimed as an import—an Arya Koothu—co-opting and subsuming the traditional techniques and narratives from Koothu and other theatrical forms. But even in a situation where the traditional/regional artists are co-opted into Arya Koothu, the song advises them to be careful when it comes to money: The parallels between Sivaji Ganesan’s career/and the independent producer Perumal working with drama companies/AVM Studios and the financial difficulties/power equation involved in such a relationship are underscored. Such a reading is further endorsed by the lead-in to the song with Koothu performers: prior to Gunasekaran’s dancing with the Koothu artists, he is composed in a backdrop with a post box on the left, and three men in front on the pavement playing cards, while on the right side of the compound wall are posters for AVM films: One is of the film Yes Yes—it was a three-in-one “triple-billing,” which included the shorts, Vaayaadi, Poli Panchali, and Yes Yes (1940), and the other for Vethaala Ulagam.58 In front of the posters, Gunasekaran is singing and dancing to his sparse audience who have gathered as he lectures, “Even if you’re an honest man, the world will not respect you without money … scholars bow down to the illiterate fools due to the silver coins.” He turns while singing and approaches the card players who run away, then turning toward the camera he starts dancing and singing, repeating the lines: Aariya Koothadinaalum 135

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Thaandavakkone Kaasu Kaariyathil Kan Vaiyadaa Thaandavakkone (Even when you perform the Koothu of the Aryans, keep an eye on money), as he the Koothu yourfoolish anger within, and putsermonizes a smile onto your lips forartists: money“Hide … even fellows become masters because of money.” These strong rhetorical lines on the one hand point to the theme of social equality of the Dravidian agenda and on the other hand could be read as signifying producer Perumal’s conflict with producer Meiyappan due to the casting of Sivaji Ganesan as Gunasekaran: As the shooting started and about 2,000 feet of film were canned, Meiyappan was not happy with Sivaji Ganesan’s thin physique and wanted Perumal to replace him with K.R. Ramasami, a well-known star then. However, Perumal held his ground, and Sivaji Ganesan could continue to perform. Nonetheless, Meiyappan was happy with the final results, and those initial scenes where he was not happy with Sivaji Ganesan’s performance, running to almost 7,000 feet in the edited version, were reshot.59 Meiyappan’s interest in K.R. Ramasami sheds light on his stardom during 1952. Ramasami, known as Nadippisai Pulavar (the singing, acting poet) was known for his capacity to sing as well as act, and from the stage he had made a successful transition to screen with Annadurai’s script in the successful film Velaikkari. Meiyappan’s predilection for his talents could be predicated on the successful sale of the gramophone records of the film Velaikkari, which carried Ramasami’s songs (Eppadi Vazhven Ini and Paaramugham Enamma), rendered in his own voice, from the film. Besides, Meiyappan had produced his film Ore Iravu with Ramasami in the lead, and though the film did moderately well at the box office, Ramasami’s song in the film (Enna Ulagamada) had become very popular when released on records. According to Hardgrave, Ramasami was charging 40,000 rupees to act in a film in the early 1950s, whereas Sivaji Ganesan was hired for a meager 250 rupees a month for Parasakthi.60 Therefore, the commercial potential of Ramasami should have been a major consideration both at the box office and through the sales of gramophone records. Nonetheless, Sivaji Ganesan’s stentorian voice should have attracted Meiyappan’s 136


ears: Initially he was unimpressed by Sivaji Ganesan’s performance in the silent rush prints, but later while viewing the “married prints”— composite printsfavor. with61picture and sound—Meiyappan decided in Sivaji Ganesan’s This explains Meiyappan’s delayed change of heart with regard to Sivaji Ganesan’s casting. Nevertheless, Meiyappan’s official biographer Maindhan points to Sivaji Ganesan’s marriage as the reason for his looking better in the later scenes, and the reason for Meiyappan’s belated satisfaction with Sivaji Ganesan’s looks and performance, which led him to willingly reshoot the initial portion (Maindhan, 2002, p. 54). However, Sivaji Ganesan appears with an untrimmed beard signifying deprivation through a substantial part of the film, and his looking weak adds to the character of Gunasekaran. Therefore, Sivaji Ganesan’s acting, and even more importantly his “recorded” voice, should have been a major factor in a film filled with alliterative, florid, and rhetorical dialogues. Furthermore, Meiyappan’s betting on Sivaji Ganesan’s unique voice paid great dividends both at the box office and in the sale of gramophone records: Even in Malaysia, in all the (Tamilspeaking) houses, the gramophone was continuously busy playing the set of 12 LPs, which carried Parasakthi’s sound track until most records got struck in one place, and the gramophone record went into a loop of repeating a line or two.62 Besides, the optimum use of the studio space in setting it up as a stage for Gunasekaran’s direct addressing of the audience informs us of the subversive aesthetics of Parasakthi. For instance, the worldly banana seller in the above sequence is far removed from the motherly banana seller in Shri 420 (dir. Raj Kapoor, 1955), played by the legendary Lalita Pawar. If Gunasekaran enters a heartless Madras city, in Shri 420, its protagonist Raju enters a similarly dark and modernizing Bombay, but vestiges of humanity still remain to embrace him. Similarly, the dried-up water tap from which Gunasekaran seeks water to quench his thirst prefigures such a scene in Pyaasa (dir. Guru Dutt, 1957): In Pyaasa, the dry water tap epitomizes the predicament of a sensitive artist in a rapidly modernizing India where humanity has dried up; in Parasakthi, however, the dried-up water tap symbolizes the avoidable water scarcity in a metropolis ruled 137

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by the corrupt and superstitious (Congress) government. Thus, the claustrophobic studio space in which Gunasekaran is framed is used to drain in space humanity turning him into a skeptic who him will of usehis thefaith same as a before stage for his rhetoric in challenging the establishment—the government and the law. The frontality evoked by Gunasekaran’s framing, during the performance of the above sequence for an audience inside and outside the diegesis, is iconic since “symbolic meanings converge,” as we have discussed (see for details Kapur, 1993, p. 20; see also Vasudevan, 2011, pp. 110–124; Prasad, 1998), from the showcasing of the Koothu-style performance to the Koothu performers, reflexively drawing attention to Parasakthi’s project of retooling the Kattiyakaran (anchor and comedienne) in Koothu as Gunasekaran (protagonist and cynic/comedienne), the rebel. According to Neepa Majumdar, “[t]he aesthetics of frontality is inscribed into Indian modes of stardom” through “the collapsing of the metaphoric foreground and background, the surface and depth of star identities,” and by “its connections to melodrama and its presentations through mechanisms equivalent to ‘iconic framing’” (Majumdar, 2009, p. 143). Majumdar’s latter explanation is insightful as it draws attention to the centrality of melos/music and drama to the street theater format of Therukkoothu, which is always staged for an audience in places like the village square. Koothu-inspired performance and performers in Parasakthi in the above sequence, enable the frontality needed for Gunasekaran’s rhetoric and for delineating the new star, Sivaji Ganesan, on the horizon. For instance, Sivaji Ganesan’s gesturing to the camera when he says “success!” Here, as Majumdar rightly points out, it is not iconic in the classical sense of the other mythic references in the sequence to Aryans and their Koothu or plays like the Ramayana or the Mahabharatha that we have discussed, but uses a similar mechanism of “iconic framing” to draw attention to the superstitions that abound in a highly speculative industry like cinema, where even for a film driven by Dravidian ideologues, recourse to good luck through uttering words/mantras like “success” is inevitable: Of course, the inaugural shot of milk boiling in a pot is the standard for good omen in Tamil cinema, but Parasakthi’s story 138


begins in Burma in an affluent lawyer’s house and rules out any such possibilities. Majumdar, while on the “reduction in the gap between on-screen andelaborating off-screen information about” stars points to how studios were invested in emphasizing the star’s “professional identity at the cost of private, ‘inner’ information.” According to Majumdar, in the 1940s “there was still a reluctance to constitute star personae in terms of an opposition between private and professional identity. Instead the gossip that did circulate about stars tended to find visual and emotional confirmation in screen roles” [italics as in Majumdar] (Majumdar, 2009). In the context of Parasakthi, it is true that Sivaji Ganesan’s “inner information” regarding his srcins in the Boys Company and as an artist who is popular for his folkloric and mythological roles is acknowledged and made public by repurposing his skills for the rhetoric-inflected role of Gunasekaran who is also the voice of the quotidian folk or ordinary people. But the gossip regarding Meiyappan’s reluctance and disapproval of Sivaji Ganesan’s physical stature and his later acceptance of the new hero, and the independent producer Perumal and the directors Krishnan and Panju standing by the new star, which helped him entrench his career, played out in the media, particularly through in-house journals of the studios and yellow magazines. 63 Though through frontality an unkempt and lean Sivaji Ganesan is framed to play the starving and subversive protagonist Gunasekaran, as we have discussed earlier, in the space between the posters in the background and the performance in the front, the split between Gunasekaran’s identity and Sivaji Ganesan’s reality as a new star in the hands of a doubtful producer is played out: The frontality of Gunasekaran here is, therefore, truly iconic, both in the mythic sense and in its socioeconomic reflexivity. Again, a similar kind of a theatrical setting to foreground the mad hero’s histrionics is seen in the scene when Gunasekaran stays across from Kalyani’s hut and idli shop. This time he lives on the street that has the backdrop of a temple wall: In Tamil Nadu, most temples are marked by their compound wall having alternate vertical columns of white and Kaavi—a color between maroon and brown. 139

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Here too a simple arrangement with stones provides him with the place to sit and administer his imaginary kingdom in his guise as a lunatic. Gunasekaran, critiquingasks the his then Congress government’s Chief Minister Rajagopalachari, subject to send a telegram to the God of rain—Varuna Bhagawan—when he complains about the lack of water.64 In this sequence too, imitating the Koothu style, Gunasekaran enacts both the role of the minister and the subject: He renders his lines in the half-speaking-half-singing style recalling Tamil folk traditions as well as Sivaji Ganesan’s experience as a singing-acting performer, whose specialty was the variation of his voice on stage. Thethe theatrical kind of setting is repeated again around temple during melodramatic sequence where the priest triesato rape Kalyani and she escapes due to the priest’s assistant ringing the bell in time; in this sequence, the enclosed space is that of the temple premises, constructed within the studio. The scene is set up with the camera craning down vertically on the trident with lemon in front of the temple, an icon for any Amman (Goddess) temple in Tamil Nadu, and the camera pans to reveal Gunasekaran, who is singing a song based on the poem of Mahakavi Bharathiyar, Nenju Porukkuthillaye ([My] heart apprehensions, can’t bear [thegrieves injustice]!). as dignity, it meditates on people’s at theThe loss song, of their and admonishes them for their ignorance: Kanji Kudipatharkilar, Athan Karanam Ithvumendra Arivumilar (They can’t afford their daily bread, but are ignorant of the reasons for it). These lines, sung in the precincts of the temple, on the one hand frame the desolate Kalyani’s final plea to Thaai Parasakthi (Mother Goddess) to save herself and her starving child from poverty and death and her simultaneous ignorance of the vulture/priest roaming around her, and on the other hand recuperate the poem of Bharathiyar (1882–1921), which was written in the context of colonized Indian people and their deprivation, to focus on the Dravidian theme of rationality and socioeconomic equality and to address the contemporary situation where superstition prevailed over reason and where the masses suffered from ignorance of the reasons for their plight. 140


In the very beginning of this sequence, the (huge) temple bell is established by framing it through an opening at a considerable height 65

on the compound wall, which is unusual for any small However, it is effective symbolically in its foreboding of the temple. trap that Kalyani is going to get into at the hands of a wily man (the priest) and in its indexical feature as an instrument for alarm, as Kuppan saves Kalyani by ringing it. The scene ends with Kalyani running away with her child, and the angry priest coming out and hitting the obstructive Kuppan on his back, who sings: Nenju Porukkuthillaye Intha Nilaiketta Mantharai Ninaithuvittal ([My] heart can’t bear it, when I think of these undignified men). Thus, the bracketing of the scene with Bharathiyar’s poem, infused with poignancy, grief, and a call for rebellion, draws attention to the binary of the precarious Kalyani/plight of the Dravidians and the lecherous priest/hegemonic rule of the Congress Party controlled by the North Indians. Even more significantly, the sequence enclosed within Bharathiyar’s lines while revisiting Meiyappan’s troubled history with the rights of the great poet also epitomizes the Dravidian movement’s despair in the immediate period after independence as it invites the audience to engage with its discourse surrounding the nation and its discontents. To recapitulate, all the above sequences— privileging dialogue or the song—inform us of the Dravidian movement activists’ attempt to create a space of intimacy for their rhetoric, locales posited in the artificially constructed spots within the studio where a feeling of intimacy between Kalyani and Gunasekaran and the audience becomes possible due to the spatial aesthetics of containment and minimalism. Such a stage of intimacy, even as it allows for the catharsis of the affectionate and grieving siblings through their direct address of the audience, also enables the primary objective of the trenchant rhetoric against the Congress government to reach home, the domestic sphere the Dravidian politicians could not reach with their writing and speeches at mass gatherings. Such an imperative becomes clear in the climactic court scene. The domestic and the public spheres come together not only in terms of the union of the family in the court during the climax but also through the monologue of Gunasekaran at the trial—arguably 141

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the most famous lines ever written (Karunanidhi) and delivered by an actor (Sivaji Ganesan) on the Tamil screen. (See Photo 18 in the photo group section.)Tamilians Gunasekaran, in his from defense, narrates plight of the helpless who arrive foreign landsthe to find that they are unwelcome in their own land and draws attention to the helpless condition of Kalyani born in Tamil Nadu: She was chased continuously by the devious hands of luxury, glamour, wealth, and faith, and pushed to the very edges of life. Then he questions the laws, which are meant for safeguarding the rights, as to whether they have enabled her to live? Thus, the macrocosm of displaced Tamilians, epitomizing the statelessness of the Tamil people, is juxtaposed with thethe desolate Kalyani on the lonely and contrasted with securefigure homeof that the state/law shouldbridge have provided her. The directors—Krishnan and Panju—punctuate the movement from the world to the home through their mise-en-scene, which privilege meticulous camera movements, especially through the vertical movements of the crane, and by juxtaposing shots of the protagonists and their family members with that of the officials and the audience in the court. This scene also prefigures DMK’s policy of accommodation for success electoral politics: ideology Gunasekaran justifies ashisheattack on the priestinnot with Periyar’s of rationality confesses that he does not have anything against the temple but acted out of a concern that it “should not become a the den of dangerous men.” Furthermore, he declares that he stabbed the poojari “[n]ot because he is a devotee, but because devotion has become a day-time disguise” (Pandian, 2005, p. 71). The climactic monologue of Gunasekaran in Parasakthi emblematizes DMK’s agenda of populist mobilization through a stage of rhetoric and intimacy.

Dravidian Ideology and Parasakthi : The Centrality of Songs Tamil cinema historian Baskaran, in his important essay “Songs in Tamil Cinema,” while acknowledging their centrality in Tamil 142


cinema, critiques the song writers and music composers of early cinema who had made their progression from theater for not having an of the relationship of music to or “film drama,” as theyunderstanding gave in to the popular belief that versification poetry is superior to prose (Baskaran, 2013, p. 55). He also details how songs continued the oral tradition and observes that when poets from a literary background wrote the lyrics for films, those songs “remained further removed from cinema and stood out as literary and musical diversions.” He also asserts that songs, along with dialogues, curbed the “cinema-specific characteristics,” and undermined the possibility of true “political cinema” (Baskaran, 2009, pp. 65–66). Baskaran’s words echo the general criticism surrounding early Tamil talkie and later studio productions (mainly in black and white) until the late 1960s. However, my reading of some of the significant films of Modern Theatres in the last chapter and Parasakthi here undermines such a general critique. In fact, significant moments in Parasakthi’s narrative are punctuated by songs that not only bracket the story but also enable the navigation between critiquing the government and co-opting it: If the first song, Vaazhga Vaazhga Vaazhgave, reminds us of the Dravida Nadu and its vast expanse and plenitude, the last song, Ellorum Vazhavendum, wishes everyone a good life and expresses hope for a humane world where there is equality. 66 In Tamil folk traditions, particularly in Koothu (popular in the northern part of Tamil Nadu) and Villu (the predominant form in the southern region), performances conclude with an auspicious blessing of everyone who has taken part, including the audience. Apart from using the potential of songs as traditional artistic tools signifying auspiciousness and as political weapons of propaganda for bracketing the narrative, songs are carefully placed in key sequences as irreplaceable punctuation marks that either heighten the tragic undertones of the narrative or draw attention to the social and economical inequality and injustice suffered by the public by using the major turning points in the lives of its protagonists as points of departure to address the audience directly. Consider for instance, after the huge expansionistic aspirations of Dravida Nadu in the inaugural song, invoked through the sequences in the initially 143

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happy Tamil family in Rangoon, the second song (a duet) positioned in the narrative immediately after Kalyani’s marriage, which zeroes on thefor microcosm of Kalyani’s in Tiruchi, and their simple in longing a happy life together. home Her husband Thangappan addresses her as Kaniye Kanna Tamizhe Amudhe (My sweet Tamil nectar), and they express the hope that their love will light up their family life. In contrast, the very next song, the perennial classic, O! Rasikkum Seemane (Oh! Gentleman spectator), sung by the seductive dancer Kumari Kamala to Gunasekaran and her rich patrons, points to the transgressive entry of the immoral North into Dravidian territory. The song is framed with the North-Indian style Hukkah (tobacco) pots placed prominently in the foreground around the patrons as the camera tracks with Kamala as she is dancing to entertain mainly Gunasekaran, placed on the right side of the frame. Besides, she brings the intoxicating brew for him in two large wine glasses with straws in them further highlighting the dubious nature of these seductive external influences. (See Photo 20 in the photo group section.) In polar opposition to the above are the moods and values expressed in the fourth song, where the tragic Kalyani is asking her son: Poomalai Neeye Puzhudhi Manmele Veene Vandhen Thavazhndhai (Dear flower garland! Why did you choose to come and crawl on dry mud)? She addresses him as Panneerselvam, reminding us of her earlier pact with her late husband to name their child after the eminent Justice Party leader A.T. Panneerselvam if the child were a boy, and Nagammai, the Self-Respect Movement activist and wife of Periyar E.V. Ramasamy, if the child were a girl. The song, written by Karunanidhi, the screenplay and dialogue writer of the film, recalls the lines of Bharathiyar’s Nallathor Veenai Seithey, Athai Nalankeda Puzhidhiyil Erivathudo … Solladi Sivasakthi (Create a beautiful veenai [a musical instrument in the hands of the Goddess of knowledge—Saraswathi], and throw it away on dry mud, is it acceptable to you Goddess [Sivasakthi]?): Bharathi’s reflexive meditations on his own artistic capacity and its place in this indifferent world are extrapolated to address the plight of the common 144


folk in an insensitive and adverse world, and Sivasakthi is replaced by Parasakthi as the silent witness. The reference to Paneerselvam, the of the downtrodden, the conclusion songspokesman in which Kalyani asks her sonleads why us hetochose to be bornofinthe a world where millions of poor perish and only the rich have a life. In this context, the succeeding fifth song Desam Gyanam Kalvi Eeasan Poosai Ellam, Kasu Mun Sellathadi (Nation, knowledge, education, religious rituals, these cannot challenge the might of money), reflexively addresses the struggles of the life/filmmaker Perumal (and actor Sivaji Ganesan) of Kalyani/Parasakthi, as already seen, and calls for pragmatism. The next song is underpinned by Kalyani’s hopes, as she imagines her brothers would bring her relief in the melodious lullaby, Konjum Mozhi Sollum Kiliye ([My] sweet-talking parrot). The lyricist Udumalai Narayana Kavi had a literary background as a writer and a teacher and was a preeminent Dravidian ideologue as well. In this song, which exemplifies his penchant for simple words and rhyme, Kavi underscores the aspect of endogamy in Tamil culture: Kalyani hopes her brother—Gunasekaran—will bring Seedhanam (dowry) for the marriage of his (yet to be born) daughter with her son Paneerselvam. The hopes expressed in the song prefigure Kalyani’s asking toward the end of the film the aboutto-be-married Gunasekaran and Vimala for the gift of a baby girl for her boy. Kavi dexterously weaves this cultural motif with the glorification of Tamil, as Kalyani looks forward in her lullaby to her brothers arriving with a silver slate and a diamond-tipped pen, so that her son can write in Thellu Tamil (Pure/Clear Tamil). The seventh song, Kaa Kaa Kaa, which mimics the sound of crows, frames Gunasekaran as he is sitting on the compound wall of Vimala’s house and feeding the crows. While he is feeding them, he sings of his admiration for their compassion in sharing their food, unlike the selfish human beings in whose world beggars have to fight for leftover food. In a world dominated by conflicts surrounding caste hierarchies and economic inequality, Gunasekaran tells the crows to continue their superior tradition and praises their communal spirit and warns them not to listen to “a rationalist like him.” Thus, through this song, the film acknowledges that rationalism is 145

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used as a ploy in the narrative to address the socioeconomic issues in the community and its intention is not to create ruptures in an ideal situation; these lines, therefore, prefigure happy ending of the story after the resolution. The AVM Studiosthe production promises the containment of the anarchic madness of Gunasekaran in its agenda to package Dravidian rhetoric for mass consumption, thus anticipating the concessional politics of the DMK to remain in power, as opposed to the anarchist and secessionism-driven stand of Periyar’s DK. The next song, Porule Illaarkku Thollaiyaa Pudhu Vaazhve Illaiyaa (Is there no life for the have-nots?), is based on the tune of one of the most popular songs of the 1950s, Milte Hi Aankhen Dil Hua Diwana Kisika, from the Hindi film Babul (dir. S.U. Sunny, music: Naushad, lyrics: Shakeel Badayuni, and singers: Talat Mehmood and Shamshad Begum, 1950). It indicates Meiyappan’s ear for popular music through his experience in the gramophone record industry and exemplifies his and his music director Sudharsanam’s acumen to pick the tested right tunes to couch the lyrics written for given situations in their films. Indeed, Parasakthi borrowed not only from Bombay but from Lahore as well: Apart from Babul, tunes were lifted from Sunehre Din (1949), Dupetta/Dupatta (1952), and from a film made in Lahore, Akeli (music: Ghulam Haidar, 1951), in Urdu (Baskaran, 2013, p. 115).67 Significantly, the line that gets emphasized through repetition is Irul Neengum Margam Illaya Iraiva Nee Sollaiyya (Is there no way out of this darkness, God! You answer me!). This line informs us of the way the film cleverly navigates between faith and reason to appeal to a vast majority of the audience who may not necessarily share the rationalistic discourse of the Dravidian ideologues. In this song, Kalyani, with the child in her arms, is seen coming out of darkness to the light from the lantern-like lamppost in the backdrop, and the image has become iconic in Tamil cinema for the voice of the oppressed as she pleads: Porul Illadhar Illai Ennum … Thirunalle Illaiyaa (Would there not be an auspicious day, when there’re no have-nots?) Kalyani’s pleading underscores the song as the “sigh of the oppressed.” Astutely, the Dravidian writers who 146


worked in cinema appropriated the Marxist axiom of religion either as the opium of the masses or the sigh of the oppressed as it suited 68 their purposes—Ezhaiyin Sigh used of theDravidian poor, andidioms. Ezhayin Kanneer /Tears of the poor,Perumoochu/ were commonly In contrast to Kalyani’s state of mind is that of Vimala’s, who dreams of a duet with Gunasekaran in the next song: Pudhu Pennin Manasai Thottu Poravare, Ungal Ennatthai Sollivittu Ponga (Having touched a maiden’s heart, tell your response and then leave). This song showcases cinematographer Maruti Rao’s acumen in creating the moonlight effect for romance through the interior sets of a garden with lovebirds on a tree, and a moon in the sky. In her romantic mood, Vimala daringly invites Gunasekaran to taste the honey in the flower and not just to hover around as a bee: Such an amorous invitation in the dialogue, especially from a lead female character, might have never passed the censor’s scissors in 1952. Nonetheless, Vimala’s progressive character is also highlighted by the song, as it showcases the classical theme of the attraction and love for the rebel on the edge. However, Gunasekaran is haunted by Kalyani’s helpless plight and has already left Vimala’s home before she starts singing of her love for him in her dreams. Later, looking for his lost sister and her son, a distraught Gunasekaran sings verses from Bharathiyar’s poetry, Nenju Porukkuthillaye ([My] heart can’t bear), which as we have seen in detail earlier, frames the tragic plot of Kalyani’s attempted rape by the priest within the sanctum of the temple. When the song ends and the priest’s assistant Kuppan compliments Gunasekaran on singing well, he replies, “I have not written this song. If I had written it, people would have come and lynched me. This is written by someone else.” These reflexive words of Gunasekaran inform us why the filmmakers are invested in recuperating the earlier poems written by

great poets like Bharathiyar and Bharathidasan: They help address the contemporary socioeconomic context, but by invoking a literary tradition and heritage, they circumvent the censors. The final song, in fact just a few lines, chosen to end the film parallels the aesthetic tradition of singing/playing mangalam (an auspicious line/note) at the end of any folk and most classical musical 147

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or theatrical performances in the Tamil tradition. In Parasakthi, the last song, Ellorum Vazha Vendum, Uyirgal Inbutrirukka Vendum (Everyone must live well, be happy), ing the film to closure onalla beings happy should note, also brings besides diverse bringactors on the stage together: It starts with the inaugural function of the home for the orphans: Shantanayaki Anathai Viduthi/Shantanayaki Orphanage. As Gnanasekaran is on crutches, and Gunasekaran and Vimala, and Chandrasekaran, are standing amidst people, and welcoming the guests, their shots are intercut with stock shots of political figures: Annadurai (leader of the DMK) arriving for a meeting; Congress leader Bhakthavatsalam, Periyar (leader of the SelfRespect movement and the chief of DK), and Rajagopalachari (the Chief Minister in the Congress ministry) with Karunanidhi and Annadurai on the dais; Ma.Po. Sivagnanam (leader of the Tamil Arasu Kazhagam/Association for Tamil Autonomy [Ramaswamy, 1997, pp. 59–60]), who is adjusting the mike; Karunanidhi garlanding Annadurai; and a close shot of Annadurai speaking at the mike. The lines of the song exhort us to banish illiteracy and keep away selfishness; it asks people to remain united and expresses hopes for a world where there will be no poverty. When Annadurai enters at the beginning of the song and later when heis shown at the mike on the dais toward the end, the same line, Nallorgal Ennam Idhe (such is the thought of good men) is repeated on the sound track to foreground Annadurai and DMK’s progressive stance on socioeconomic issues. The song, by juxtaposing the Congress and the Dravidian leaders from Madras, disavows the specific critiques the film had made on Rajagopalachari and his Congress ministry, and by replacing the rhetorical scenes with its lead actors, which had reached its climactic moment in the court scene, by the real actors on the political scene (Ashokamitran, 2002, p. 2), and by framing them on the dais and behind the mike, the song points to the larger Dravidian agenda of a united South against the North, even as it makes its realpolitik of getting through the censors by its inclusive approach very obvious. The above detailed discussion of AVM’s seminal and most famous film, Parasakthi, thus underscores the preeminence of songs and their centrality to the film’s narrative and its success and informs 148


us of the genealogy of Meiyappan’s AVM Studios as it evolved from Saraswathi Stores, the retailer of gramophone records, to a gramophone record producer, and later into a film production company, and how that history affected its productions.

Gemini Studios and Avvaiyar According to Ashokamitran, the preeminent Tamil writer who won the prestigious Sahitya Academy Award for literature in 1996 and who had worked in the Gemini Studios from 1952 to 1966, the phenomenal success of Parasakthi posed “a real threat to the supremacy of Gemini Studios.” Therefore, to prove that Gemini “is still the champ” as far as the box office was concerned, immediately after the release of his Hindi film Mr. Sampath (1952), Gemini Studios proprietor and producer S.S. Vasan announced that his next film would be Avvaiyar. Toward the end of 1952, two months after the release of Parasakthi (October 17, 1952), Vasan fixed the release date of Avvaiyar as August 15, 1953 (Ashokamitran, 2002, p. 4). However, Avvaiyar was already a film under production for almost eight years beginning from 1945. In fact, an article in the April 1945 issue of Pesum Padam by Nath on the Gemini Studios informs us of its forthcoming features: Kannamma En Kadhali, Chandralekha, and Avvaiyar (see Nath, April 1945, pp. 8–16). Ashokamitran, who had seen the huge amount of footage shot on Avvaiyar, reminisces that there were 2 hours of material shot on Avvaiyar’s—the poetess’s—birth, another 2 hours on her childhood, and a similar amount of time was spent on scenes of her renouncing the world; an equal amount of material was shot on her encounter with a henpecked man; almost double the time (4 hours) to wrap up the episode of her confrontation with a ghost; and another 2 hours of film was shot on her at the residence of a generous chieftain. Apart from these, there were several additional episodes of 2 hours shot over the almost seven-year period when the film was under production before 1952. Nonetheless, once the film’s release date was announced, the production work reached a feverish pace, and Vasan, working “like a man possessed,” streamlined the several unconnected 149

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episodes and to link them shot fresh scenes. The final version of Avvaiyar thus had more scenes shot in the six months prior to its release than all material shot years before. Ashokamitran was amazed onthe seeing the final version, which had diverse (2002) material seamlessly edited together, and observes that the film exemplified for him “craft fine-tuned into an art” (pp. 4–5). But this kind of an approach of making films without a bound script, which is more often the norm in Indian cinema, has its critics both outside and inside the industry; for instance, as early as in 1938, Baala Nadigai (Child Artist) Rukmini condemns it: the dialogues and songs are never ready by the time of the shooting ... the producers take the artists outside Madras City, and while away their time for two or three months without having any idea about the screenplay. Then suddenly one day they will turn the lights on, and ... ask for takes, retakes and safety retakes endlessly.... (Rukmani, 1938, pp. 47–48)

However, knowledge of the srcins of the Gemini Studios and the background of Vasan sheds light on the various cultural and sociopolitical factors that influenced the production of Avvaiyar and enables our understanding of its final version as positing a competing narrative to that of Parasakthi.

The Early Career of Vasan Vasan started his career when he was with his widowed mother in Madras, studying at Pachaiyappa’s College. As he did not want to bother his mother with the financial burden of his education, and being attracted by the success of the people whose stories he read in self-improvement books, he started his VPP—Value Payable by Post—business. In those days, soaps, mirrors, combs, toys, and other similar products of regular consumption used to land in Madras through ships coming from England and Japan. The innovative Vasan offered 144 products for 1 rupee and made successful inroads into a highly competitive market.69 As he was an avid reader, he started selling books too through the VPP mode of business; he

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created a niche for himself in the market for suspense and mystery novels. He translated English novels intomagazines. Tamil, and expanded, started advertising in Tamil Oneasofhis themarket magazines he chose to advertise in was Ananda Vikatan (Sundha, 2004, p. 78). He paid an advance in July 1927 for the advertisement that was to appear in the August issue. As the issue did not come out on time, Vasan went and met the publisher, who revealed that many readers were not renewing their subscriptions and returning the issues sent through VPP by not paying for it. Ultimately Vasan bought Ananda Vikatan from its founder Poothur Vaithyanathan Iyer, and his first issue of Ananda Vikatan out in India) February withprominence significant Bharatha Annaicame changes. (Mother was1928 given in the logo on the cover with an announcement by the new editor Vasan: “Since Mother India’s plight is well known to me, this magazine will do everything possible for her progress despite the obstacles” (Sudha, 2004, pp. 79–80). Due to Vasan’s business acumen and his ability to choose the right men for the job, soon Vikatan became a household name among Tamil readers, and one of its major attractions was the prizes he offered through various competitions, a successful trend foreshadowed by the quiz10contest his very2004, first issue that carried a prize of a clock worth rupeesin (Sundha, p. 80). This attitude of engaging with his readers/audience by rewarding them lasted throughout his career: For instance, when Avvaiyar was released on August 15, 1953, Ananda Vikatan did not carry the much-anticipated review of the film; instead it published letters from the readers/fans who had seen the film—such publication of letters as review/promotion was first of its kind. 70 Vasan wrote serialized novels in his magazine: One such novel was Sati from Leelavathi. A.N. Marudhachala Chettiar, successful distributor Coimabatore, bought the rights for afilming it from Vasan, and Sati Leelavathi (1936), directed by Ellis R. Dungan, was a huge success at the box office. It introduced a lot of actors from the stage who later went onto become stars of the Tamil cinema, including M.G. Ramachandran (MGR), who played a small role as a police 151

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inspector. Vasan was credited in the titles with “srcinal story” (see for details on Sati Leelavathi: Guy, 2004, p. 197). success Sati Leelavathi encouraged Vasan to of enter the film The industry as aofdistributor: He became the proprietor GPC— Gemini Pictures Circuit. In 1937, K. Subrahmanyam, the legendary director of the Tamil cinema, founded the Motion Pictures Producers Combine (MPPC), as a joint venture with other producers in Madras, with a studio at Spring Garden in the heart of Madras city, which later became Movieland-Gemini Studios when Vasan bought it.71 In 1938, K. Subrahmanyam, bought the rights for his film Sevasadanam from Vasan: Sevasadanam, srcinally written in Hindi by Munshi Premchand (Seva Sadan, 1918), was translated into Tamil and serialized in Ananda Vikatan. Subrahmanyam paid 4,000 rupees, the highest amount paid for a story until then in the Tamil film industry (Rangarajan, 2005, p. 31). Seva Sadanam (1938) was also the film in which the prima donna of Carnatic music M.S. Subbulakshmi made her debut as an actress. The next film produced and directed by Subrahmanyam was Thyagabhoomi (1939). Vasan, who was involved in the production of the film as a financier-distributor of Thyagabhoomi, used an inventive style for the publicity of the film. As the film was under production, the story, by arguably the most popular Tamil novelist of the last century, Kalki (the pseudonym adopted by the writer R. Krishnamurthy), was serialized every week in the issues of Ananda Vikatan from January to May in 1939:72 Instead of the usual illustrations accompanying the story in the form of sketches by artists every week, still photographs from the film under production were used. For 20 weeks, 16 pages of the story appeared on glossy paper in every issue of Ananda Vikatan, so that people could bind it as a novel at the end (Rangarajan, 2005, p. 38). This innovative method in the late 1930s built a lot of expectations for the film, which opened to a great reception at the box office. However, after 20 weeks of its successful run it was banned by the British government (Rangarajan, 2005, p. 39): The Congress ministry with Rajagopalachari as the chief minister, which was in power when the film was released on May 20, 1939, resigned on October 29, 1939, to show their disapproval of the British government’s involvement of 152


India in the Second World War without consulting the people and their party high command (Anandan, 2004, pp. 28 [19]). Though Thyagabhoomi’s centered oninthe bane of untouchability and the plight of atheme progressive woman a patriarchal society, it had the subtext of nationalism and a pro-Congress agenda. The chorus song sung by D.K. Pattammal, Desa Sevai Seiyya Vareer (Come, let’s serve the nation), had the flag waving Congress Party volunteers shouting slogans to rouse the patriotic spirit and the protagonist Savithri courting arrest. The narrative of the film revolves around the life of Savithri and her father Sambu Shastri, referred to as the Gandhi of Tamil Nadu in the film. In a scene that incurred the wrath of the government machinery in British India, Sastri is shown with the iconic charka—the spinning wheel—in a Gandhi-like posture. The film made its referencing obvious by intercutting the scene with stock shots of Mahatma Gandhi, thus provoking the British government’s immediate action.73 However, despite the ban order, Vasan, the financier-distributor for Madras city and the producer Subrahmanyam were undeterred in their attempt to show the film to the enthusiastic audience: In Gaiety Cinema (one of the oldest cinema houses still in business) in Madras, continuous free shows for the public were arranged until the ban order was legally received in person by the management (Rangarajan, 2005, pp. 39–40).

The Gemini Studios and Its Early Films In 1940, when Subrahmanyam’s Motion Pictures Producers Combine’s Studio came up for auction Vasan won the bid for 80,427 rupees and 11 annas (1/16th of a rupee) and started his Gemini Studios (see for details on the auction: Naradar, 2004, p. 122; see Photos 6 and 7 in the photo group section). A Dindugal-based company was producing a film of Madanakamarajan, a popular Tamil folk tale. The production company—the partnership firm Amirtham Talkies—chose the Gemini Studios for their production, and soon the production ran into trouble due to a misunderstanding between the 20 partners, and Vasan intervened, and took complete control of financing and production to bail out the producers. 153

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Madanakamarajan, released on October 28, 1941, was advertised as “Produced for Dindugal Amirtham Pictures at Gemini Studios” (see Anandan, 2004,film p. 28). film wasand notthe a success at the box office. The was However, directed bythe B.N. Rao story and the dialogues were by B.S. Ramaiah, a writer associated with his publication of the famous Tamil literary magazine, Manikkodi.74 Kamil V. Zvelebil in his book, Two Tamil Tales: The Story of King Matanakama, The Story of Peacock Ravana attributes the time of the Tamil folk tale of Madanakamarajan to the late medieval period and the early modern period, between approximately 1750 AD and 1900 (see Zvelebil, 1987, pp. xxvii–xxviii). Madanakamarajan Kathai (The of Madanakamarajan) consists of 12 tales narrated bywith the princestory Madanakamarajan and revolves around his adventures Buddhi Chadurya, the clever son of a prime minister. Their adventures together frame the episodic tales, which are narrated over the course of 12 nights in traditional folk performances. Subsequently, in the following days, the plot is resolved “due to the grace of goddess Kali” (Zvelebil, 1987, p. xii; for the detailed story of Madanakamarajan, read The Story of Matanakama, pp. 1–172). The noted Carnatic music singer V.V. Satagopan played the prince in the film, and the N. Krishnamurthy played his friend, while K.L.V. Vasantha assumed role of the prince’s sweetheart. Vasan’s next film Nandanar (1942) was based on the story of Thiru Nalaippaovar (the Saint who will go [to Shiva’s temple at Chidambaram] tomorrow), as dramatized by poet-playwright Goplakrishna Bharathi (1811–1896) in his musical Nandan Charitiram.75 It was earlier adapted for the screen by Director Raja Sandow in his silent film Nandanar or the Elevation of the Downtrodden (1929). Nandan, a Dalit, is an ardent devotee of Lord Siva and aspires to go to the temple at Chidambaram to worship him. However, he is a farmhand working for a Brahmin landlord who creates obstacles to his ambitions, but finally relents upon recognizing Nandan’s power as a devotee and bows down before him. 76 Gopalakrishna Bharathi, who was an advocate for prohibition and an activist against untouchability, had characterized Nandan as 154


fighting against the superstitions of other farm workers and their drinking habits. Initially, they resist his attempts to change their habits andfollow traditions; however, they finally in toGopalakrishna his perseverance and his path (Baskaran, 1981, give p. 85). Bharathi’s play had resonances of his nationalistic preoccupations. He borrowed the idea for his play from Sekkizhar’s Periya Puranam. Sekkizhar was a minister in the court of Chozha King Kulothunga Chozha II (1133–1150 AD) and wrote the Periya Puranam to wean the king away from his preoccupation with Civaka Chintamani, the classic Jain literature.77 However, Vasan’s film fetishizes Nandan as an object of Sanskritization and portrays his community and immediate environment in poor light. After the release of Madanakamarajan, there are two main streams that run through Gemini Studios’ productions: one exemplified by the inspiration from traditional folk tales, mythology, and the Tamil literature found in films such as Madanakamarajan, Nandanar, Dasi Aparanji (1944), and Gnana Soundari (1948), and the other based on attractions and spectacles, represented by films such as Mangamma Sabatham (1943), Chandralekha (1948), and Aboorva Saghodarargal (1949). The folkloric-mythical films of Vasan—Madanakamarajan, Nandanar, and later Avvaiyar, resonated with the popular sentiments regarding Tamil specificity, as exemplified by the articles in popular Tamil magazines. For instance, Muthukumarasami Paavalar, in his article in Silver Screen, criticizes the trend to look toward the North for content and argues for Southern female icons like Karaikkal Ammaiyar, Avvaiyar, and Rani Mangammal as having greater aura than Meerabai and Sakkubai.78 Nevertheless, after Chandralekha’s phenomenal pan-Indian success, in its Tamil and (dubbed) Hindi versions, Vasan was referred to as the Cecil B. DeMille of Tamil cinema:79 The climactic drum dance involved 400 dancers rehearsing for 6 months, was shot for 2 months with 8 cameras and eventually edited to a length of less than 5 minutes, and cost 200,000 rupees, the entire budget of an average Tamil film in 1948.80 Gemini’s next film, Aboorva Saghodarargal, was a remake of The Corsican Brothers (dir. Gregory Ratoff, 1941) based on Alexander Dumas’s novella of the same name (1844): Douglas 155

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Fairbanks, Jr., had played the brothers in the Hollywood version, and M.K. Radha, the regular actor on the payroll of Gemini Studios, did the double role of the good streams, and the evil brother in Tamil. Both these significant drawing from the reservoirs of the ancient Tamil literature and mythology and showcasing attractions and spectacles, merge in the narrative of Avvaiyar, as Vasan was driven by an immediate necessity to respond to Parasakthi’s narrative and its box-office success.

The Congress Party: Avvaiyar and Parasakthi 81

Being nationalistprovocative and a staunch supporter, Vasan found aParasakthi as itCongress critiquedParty the Congress Party, and its project of Nehruvian nationalism and socialism, through its invocation of a prosperous Dravidian land, by juxtaposing it with the abject poverty of Kalyani and the loss of values in postindependent India. Vasan, who remained true to his declaration in the very first issue of Ananda Vikatan regarding his commitment to Bharatha Annai (Mother India), remained a Congress Party loyalist until his last breath.82 In fact, it was the Congress Party that nominated him as a member the until Upper Sabha) in the Parliament 83 (from April 3,of 1964, hisHouse death).(Rajya According to his son S. Balasubramanian, who carried on the baton of running the magazine successfully from him, his faith in the Congress Party was so complete that even on the day he passed away—August 26, 1969—just prior to his death, he gave his son a copy of The Hindu to read which carried a news item concerning the fading away of the split in the Congress Party. 84 Besides, he was the president of the Film Federation of India for two terms and took up causes on behalf of producers all over India and negotiated with the central government.85 Therefore, Avvaiyar, which was under production for a long time, came in handy for Vasan as a response to Parasakthi. The narrative of Avvaiyar enabled a space both to celebrate an ancient

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Tamil land, its people, and their culture and imbue it with a spirit of cohesive unity undergirded by the uniqueness of the Tamil language, link between the war-mongering in South India as well the as between the South and the North.chieftains Even more important, as Sivathamby points out, the predicament of Vasan as “a leading Brahmin film producer” has to be taken into account here: Though like the activists of the DMK and its playwrights, he was invested in the popular theme of the literary heritage of Tamil, he responded to the atheistic stance of Parasakthi by highlighting the religious consciousness in Avvaiyar (Sivathamby, 1981, p. 48). In the case of Meiyappan (of AVM Studios), since he was from the Chettiar caste (a non-Brahman could easily straddle between nationalistic (Naam Iruvaridentity), ) and the he Dravidian (Parasakthi) ideologies, whereas Vasan’s identity and his loyalties disallowed such possibilities (Chakravarthy, 2007). Nonetheless, in his autobiography, Meiyappan considered his winning of the best children’s film award from Nehru for his film Hum Panchhi Ek Daal Ke (We are Birds on a Single Branch, 1957), “Perum Bakkiyam (Great Fortune).” His wearing of Khadi and the production and distribution of the dubbed version of Ram Rajya and later the free offering of the facilities at his studio the Tamil dubbing of a documentary on Mahatma Gandhi to for Devdas Gandhi (Gandhiji’s son) mark Meiyappan too 86 as a staunch nationalist and a pro-Congress man. Guntoosi, in its editorial of the March 1948 issue, appreciates Meiyappan’s homage to Mahatma Gandhi through the release of songs sang in his honor by M.K. Thyagaraja Bagavathar and D.K. Pattammal, wherein the sacrifices he undertook for the nation’s independence is acclaimed (see Guntoosi, 1948, pp. 52–53). Therefore, the discourses surrounding Parasakthi as a courageous and subnationalist film, and the most famous production of the AVM Studios owe a lot to the intervention of an independent producer, Perumal—as observed earlier in this chapter. Nonetheless, Baskaran points out the contradictions in Perumal: Despite his being a Dravidian ideologue, Parasakthi’s “shooting began with a traditional pooja.”87

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Genealogy of the Gemini Studios and the Figure of Avvaiyar

Composite

Although all the above factors enhance our understanding of Vasan’s interest in dusting off a film that was long in the making,88 and to release it immediately in the wake of Parasakthi’s massive success, the most significant factor for Vasan’s choice of Avvaiyar as his most ambitious production and as a direct response to his rival and competitor should have been his and Avvaiyar’s srcins. Vasan, who started his career in the VPP business and later tasted success as the editor of Ananda Vikatan and as the proprietor of Gemini Studios, was invested in stories andhe myths Tamil literature and episodic narratives where couldsurrounding showcase attractions and spectacles.89 Myths and legends surrounding the Tamil poetess Avvaiyar offered such possibilities. Besides, Vasan’s investment in spectacles and an episodic narrative had already paid him rich dividends in Chandralekha (1948) as it was a huge success across the country.90 Avvaiyar’s poems, along with the songs of the popular lyricist Papanasam Sivan and the director Kothamangalam Subbu, became very popular as well. The canonical worksscholars. of the poetess Avvaiyar have posed historical difficulties for Tamil The general understanding is that there were two Avvaiyars—one during the Sangam period (circa first and second century CE), and the other in the thirteenth century CE, during the Chozha period.91 The second Avvaiyar was the contemporary of such great poets as Kambar and Ottakkooththar. However, Tamil scholars like Zvelebil endorse the view expressed in the Encyclopedia Abhidana Chintamani, that there were three Avvaiyars: According to Zvelebil, the first was a classical bard supported by Atikaman Neduman Atikamn Anci,during the lordthe of Takatur (the Sangam period); the second was a poetess ninth–tenth century CE, whose poems were didactic and revolved around morality, although some of them were religious; and the last Avvaiyar appears approximately in the twelfth–fourteenth century, a contemporary of Ottakoothar and Pukalenthi. Zvelebil also explores, through Tamil 158


literature and history, how she came to be this famous composite “Old Lady” of Tamil literature since many later poems were ascribed to as well(lower as many legends: She born to Brahmin father andher, a Pulaya caste) mother in was Uraiyoor; shea was brought up by a Panar (minstrel); she was the sister of poets Thiruvalluvar and Kapilar; and she remained unmarried and lived for 240 years by eating “a nelli/emblic myrobalum fruit” (Zvelebil, 1997, pp. 169–70). Zvelebil’s concise delineation of the Avvaiyar figure explains Vasan’s tenacious and continued involvement in the Avvaiyar project, and his exposing of hours of footage, as it offered fodder for both Vasan’s predilections for assemblage as an editor of a popular weekly, who was highly invested in episodic narratives, and his preoccupation with spectacles as a prestigious studio owner and film producer: The persona of Avvaiyar could subsume legends and myths and also offer the vehicle to mediate the strident voices of the Dravidian ideologues. However, according to V. Padma (Mangai), the preeminent feminist writer and theater personality, “In Tamil literary history at least four Avvais are mentioned in different stages.” Mangai critiques the mystification of Avvai as “a pious, old, wise woman in Tamil culture,” particularly Vasan’s objective to span “eighteen centuries” through a composite-mythical figure, and she appropriates Avvai’s persona as a sensuous young woman for her gender-driven politics as a committed, experimental theater director/artist (see Padma, 2000, p. 222).

Avvaiyar : The Narrative as Tapestry The film starts with a voiceover on the mid-long shot of Goddess Sarasawathi (Goddess of Knowledge), addressing her as Tamil Thaai (Mother Tamil), and the offering of the “seven-year” unique effort to her, with salutations to the Tamil scholars and people. As the first song celebrates the perennial river Kaveri, shots of waterfalls dissolve to the image of a vast lake, and the consistent visual quality marks them as srcinal shots taken for the film. During the next line, Madu Katti Poradiththal Malaathu Chennel Endru, Aanai Katti 159

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Poradikkum Azhagana Then Madurai (As the strength of the cows were not enough for de-husking the rich paddy, elephants were used in beautiful Madurai), huge walk bigthe haystack oversouthern the paddy on the floor to elephants separate the ricearound from itsa brown kernels. This landmark shot proclaims the spectacular ambitions of the film, even as it foretells the narrative’s preoccupation with the specificity of Tamil culture and tradition. The following lines showcase a temple tower and a panel of the ancient architecture, as the song celebrates the stone-carving skills of ancient Tamils and praises their artistry. It ends with an invocation of Avvai as the one who has come to sing in unique Tamil the glory of the Mother Goddess. The very first letter to the editor published in Ananda Vikatan on Avvaiyar points to the affect Vasan aimed at through the grand opening sequence: “In short one could wait not just seven but any number of years for such a film.” By producing such a film, “you have served the Tamil language, Tamil Nadu, and the Tamil people” (see for details Vedhantham’s letter in 1953, pp. 28–29). After the introductory song, in a sequence recalling Adam and Eve a couple—the pregnant Aadhi and Bhagawan—walk through a forest and Aadhi gives birth to a child. However, Bhagawan asks her to follow him and leave the child in the forest. She pleads with him, looking at the child, but he says, “This is not a gift for you alone; it’s a gift for the world.” Amidst a spectacle of rain, thunder, and lightning, the child is carried with its basket through a narrow stream of water into a canal that merges with a river. A Brahmin taking a bath discovers the girl in the basket and brings her home; he and his wife bring her up.92 Even as a young child, Avvaiyar’s poetic prowess is focused through her ability to complete a learned poet’s incomplete poem, which he is struggling to complete, by formulating a meaningful simile: The film uses Avvaiyar’s well-known poems for the purpose. The poet expresses his concept of a “good deed as the one that is done without the expectation of any reward”; the young Avvai, on hearing the poet’s narration to her father, steps in to complete his poem: “Like the coconut tree, which sucks the water at its feet, and gives it back through its head—as the sweet coconut water and milk.” 160


The lines sung by the poet and the young Avvai, “Nandri Oruvarkku Seithakkal …,” are from Avvaiyar’s Moodhurai, which Zvelebil attributes the second (ninth–tenth WhentoAvvai grows Avvaiyar into a beautiful maidencentury and sheCE). is pressured to get married by her mother, she goes and worships the elephantheaded Lord Ganesha. On the day when the groom arrives for the betrothal, Avvai goes to Ganesha and sings: Kanniparuvam Pothum Pothum, Annayin Uruvam Arulvai Arulvai … Gnanamum Kalviyum Arulvai (Enough of this youth, please grant me a mother’s form.… Bless me with knowledge and education). An elephant appears superimposed over the image of Ganesha, and light passes from the Lord to Avvai and as she lifts her face up from her bowing down stance, she has now transformed into an old lady—Avvaiyar. (See Photo 21 in the photo group section.) Even as the film punctuates a sudden elision in her age through the passing of light (the signifier of miracles in Indian cinema) it also marks its imperatives as different from that of Parasakthi: In Avvaiyar, a beautiful maiden (Kusalakumari) is transformed into an old woman in her 60s (K.B. Sundarambal), thus erasing her encounters with the world as a young woman and a mother, whereas the narrative of Parasakthi revolved around the plight of the young widow Kalyani and her elder brother Gunasekaran, both apparently in their early 20s.93 The transformed Avvaiyar thanks and takes leave of her shocked parents and the people assembled near the Ganesha statue under the tree. She convinces her shocked audience: “God has not created me for marital life; my purpose is to lead the people on the right path … my duty is to serve them; from now on the world is my home, and the sky is my roof….” The smooth transformation of Avvaiyar from a beautiful maiden to an old lady is not only achieved visually through the dissolves and the special effect of light entering her from Lord Ganesha but also aurally through the sequence of songs from the mellifluous M.L. Vasanthakumari (Kanni Paruvam Pothum Pothum, music: M.D. Parthasarathy) to the inimitable K.B. Sundarambal (Ayyane Anbarku Meiyyane): Gemini had the versatile sound engineer C.E. Biggs, and both the RCA and BAF recording systems.94 161

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Next, we see her in front of a multitude of people, as she sings Jaathi Irandoliya Verillai…. In this significant song, she says that there only two castes/divisions among beings: again Thosefrom who share are their fortune and the others who do human not. Borrowed Avvaiyar’s Moodhurai, this poem also clearly indicates the liberty the film takes with the chronology of her literature, as Avvaiyar’s earlier songs come much later in the film. Nonetheless, this indicates the film’s eagerness to respond to the casteist politics of Parasakthi and its scathing attack on social inequality and the critique of the highercaste priest/Brahmin. By eliding her youth, the film not merely disavows contemporary social issues but shifts the focus from burning issues of caste to the humane quality of sharing. By positing her as this miraculous and wise old woman, it appeals to a primordial imaginary of a just world where wisdom was valued and man-made divisions had yet not come into play. Even a year after the release, the mythology surrounding Vasan’s Avvaiyar was fascinating for the audience, as exemplified by the productive network he believed in—popular magazines; however, it is Ananda Vikatan’s competitor Kumudam that is disseminating the news about Avvaiyar in December 1954, indicating its continued popularity: Kusalakumari, who played Avvaiyar as the beautiful maiden, writing on “My favorite scene in the film” column, points to the scene “where the mammoth elephant is followed by a playful young girl/maiden as if she had grown up with the elephant from her birth.” The reason for her perky behavior was her awareness of its Godliness. “Before Avvaiyar transforms into an old woman, readers may be aware that I was the one who played the young Avvaiyar, and I like that scene.”95 Elephants epitomize Vasan’s desire for vastness of scale in his imperatives of marketing spectacles for an audience across borders, as exemplified by Chandralekha and Avvaiyar where there are sequences staged around the movement of/moving elephants. Thereafter, in a montage of songs drawn from Avvaiyar’s poems, we see her popularity growing: K.B. Sundarambal’s unique voice is used effectively to foreground its pitch and her adept Tamil diction. As Avvaiyar sings to a huge gathering on a hill, shots on exterior locations are matched with finesse with shots in the studio interiors. 162


This leads to the lavish settings of Avvaiyar’s arrival in the city to meet the Chozha King. A song anticipating her arrival is picturized on a grand scale withspecific the entire city inculture celebration: Starting with and the musical instruments to Tamil (Tharai, Thumbai, Thappattai), in a collage of folk (Poikkal Kuthirai) and the classical (Bharathanatyam), Avvaiyar is showcased as a celebrity, for whose glimpse men and young maidens in the balcony are waiting eagerly. As Avvaiyar arrives into the “Cecil B. DeMillean” set of the city street surrounded by palatial buildings and people, the Chozha King of Thakatur—Athikaman Neduman Anci—comes with his entourage and receives her. (See Photo 22 in the photo group section.) When he requests her to be his guest, she declines by saying, “Have I given up my youth to seek refuge in a palace? … The noble life of the Tamil region today is amidst the dilapidated walls and the huts of the people … the tireless workers are plagued by famine, disease, and ignorance … I have to guide these people who have lost their path.” The Thakatur King Athikaman Neduman Anci, however, figures in history during the Sangam period of the first Avvaiyar (first and second century CE). The film takes its liberties for staging its dramatic conflicts by borrowing ahistorically from Avvaiyar’s chronology of poems and the figures she interacted with, thus pointing to Vasan’s interest in an assorted but coherent narrative through an episodic retelling of the myths, legends, and the history of the Tamil literature surrounding Avvaiyar, recalling again his past as an editor–publisher of the popular weekly Tamil family magazine Ananda Vikatan, which serialized episodic narratives. Avvaiyar’s mobilization in this sequence is reflexive of Vasan’s attempt to mobilize the Tamils for his politics of the present, not only through the production but also through reception and promotion of the film: Vasan released Avvaiyar in Telugu, Malayalam, and Kannada languages with a short introduction about the narrative in the beginning (see Anandan, 2004, p. 28). Then Avvaiyar takes leave of the king, and on her way through a parched land she observes the king’s tax collector harassing a philanthropist (Kaari), who has been distributing the rice from his farms to the famine-hit people instead of paying his yield as tax to the king. 163

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When Kaari asks for a year’s time to pay his due, he is arrested. On behalf of Kaari’s beneficiaries who go and protest outside the palace, Avvaiyar and meets the King Athikaman Neduman Anci and asks him goes for justice: “O King! Should Kaari Aasan be arrested just because he did what you are supposed to do? … Only if the people live well, can the King live well.…” The king asks her forgiveness and immediately orders Kaari to be released, and Avvaiyar is pleased with his kindness and demeanor and ponders why there should be drought and famine when such good-hearted people are in this world. She sings, Nellukkiraitha Neer Vaikkaal Vazhi Odi.… (Just as the water used for irrigating the rice fields, seeps through and quenches the thirst of the grass around, so also a good person’s presence brings rainfall for everyone.) Toward the end of the song, through the spacious balcony of the palace where the king and Avvaiyar are standing, the camera frames the heavy downpour of rain and thunder. The last line from Avvaiyar’s above poem, Ellarkkum Peyyum Mazhai (Rain will fall for all), is reprised in the lyrics of the film song and is layered over the montage of water: After the downpour, a stream of water gushes, followed by a shot of the waterfalls, a canal that dissolves into a river, people on the banks of the river, and men with cows on the field. Thus, water/a compassionate king is exemplified as the conduit between heaven and earth. Through the above montage, the song acclaims both the good “Vedhiyar/Brahmin,” and the one who feeds the people of the state—Uzhavargal/Farmers. While this resonates with the contemporary discourses surrounding Ambedkar, Periyar, and Iyothee Thassar, and their appropriation by the higher castes, it also sheds light on Vasan’s attempt at inclusivity to challenge what he perceives as the divisive politics of the DMK. Thus, by appealing to the goodness in a human being, the film addresses the issue of unity and compassion during adverse times of drought and famine and responds directly to Parasakthi’s criticism of a Brahmin Chief Minister’s—Rajagopalachari’s—proposal of assuaging the Rain God for solving the scarcity of water, by juxtaposing the Brahmin and the farmer, and portraying them as living peacefully under a benevolent king: Only the in-between tax collectors (government officials) are rendered as villains. 164


The next song, Arumuga Velan Varum Neramadhu (When will Arumuga Velan arrive), frames a folk play, Vallikkoothu, which is about Murugan—theValli, Tamil whotoisa Kurathi the younger brother of Lord Ganesha—and whoGod, belongs (nomadic) tribe, and their love affair. Though the film uses the narrative from the folk literature, the song uses elements from both folk and classical Bharatanatyam. In Parasakthi, Jolly, the archetypal vamp, who stalks Gunasekaran the moment he lands in Madras, and relieves him of his belongings, tells him at the lodge: “If there were an association to ban cinemas, I would like to be its president. Only Bharatanatyam suits the culture of our country. I know a place where there’s a good dance performance. Let us go there.” The classical Bharatanatyam dance was associated with high culture and Brahmins, and therefore, Parasakthi not only critiques Bharatanatyam but associates it with the trickery and fraud of a vamp and privileges the folk form of Koothu, as already noted.96 However, Vasan’s imperative is to be allinclusive in foregrounding a united Tamil culture, by co-opting both the elitist and the folk art forms and eliding caste and socioeconomic inequalities. The predicament of the lead actor of Vallikkoothu is similar to that of Lord Murugan himself. Chinnaan, who plays the lead role, has two wives, and they are fighting among themselves, and Avvaiyar enters the scene and brings peace to their family through her miraculous power of making two ripe jack fruits appear in a nearby tree: Jack fruit, the harbinger of a child, was the point of contention among the wives in the childless family. Thus, a superstitious belief is celebrated through the spectacle of time-lapse photography: In a midlong shot the tree grows from a seed, its leaves and branches develop, and finally two fruits—one after the other—grow bigger and bigger and almost fill the frame as if marching toward the camera. Avvaiyar advises the happy wives not to quarrel and asks Chinnaan not to beat his wives. He replies: “I will not, but by your grace, if a son is born, he will.” Thus, far removed from the call for rationality and equality in Parasakthi, here the film endorses the status quo, although it seems natural for such a dialogue to be spoken in a patriarchal society and by a person in Chinnaan’s position. In the end, Avvaiyar’s smile as 165

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a reaction to Chinnaan’s statement indicates even her miraculous poems and songs cannot change things in this regard. episode starts with a chariot on Paari, withThe his next daughters Angavai and Sangavai, on the the move: way toKing his palace notices a Mullai (Jasmine), a creeper plant, lying across the road. He gets down, and with the help of his daughters, places his chariot in the place of the tree—cut down by a “heartless person”—for the plant to creep toward and survive. Avvaiyar, on her mission to educate the people, notices this and is overwhelmed by his empathetic gesture: She praises him and says that as long as the Jasmine flower lives in this world, his fame will be there too. But she refuses the invitation to his palace citing her visit to Madurai. However, unyielding Paari comes in disguise as a bandit and loots her belongings, the small cloth pottalam/package in which she has tied all her minimal possessions. When an angry Avvaiyar arrives at Paari’s palace to complain at the state of things under his rule, he seeks her forgiveness, and reveals his disguise as a ploy to bring her to his palace. Paari’s daughters entertain Avvaiyar with their dance, and she blesses them for a happy marriage. Paari reveals his daughters’ desire to marry the king of Thirukkoviloor, Deiveegan (Gemini Ganesan, credited as R. Ganesh in the film), and says that the three kings—of the Chera, Chozha, and Pandiya kingdoms— have also expressed their desire to marry her. Avvaiyar expresses her surprise at three men wanting to marry two women and says that it may not be their intention to marry the girls but their proposal is a plot to create trouble and antagonize Paari. Avvaiyar’s reaction of coolly accepting two women’s intentions to marry a single man, and her surprise at three men proposing to two women indicates bigamy as an accepted practice during her times—a custom seen earlier in the Chinnaan episode too. Thus, Avvaiyar, while challenging the injustices she sees around her, is represented as a wise woman who accepts traditions and solutions within societal norms. Later, Avvaiyar assures Paari that she will come for his daughters’ marriage and blesses them and leaves. Thereafter, amidst studio settings, in a silhouetted shot against the sky (the long pan punctuating the expanse of the Gemini Studios 166


interiors and the lighting abilities of its cinematographer Thambu), Avvaiyar walks and sings: Vennilave Kanni Thamizh Nattile Vennilave.… In the song, she extols and the are glory of the Tamil land, visuals of theasfertile land the andvirtue its waterfalls used to illustrate her lines. She sings of the glory of Tamil Nadu as the mother who gave birth to such an unparalleled philanthropist as Paari, and she blesses Tamil Nadu: The objective of Avvaiyar is not merely the hagiography of Avvaiyar, the grand old lady of its literature, but of recovering the cultural memory of its ancient past through effective retelling and repetition: Paari’s charity is first dramatized and immediately afterwards again reinforced through the song. The song ends with Avvaiyar walking across a bridge over a river, the stone-plank bridge recalling the ones in Cheranadu (Kerala at present), and thus, Avvaiyar too for its part sings the glory of a Tamil land far exceeding its present cartography. But the trenchant political claims, as foregrounded in Parasakthi, for a Dravida Nadu independent of the central government, are here reversed by revisiting a remote past, and rearticulating a humane Tamil region where kings gave before they were asked. Vasan’s imperatives of invoking a pristine past to overcome the divisiveness of the present is exemplified not only through the mise-en-scene in the above sequence but also through the choices he makes of the letters from his readers to promote the film: They are from Tamil Nadu, New Delhi, Bangalore, and Mysore, and belong to Hindu, Muslim, and Christian communities. For instance, Captain Pearce Jervis, Film Officer, British Information Services, writes about how Shrimati. Sundarambal’s natural acting and songs moved him and would mesmerize the audience (see Ananda Vikatan, 1953, p. 29). Later, Avvaiyar arrives at the incomparable poet Thiruvalluvar’s retreat where he is with his disciples working on his couplets.97 Avvaiyar asks a reluctant Thiruvalluvar, who had been humiliated earlier by the arrogant poets of the Tamil Sangam/Tamil Assembly, at Madurai, citing his srcins, to accompany her back to Madurai in her reattempt to get his Thirukkural (compilation of couplets/ aphorisms) read and endorsed by the Assembly. 98 She convinces Thiruvalluvar, takes him along, and knocks at the palace of the 167

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Pandian King—the patron of the Tamil Assembly. As the doors are bolted by an arrogant guard, she says to Thiruvalluvar, “These people do sequence not use their brains; they are ofitself afraid miracles only.” Thus, this in the film announces asof a mise-en-abyme, where Avvaiyar’s miracles—both in her legends and in the film—are reflexively referred to and rationalized. On Avvaiyar’s passionate singing the bolt is on fire, and the humbled king rushes to receive her. In the Tamil Sangam, when the arrogant poets try to belittle Thiruvalluvar by asking whether he knows grammar, Avvaiyar tells the king, “Our Tamil language is noble; there’s no place in her for the petty jealousies of these people. O Pandiya King! Does the right to Tamil belong to these people (poets) alone? Is Tamil their private property? The sea, the sky, and pure Tamil belong to everyone.” Through the way in which Avvaiyar stands facing the camera in a full shot—a mid-long frame, with the Pandiya king on her right—and addresses the poets, the film makes its intentions clear: It’s a direct response to and a scathing attack on the Dravidian poets/writers, specifically the playwrights and screenwriters, and their attempt to appropriate Tamil for their ideology. Thereafter, she leads the poets and the king to the Potramaraikkulam (Golden-lotus Tank) at the center of the Meenakshi Temple in Madurai and performs the supreme miracle, through her invocatory song, of the lotus appearing and accepting on its golden plank the palm scripts of Thiruvalluvar’s compilation of 1,330 rhyming couplets—Thirukkural. The king and the assembly unconditionally accept the verdict of God himself, and Thiruvalluvar’s immortal work. A satisfied Avvaiyar takes leave of Thiruvalluvar and leaves. Thus, along with the mundane reality of drought and famine, Avvaiyar flaunts its direct investment in the celebration of the Tamil literary canons and the miraculous power of its ancient language. The Tamil missionary Avvaiyar, as is her wont, now moves on singing of the glory of Thiruvalluvar and his poem: Valluvan Thantha Kural, Vazhvai Uyarththum Kural (Kural which Valluvan gave, Kural that elevates life), and the camera pans across the Goldenlotus Tank framing its steps and the pillars around it. Kumudam in its review mocks at the “fifty-odd” songs in Avvaiyar but praises 168


K.B. Sundarambal’s voice and Avvaiyar’s poems for suturing the disparate events, replete with transient faces, where the old protagonist appears the (see sameKumudam costume (of white with her walking and grayinhair 1953, pp.saree) 22–24). Thereafter, in astick silhouette, Avvaiyar continues her singing and heaps praise on Tamil for having had her flags wave at distant places like Singhala Theevu (Sri Lankan Island) and Cheenam (China). In the tradition of the Siddhars (mystical poets of the Tamil region), Bogar, the alchemistpoet, who lived during the third–fifth century AD, is believed to have traveled to China and taught alchemy (and acupuncture) to his disciple Kong, a king.99 Avvaiyar’s adulation of the “incomparable glory” of the Tamil language and the cartography of the Tamil region she invokes thus subsumes the one of Dravida Nadu, whose expansive map extended only up to the four Southern states, and the Northeastern boundary marked by Bengal. The mythos surrounding Avvaiyar, who herself seems ancient but eternal and ubiquitous like the Tamil language, resonates with the Tamil psyche till this day. For instance, the statue of Avvaiyar at the Marina Beach in Chennai recalls a similar statue at the Hospital road in Jaffna, Sri Lanka, in front of Anna Coffee Center, thus connecting Tamils across borders. Avvaiyar is constantly reinvented, even in this digital era, for teaching Tamil to young children across the globe: Avvaiyar, however, seems to increasingly resemble K.B. Sundarambal.100 Thereafter, due to heavy rain Avvaiyar seeks refuge in a hut, where she is shocked to see Paari’s daughters—Angavai and Sangavai—in that humble surrounding. Sundarambal quotes this scene as her favorite one in Kumudam: It is raining heavily in the middle of the forest, and “two poor sisters are struggling with the only saree they have to cover themselves. At that time, a fully drenched old woman enters a hut.” The sisters, seeking refuge from the downpour, enter the same hut, and serendipitously find Avvaiyar there and exclaim, “Avvaippatti/Granma Avvai!” Avvaiyar is astonished but outraged to see the unparalleled philanthropist Paari’s daughters orphaned and reduced to a state of penury and vows to help them.101 They tell her their story of how their father was killed 169

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by the commanders-in-chief of the three kings, when he refused to budge to their masters’ desire to marry his daughters. When Avvaiyar asks aboutkings. their lover Deiveegan, her of histocaptivity by the three Avvaiyar vows tothey getinform them married Deiveegan and prays to Lord Ganesha. This sequence reveals the reason for the popularity of the mythologicals among women, therefore, the family audience: Avvaiyar, who has voluntarily decided to give up her youth, acts as the conduit for Angavai and Sangavai’s transgressive desire to marry the same man; an unusual and rare homosocial world of women is created where the agency is with a senior woman and not man (Deiveegan). An army of elephants appears and attacks the fort and frees Deiveegan: The spectacle of the elephants attacking the fort is unparalleled in the history of Tamil/Indian cinema for its grandeur.102 Unlike in Vasan’s mammoth Chandralekha wherein scenes of circus/ animals are woven into the narrative as pure spectacle, as one among the many in the film, in Avvaiyar, these elephants become the agents of the protagonist due to their mythical signification and import.103 The angered Kings, who had earlier refused Avvaiyar’s plea to release Deiveegan, on coming to know that Avvaiyar is going ahead with the marriage of Angavai and Sangavai with Deiveegan, rush forward with their huge army. Avvaiyar leaves the marriage dais, and from a hill sings, calling the earth to split open and stop the oncoming kings with their army. On her plea, the earth splits wide open, and the astonished kings, standing on the other side of the chasm, come to their senses and beg forgiveness for their jealousy of Paari, which numbed their senses. Avvaiyar invites them to attend the marriage as a mark of the united spirit of the Tamils. After the marriage Avvaiyar says, “… [t]oday is a unique day in the history of Tamils, as even their kings admitted to their shortcomings, and blessed their subjects whom they had harassed.” Then in a long shot, Avvaiyar addresses the people (who had come for the wedding): “All of you are the rulers of this country.” In the following mid-shot, looking at the camera and the people nearby, she blesses them/us by raising her left hand and advising: “Forget your enmity and live well.” The dramatic 170


narrative ends here: Vasan makes his pro-establishment statement that kings can make mistakes but there are possibilities that they may relent his theme of unity in an appeal to overcome hatredand and foregrounds strife. Here again, it would be productive to look at one of the letters to the editor in Ananda Vikatan that Vasan foregrounds to promote the film: It is from C.S. Radhakrishnan in Bangalore, and he writes about how much the Kannadigas have liked the film; in fact, one of his Kannadiga friends was at a loss to point out a single scene as he liked Avvaiyar in its entirety. This letter assumes significance because of the turbulent situation in 1953, when Avvaiyar was released, surrounding the ownership of Madras city due to the conflicting between the(see Telugus andRadhakrishnan’s Tamils, which we will to seethe in detail inclaims the next chapter for C.S. letter editor: Ananda Vikatan, 1953, pp. 31–32). The next scene has Avvaiyar educating young children through her aphorisms: Aathichchoodi. She advises them on virtue, anger, charity, and the importance of taking care of parents. Later as a tired Avvaiyar is sitting under a tree, she asks the child on the trunk for the Jamun fruits at the top. The boy asks: Chutta Pazham Venuma, Chudatha Pazham Venuma? (Do you want the hot ones or the cold ones?). AvvaiyarAvvaiyar smiles, and he shakes the trunk and a few on the ground. takes a few from the ground andfruits triesfall to remove the mud on their surface by blowing through her mouth. Looking at Avvaiyar, the mischievous boy asks, “Is it hot grandma?” Avvaiyar smiles meditatively and replies, “I have been advising everybody, and today you have taught me a lesson.” She asks him, “Who are you?” And as she looks at him carefully, it dawns on her that it is the Tamil God Murugan himself.104 Murugan arrives from the sky with his two wives, Valli and Deivanai, on a peacock, and blesses her and asks her to come to Kailasam, the abode of gods, as her task is complete here on earth. Ananda Vikatan’s competitor Kumudam appreciates Avvaiyar except for its “one defect”: By showcasing Avvaiyar as performing acts beyond what is humanly possible, a woman’s history has been misrepresented as mythology (see Kumudam , 1953, p. 24). 171

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The last scene is the spectacle of her going to Kailasam: She walks through the set of the mammoth stairs surrounded by mountains. Then through the superimposed shots onthere, the sky, we see sees her walking toward Kailasam. Finally on reaching Avvaiyar Lord Siva with his consort Shakthi appearing from a flame, and she bows to them. The film ends with Siva and Shakthi dancing. Nevertheless, the temple tower and the Nandi/Bull (the vehicle of Siva) in Kailasam recall the temple towers (seen throughout the film) of the Tamil region: Her initial journey may be to the north, to reach Mount Kailash in the Himalayas, but the ultimate Kailasam, the abode of Gods in the heavens is pervasive in the Tamil architecture. Tamil culture is represented as subsuming the world of the Gods, and thereby the priests/Brahmins and their Aryan culture as well. The climactic ascent of Avvaiyar, and the envisioning of her favorite God Murugan as finally relieving her from the bonds of this world, is in polarity to the descent of Kalyani in Parasakthi as she tries to commit suicide by jumping into a river to get relief from the clutches of the inhumane world. During her trial, Kalyani invokes the ardent devotees of Siva from the Tamil literature like Siruthondar and Thirugnanasambandhar only to critique their extreme devotion and the miracles surrounding their legends.105 She further recalls the folklore of Nallathangal, who threw seven of her children into a well due to her incapacity to feed them, and the indignities she suffered at the hands of her wicked sister-in-law. Nallathangal’s later jumping into the well parallels Kalyani’s attempt at suicide, and the absence of the brother(s) too underscore their similarity.106 Nonetheless, in the case of Parasakthi, the popular folk heroine Nallathangal who later gets deified is referred to not as emblematizing a glorious past but as a vestige of the continual sufferings of young Tamil women— mothers who have been forsaken. Avvaiyar, however, by eliding marriage and motherhood, disavows the concomitant social issues and focuses on her heroics of enabling Paari’s daughters to get married to the man of their dreams, Deiveegan, and her own ultimate ascent to Kailasam and union with God. The advertisement in the Ananda Vikatan (August 22, 1953) issue informs us that Vasan released his Avvaiyar in 60 theaters in 172


Tamil Nadu (see Ananda Vikatan, 1953, p. 1.). In every theater where Avvaiyar was released through Vasan’s Gemini Pictures Circuit, he publicized by puttingand up took a temple like miniature set, where people the oftenfilm worshipped Prasadam in the form of Vibhuthi (sacred ash) and Kungumam (vermillion).107 “Be wise, advertise” is the oft-quoted dialogue from Vasan’s film Miss Malini (1947), for which the famous writer R.K. Narayan wrote the story: Vasan believed in the maxim as it contributed to his growth from his days as a retail seller through VPP.108 Furthermore, he had quizzes and other competitions for the viewers of Avvaiyar, besides arranging a special show at the “A” preview theater for the Chief Minister Rajagopalachari, who was known for his hatred for cinema. According to veteran journalist S. Muthiah of The Hindu, Rajaji, in the notes in his diary, had criticized Vasan’s film as being an inferior adaptation of T.K. Shanmugham’s play: “A lot of stock scenes of thunder, lightning and storm, of water flowing and elephants trooping and cardboard fortresses falling. Avvai is too angry and cursing…. The picture is poor but when so much has been spent on it and the stake is so great how can one frankly condemn it….” Rajaji’s critique, while rightly disparaging Avvaiyar for its artifice, also sounds stereotypical in its elitism of condemning the (lowly) mythological without paying attention to its specificity, as reflected in his ambivalence about expressing his thoughts on an expensive spectacle in the open.109 Thereafter, there were special screenings for judges, doctors, writers, members of the legislature, and other VIPs, and the newspapers the next day carried their views on the film. Such publicity turned Avvaiyar into a cultural event (Ashokamitran, 2002, pp. 97–98). Avvaiyar became a huge hit in 1953, after the phenomenal success of Parasakthi the previous year: Avvaiyar ran at the Wellington Theatre in Madras for almost six months (Ashokamitran, 2002, p. 99). Like Parasakthi, which ran in Mailan Theater in Ceylon for 40 weeks, Avvaiyar too created a record in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.110 Thus, we can see through my above detailed discussion of Parasakthi and Avvaiyar that the latter film is a conscious response to 173

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the former and how Vasan’s film by positing a mythic Tamil region through a composite old lady disavows some of the immediate social realities the 1950s underscored in the Meiyappan/Perumal production. of Avvaiyar responds to Parasakthi by appealing to a grand Tamil imaginary of an ancient past through its weaving of a colorful and dense tapestry of spectacles and its drawing from the perennial reservoir of myths and legends surrounding classical Tamil literature. Vasan’s critical and intentional response to Parasakthi becomes even more clear when we take into account that there’s no mention of Parasakthi in his magazine Ananda Vikatan during 1952 when the film was released amidst controversies and fanfare. Besides, unlike Meiyappan, Vasanrecord made itfor a point not to thereleased. songs of111 his film on a gramophone long after therelease film was

Notes 1. The Modern Theatres, the AVM, Gemini, Vijaya-Vauhini, and Prasad are considered to be the five major studios of Madras since they had all the facilities, including the laboratory (black and white), under one roof and were active for at least four decades. 2. Parasakthi’s phenomenal success is detailed by me later in the chapter: For

3.

4.

5. 6. 7.

Avvaiyar’s success see Guntoosi (1954, p. 14). The ever-reliable film journalist P.R.S. Gopal (Guntoosi) replies to a query of a reader about the Tamil film in 1953 that fetched the “most income and fame,” as “ Avvaiyar alone.” See the official list of films given in Vasan’s centenary commemorative issue: 2004, pp. 142–143. Among the 78 films, Gemini produced 28 in Tamil, 24 in Hindi, and 19 in Telugu. Karaikkudi is known for its community of Nattukottai Chettiars, who were successful in banking and business, and many of them had migrated to countries in Southeast Asia like Burma, Singapore, Malaysia, and Ceylon during the nineteenth and early twentieth century. For details on the migration of the Chettiar community and their life as diasporic businessmen, see Bose (2006, pp. 110–116). For details on Avichi and Sons, see Maidhan (2002, pp. 1–8). See for the early life of Meiyappan in his autobiography and for the details on the opening of Sarawathi Stores in Madras: AVM, 2000, pp. 9–12. See for details on shellac records: Fries and Fries, 2005, p. 249. See for the comparison between shellac and vinyl records, Millard, 2005, pp. 202–204.

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AVM and Gemini Studios 8. See Stephen Putnam Hughes’ detailed essay on the link between the gramophone recording industry, Tamil theater, and the Tamil cinema of the 1930s: Hughes, 2007, pp. 3–34. 9. Maindhan, 2002, pp. 16–17. MKT could not file a case stating copyright issues as the name of the singers were not printed on the record, and many of the musicians who worked during the recording of the songs for the film were also involved in the recording for the gramophone disc (my interview with Film News Anandan in Chennai, in July 2007). 10. Baskaran claims all the 50 songs were in Tamil, whereas Hughes claims these songs were in Tamil, Telugu, and Hindustani; see Baskaran (1996, p. 91). In the absence of the print of the film, my interviews with Tamil cinema historians Film News Anandan and Aranthai Manian, however, could not throw further light on this issue. 11. The creditby forBharat the first Telugu talkie is given by to Bhakta Prahalada (1931), produced Movietone and directed H.M. Reddy, the director of Kalidas; see Rajadhyaksha and Willeman (2002, pp. 253–254). 12. See the footnote in Hughes for a short list of artists who used their gramophone recordings as the first step to enter the film industry: Hughes (2007, p. 15). 13. The print of Nandakumar is not available, and the artist who played Devaki was not credited in the publicity or promotional print material. For details on the playback recording, see Maindhan (2002, p. 25) and Guy (2007). 14. Meiyappan produced Nandakumar under his Pragathi Pictures banner. 15. See the advertisement in Pesum Padam, June 1945 issue: It reads “New Columbia Records: Lalitha Venkatram’s Kannanaik Kandathundo,” in two parts; Prabhavathi “Talkie Songs”; Karaikkaal Ammaiyar “Talkie Songs”; and Kali N. Rathinam and C.T. Rajakantham’s “Kozhinna Aathira” (available at Saraswathi Stores, Mount Road, Madras) Pesum Padam (1945, p. 1). The songs were from Prabhavathi (1944) and Karaikkaal Ammaiyar (1943). 16. Meiyappan’s shuttled between Madras and Karaikkudi during the Second World War; see for details Muthiah (2001). 17. See for details on A.T. Krishnaswamy’s skill as a dialogue writer for a dubbed film from Kannada to Tamil, Nath (1945, pp. 10–13). Krishnaswamy could thus be credited along with Raghavan, AVM’s iconic sound engineer, as the Madras studio professionals who laid the path for what has become a huge industry now: Dubbing of films within the South Indian film industry, particularly between Tamil and Telugu; the Kannada industry has strong protective policies to safeguard their relatively smaller market. Generally, Tamil and Malayalam films are released in their srcinal versions in Tamil Nadu as well as Kerala, respectively.

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Madras Studios 18. See for details on the film as well as the dubbing of the soundtrack track: Guy (2007). Guy refers to C.E. Biggs as C.E. Briggs in the article. According to Guy, C.E. Biggs was a projectionist at the Roxy Theatre before he started his career as a sound engineer/designer. Also see Maindhan (2002, pp. 31–32). 19. See for the details on postsynchronization of songs in Sri Valli, Maindhan (2002 pp. 33–34). Also see Guy’s article on Sri Valli: Guy, 2007. Maindhan writes about the postsynchronization in Sri Valli as having taken place after the shooting of the songs and before the final prints were taken out. Randor Guy on the other hand details how the prints were already being screened in various theaters, and the cinema hall managers and the traveling representatives of Meiyappan saw the box-office reaction and reported the poor response to Rukmini’s voice, particularly in the songs. Then Meiyappan recalled voice. the prints and was replaced the songslater of Rukmini with P.A. Periyanayaki’s The film well received and became a huge hit. 20. Pesum Padam, in its April 1945 issue, reviews Sri Valli: “the duo of A.V. Meiyappan and A.T. Krishnaswamy, who had earlier collaborated on Harishchandra, have attained greater success with this film.” It is not easy to adapt a highly popular play into a successful film, but “they have skillfully retained the popular elements, and have been able to handle not only the actors but also the elephant, bees, and peacock quite skillfully.” Nonetheless, though the dialogues are apt, some of the sequences are excessively dramatic and reminds you of the srcinal play. See Pesum Padam (1945, pp. 27–29). 21. See for the details, on the controversy and the differing versions on the payments made for Bharathiyar’s songs: Chakravarthy and Chakravarthy, 2009, pp. 46–55. Pritham and Venkatesh Chakravarthy have done extensive research on AVM Studios for their detailed essay as well as their forthcoming book (my interview with Chakravarthy in Chennai, in April 2007, and my several telephonic conversations with him). 22. For instance, see the article Guntoosi, 1948: The contributor K.V.S. Vaas points to the beautiful dance of Kumari Kamala during the function in honor of Poet Bharathi in Naam Iruvar, but criticizes the artificial way the sequence is thrust into the narrative; the hero, who is shown as patriotic and as an art lover during the sequence, turns into a ruffian and drunkard in the very next scene. According to Vaas, “[i]f the producer and the director had been thoughtful, they would have replaced the hero with his brother during the above sequence,” see Vaas (1948, p. 54). 23. See Baskaran’s article on the film Mahatma Gandhi in the Hindu for details on the stupendous efforts of the iconic A.K. Chettiar: Baskaran, 2002.

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AVM and Gemini Studios 24. See for details on the film’s success: Guy, 2007. Also see for appreciation and cynicism surrounding Meiyappan’s efforts: AVM, 2000, p. 69. 25. See Lakshmi Ramakrishnan’s article in Frontline wherein D.K. Pattammal says that she sang Bharathiyar’s songs for the love of the Tamil language and the nation. However, it was Meiyappan’s efforts in Naam Iruvar that took her passion into every household of the Tamil-speaking population through radio and gramophone records. Kamalahasan paid a tribute to this cultural memory of the Tamils by making the almost 80-year-old D.K. Pattammal sing the bhajan Vaishnava Jana Tho in Hey Ram (1999); see Ramakrishnan (1998). 26. With changes in ownership over the years, Sagar became Odeon, and then the present Melody Theatre in Chennai, where it is still one of the leading movie halls to show Hindi films on a regular basis. 27. The synopsis is from the songbook of the film. I could access it from the collections of Vijayaraj, at Kodambakkam, Chennai, in April 2007. The publication details are not printed on the book. 28. Shobana Samarth, one of the icons of early Indian cinema, was the mother of Nutan and Tanuja, and the grandmother of star-actress Kajol. Shobana Samarth started her career in the then flourishing Marathi film industry in the 1930s. Her first Hindi film was Nigah-e-Nafrat (1935). Her role of Sita in Ram Rajya became her defining role. 29. A.K. Ramanujan, in his erudite observations on reflexivity in the Indian literature, points to Rama’s listening of (his) story from the young bards

30.

31. 32.

33.

(his sons Lava and Kusha),verses. thus becoming (reflexively) a character in a storyown narrated to him through Ramanujan also endorses the majoritarian view—the seventh canto, Uttarakanda or Uttararamayana, is “probably a later addition”; see Ramanujan, 1989, p. 204. From the twelfth century onward, in most devotional retelling of the Ramayana, Sita’a abandonment was avoided, as exemplified by Kamban and Tulsidas’s versions; see Hess (1999, p. 3). See H.V. Hande, 1996. For Kamban’s specificity, and the erudite P.S. Sundaram’s translation, see Jagannathan (2002, pp. xi–xli). The poster wishes the patrons on the occasion of Deepavali, the annual festival of lights. The Tamil Rama Rajya, therefore, should have been released in centres like Tiruchi, Salem, Tirunelveli, Karaikkudi, Devakkottai, Ramanathapuram, and Rajapalayam on the Deepavali day, much earlier than in Madras, where according to the official biographer the film was released on December 10, 1947 (Maindhan, 2002, p. 46). Earlier they had danced in the legendary Udaya Shanker’s famous film Kalpana (1948), produced at the Gemini Studios in Madras. 177

Madras Studios 34. For the English advertisement of Vethaala Ulagam/Demon Land, see Maindhan (2002, p. 35). For the details on the success of the film, and the snake dance, see AVM (2000, p. 83). The initial scenes of the film were shot in Newtone Studios in Madras before Meiyappan started his studio at Devakkottai, where most of the work was done. Colombo K.V.S. Vaas, in his article in Guntoosi on “Cinema and Dance,” appreciates the snake dance, and Kumari Kamala’s dances to Poet Bharathiyar’s numbers, but criticizes the “Pavalakkodi Drama and the party dance” in Vethala Ulagam that slow down the narrative progression. Though these sequences are there to frame the snake dance and Kumari Kamala’s dances, Vaas suggests that since they weaken the narrative; it would be better if all the dances are shown together as a compilation/sequece in the beginning, so that if the story is not absorbing, one could leave the theater after the songs the dances, p. 54). with Aranthai Manian, he pointed 35. and See AVM (2000,see p. Vaas 85). In(1948, my interview to the close collaboration between AVM and Vijaya-Vauhini studios not only in terms of technical assistance but remake rights as well. For instance, AVM Studios produced Miss Mary (dir: L. V. Prasad, 1957), with Meena Kumari, Kishore Kumar, and Gemini Ganesan, which was a remake of Vijaya-Vauhini’s Missiamma (1955) in Tamil, and Missamma (1955) in Telugu. Savithri played the heroine in both the versions, while Gemini Ganesan played the hero in the Tamil version and Akkineni Nageswara Rao was the hero in the Telugu version. 36. See Randor Guy’s article on Annadurai’s role in cinema: Guy, 2009. Also see Guy’s write-up on the film Nallathambi: 2007; Anandan, 2007, pp. 28, 50. 37. See the erudite C.S. Lakshmi’s article for the translation of the poem used in the film: Lakshmi, 1990, pp. WS72–WS83. 38. The Tamil epic of Silappathikaram, written by the eponymous author Ilanko Adigal, a Jain monk, refers to the Yal (lute). Silappathikaram has arguably been dated as belonging to first-century CE, though the author has reinvented some of the preexisting folktales to narrate this epic poem. For the references made in Silappathikaram to Yal see Parthasarathy, 1993. For instance, in Silappathikaram, Madhavi takes “the lute out from its picaresque carvings,” and bows to it, and plays it “in eighteen different modes as advised by the texts”; Parthasathy, 1993, pp. 63, 65. Here, Yal signifies Madhavi’s finesse as a Tamil artist (musician/dancer), as the married Kovalan is enamored by her beauty and falls helplessly in love with her. 39. “Boys Company,” in the context of the Tamil Theatre, signifies a drama troupe where men play all the roles, though when the Tamil drama pioneer Sankaradas Swamigal started his Boy’s Company, he employed young

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AVM and Gemini Studios boys aged below 13 years as actors and apprentices so that they could travel with him and go through arduous training as members of his repertoire. Swamigal’s efforts in organizing a Boys Company, Tattuva Meenalochani Vithuva Balasabha, in 1918, is seen as his response to the nonavailability of female actors due to the notoriety surrounding the licentiousness in Tamil theater—the “low art” form of his times. See for a brief write-up on the Tamil Theatre: Krishnamachari, 2004. See Guy for details on Sankaradas Swamigal: Guy, 2007. The perception of popular theater as “low-art/ culture” was also due to the bias in the print media. Nonetheless, most of the great cinema artists of the early Tamil talkies, including MGR, Sivaji Ganesan, and M.N. Nambiar, had started their career in Boys Company dramas. 40. When Perumal saw the play Parasakthi, the role of the protagonist Gunasekaran was played T.N. Samikannu. See for details Narayanan (2002, p. 339). 41. Even in Ganesan’s early career on stage with itinerant drama companies, he often played the role of a girl; refer my interview with Film News Anandan in Chennai, July, 2007. See also Sivaji Ganesan’s official website, hosted by his family to listen to his interview with Abdul Hameed of Ilankai Vanoli Nilayam (Ceylon Radio Station), wherein he recounts his female impersonations on stage, particularly that of Sita in Ramayanam and that of Noor Jahan: “Interview”; www.nadigarthilagam.com (accessed June 21, 2009). In 1946, during the 7th Self-Respect Conference, V.C. Ganesan played the main role in the play Sivaji Kanda Hindu Rajyam (The Hindu Raj Founded by Sivaji), written by C.N. Annadurai, which was a critique of the caste system. Periyar E.V. Ramaswamy, in his felicitation after the play conferred the title of “Sivaji” on Ganesan, thus making him credited in his first film Parasakthi as Sivaji Ganesan. See Baskaran, 2008, pp. 15–16. He is addressed by his full name Sivaji Ganesan in this chapter, as there is one more star with the name Ganesan—Gemini Ganesan, a contemporary of MGR and Sivaji Ganesan. I refer to him as V.C. Ganesan only in the discussion of his early career during the period before 1946—prior to Periyar’s conferring of the title. 42. Since the major studios were generally busy with their own productions, the independent producers were at the mercy of the studio owners. Even in 1945, in the aftermath of the war when the conditions were just improving for the producers, Pesum Padam points to the difficulty in getting the studio space in Madras, and the consequent delay in productions: “Because of bad management many studios have been shut down, and the producers are not willing to go to North Indian Studios” even when there are no alternatives: Out of the seven studios in Madras, Pragathi, Gemini, and Modern

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Madras Studios Theatres mostly produce their own films, and Central Studio could also be included in this list; Shobanachala and Premier lack in facilities, which hamper their own productions; therefore, Newtone Studio alone is the haven for the independent producers, but since all the independent producers que up there, films, which could be completed in six months, take one year to finish. See Pesum Padam (1945, p. 3). 43. Ilangovan, 2004, p.189. Ilangovan, the iconic dialogue writer of Tamil cinema who wrote the dialogues for Kannagi (1942), suggests that to counter the stiff competetion from films made outside, qualitative Hindi and Telugu films must be produced in Madras along with the Tamil films. 44. See Karthigesu Sivathamby’s essay on the role of politicians as effective players on the stage as well as the screen in the context of the DMK: Sivathamby, 1971, pp. 212–220. 45. Ramswamy, 1997, pp. 22–78. See Ramaswamy for the details on the history of Tamilppatru, the devotion toward Tamil language, and the Dravidian movement’s relationship with Tamil Thaai—Mother Tamil. 46. See Narendra Subramanian’s detailed study of the history of the Dravidian movement in the context of populist mobilization: Subramanian, 2002, pp. 142–143. 47. See for the details on a map of Dravida Nadu, printed on the cover page of the book Aryamum Dravidiyamum (The Aryan and Dravidian Ideology), by Viveki (1946), archived at the library in the DMK office: Ramaswamy, “Maps and Mother Goddesses in Modern India,” p. 107. 48. See Karthigesu conference paper, published as a book, on the effective use Sivathamby’s of the film medium as a political tool, particularly by the DMK: Sivathamby, 1981. See Tamil Nadu Government’s official site for election results: www.assembly.tn.gov.in (accessed June 28, 2009). 49. See Maindhan, 2002, p. 52. Maindhan observes that only after the success of the film Ore Iravu, released on July 14, 1950, that the transition from thatched cottages to concrete buildings became complete in the AVM Studios. 50. This iconic scene prefigures a similar scene in Pyaasa (Guru Dutt, 1957), and both films share a similarity in terms of their brooding, melancholic mood, though Parasakthi is driven by its anti-euphoric imperatives and apprehensions of the plights of the Tamils in independent India, and Pyaasa by its inward journey into the predicament of a poet in a modernizing young nation. 51. Karthigesu Sivathamby’s detailed work on the history of Tamil drama gives us an understanding of the role of Kattiyakaran in traditional Tamil folk plays; see Sivathamby (1981, pp. 205, 378). 180

AVM and Gemini Studios 52. My conversations with folk and experimental theater icon N. Muthusami at L.V. Prasad Academy, Chennai, in July 2007, when he was rehearsing a play on Arjuna—Archunan Tapasu—in the Koothu tradition with traditional Koothu artists, and artists from his well-known troupe Koothuppattarai. 53. See for Sivaji Ganesan’s filmography: Baskaran, 2008, pp. 85–91. However, Rajadhyaksha and Willemen have given Sivaji’s filmography until 1995 only in their 2002 edition: see Rajadhyaksha and Willemen, 2002, pp. 97–98. According to Tamil journalist P. Deenadayalan, Sivaji Ganesan has acted in 288 films; see Deenadayalan, 2006, p. 103. The official website also accounts for the same (288 films as the hero and 17 films as the guest artist): See “Films”; www.nadigarthilagam.com (accessed July 27, 2014). 54. According to Anandan, the sequence was later shot on sound stage inside the floor; nonetheless, Aranthai Manian claims it was shot at the AVM backlot, on theinvery street where the memorial (my conversainterview with Manian Chennai, in August 2007, andwas myerected telephonic tion with him on March 12, 2010). Even more importantly, octogenarian S.P. Arjunan, who had joined the AVM Studios when he was 20 years old in 1946, and worked as the office staff during the shooting of Parasakthi, also confirms that the sequence was shot on the street outside the studio floors at the AVM Studios (my telephonic interview with S.P. Arjunan, March 12, 2010). 55. See Alf Hiltebeitel for the significance of trees as Goddesses in Tamil folkloric tradition: Alf Hiltebeitel, 1991, pp. 152–153. 56. See the official site of the Election Commission of India, for the details on the Indian elections in the year 1952: “Election Commission of India”; www.eci.nic.in (accessed June 28, 2009). 57. See Baskaran for Sivaji’s early stage career: Baskaran, 2008, pp. 11–17. According to Baskaran, the “company dramas” provided the model for cinema to evolve. The name “Company” derives from the Parsi and Marathi itinerant drama troupes that led to the beginning of commercial theater productions with gate collections. The company dramas borrowed the “format of proscenium stage, drop-curtain, flats, painted backdrops, and the other trappings that went with the modern stage” from the British theater. To these elements, the innovative drama artists in Maharashtra added the conventions from the folk theater, like backstage singing and comic interludes. This composite form spawned the company dramas in Tamil Nadu, the most popular one being Pammal Sambandha Mudhaliyar’s “Suguna Vilasa Sabha.” For details on company dramas, see Baskaran (2009, pp. 24–25). 58. When Meiyappan had his production company at Club House in Madras he produced Vaayaadi, Poli Panchali, and Yes Yes—the “three-in-one”

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Madras Studios package was released under the title Yes Yes in 1940: It had three different stories filmed and shown together—a “triple billing” like the Hollywood “double billing.” See for details Maindhan (2002, p. 28). See for the discussion on the director of the film, and its production: Muthiah, 2001. Vaayaadi and Poli Panchali were directed by A.T. Krishnaswamy, whereas Yes Yes was directed by Nandlal Jawaharlal (Guy, 2007). 59. See Maindhan (2002, pp. 53–54). Also see Baskaran (2008, p. 21). Baskaran points out that along with Perumal, Annadurai too was keen that Sivaji Ganesan should play the role of Gunasekaran. 60. Quoted in Hardgrave from his interview with S. Punju (Panju), the codirector of Parasakthi, in 1970; see Hardgrave (1973, p. 292). 61. It was Sivaji Ganesan’s delivery of dialogues that attracted the attention of the director duo—Krishnan and Panju—to him, and they too stood by Perumal vouching for Sivaji Ganesan as the perfect cast for Gunasekaran’s rolein(my interview with K. Muralimohan, an industrial photographer, and son of Krishnan, of the Krishnan-Panju duo, directors of Parasakthi in Chennai, in July 2005). 62. See the Malaysian Tamil writer Mu. Anbuchelavan’s book on the impact of Tamil films in Malaysia. Anbuchelvan, 2004, p. 16. Anbuchelvan gives a personal and nostalgic account of the popularity and influence of Tamil films in Malaysia. He recounts his experiences through the Tamil movies he saw at the Lido, Campbell, Central, and Empire theaters in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. 63. The sound engineer Jeeva at AVM was against the casting of Sivaji Ganesan in Parasakthi right from the beginning, despite the directors KrishnanPanju’s belief in his potential to be a star. In fact, according to KrishnanPanju, Jeeva did everything possible to replace Sivaji in the film. Later, when the producer P.A. Perumal’s father-in-law and producer Meiyappan too wanted Sivaji to be replaced, Krishnan-Panju put their foot down: “If you have to replace, then replace us.” Krishnan-Panju and producer P.A. Perumal stood by their new hero; see Krishnan-Panju, 2010, pp. 69–73. I am using Krishnan-Panju to refer to them as they always preferred to be addressed as a singular identity, as the title of the book, The Heroes Who Directed Me (instead of “Us”) suggests. 64. Due to famine in Madras Presidency in 1952, the Chief Minister Rajagopalachari had asked people to offer their prayers to “Varuna Bhagwan”—the God of Rain; see for details, Pandian (2005, p. 68). 65. This scene references the bell and its significant role in The Hunchback of Notre Dame (dir. William Dieterle, 1939). The film starring Charles Laughton and Maureen O’Hara was a huge box-office success in Chennai. It was one of the favorites of Krishnan, director of Parasakthi. See my

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AVM and Gemini Studios interview with K. Muralimohan in Chennai in July 2005. According to Muralimohan, his father Krishnan was a fan of the magazine Movie Story and had the monthly issues from the 1940s and the 1950s (bound in yearly volumes) in his library. 66. Lalitha Gopalan’s thesis, regarding the creative use of songs by innovative directors in popular Indian cinema, is affirmed by Parasakthi; see Gopalan (2002). In the context of the songs in Parasakthi, my focus is on the history and innovations of the producer as well: Meiyappan’s history as a retailer and producer of gramophone records. 67. Baskaran mentions the films as Dopatta (1951) and Akeli (1952). In fact, Dupetta/Dupatta/Dopatta was also made in Lahore by the legendary Syed Sibtain Fazli’s Film Asia production company at Shahnoor Studios with Noor Jehan in the lead. 68. According to Ashok Rajan, director Krishnan was a connoisseur of books, and was particularly interested in books on literature, cinema, and philosophy. Ashok Rajan, nephew of director Krishnan, is a popular cinematographer in the Tamil film industry, who has worked with leading mainstream directors like K.S. Ravikumar (my interview with K. Ashok Rajan, in Chennai, in July 2005). Krishnan’s vast collection of books included that of the famous writer Jayakanthan, many of whose early writings were driven by Marxist philosophy. Parasakthi’s directors Krishnan and Panju found the theme of socioeconomic equality in the Dravidian ideology appealing. 69. During Vasan’s centenary year of 2003–2004, Vikatan publication came out centenary issue in his with rare contributions fromSundha, people whowith hadaworked with him. Seehonor for details on Vasan’s early life: 2004, pp. 76–78. 70. The Ananda Vikatan issues published after the release of Avvaiyar shed light on the highly interactive relationship that Vasan sought with his audience. Three weeks after the film’s release, Ananda Vikatan explains why it would not be appropriate for the magazine to publish a review of Avvaiyar, as Vasan is not only the editor of Ananda Vikatan but also the producer of the film: “while other magazines have expressed their appreciation of Avvaiyar, I have a duty as a magazine editor. So, instead of any review, I thought publishing the letters of my highly satisfied audience would be the service I can do for such a great film.” The above piece in Ananda Vikatan appears in September, two weeks after the release of the film on August 15, 1953, when the readers/audience were eagerly waiting for the review of Avvaiyar in the magazine; see Ananda Vikatan (1953, p. 28). 71. For details on MPPC and director K. Subrahmanyam, see Rangarajan (2005, pp. 29–30). 183

Madras Studios 72. Thyagabhoomi was serialized from January 1, 1939 (Ananda Vikatan 14[1]) to May 24, 1939 (Ananda Vikatan (14 [20]): refer Ananda Vikatan Micro Film Archives in Chennai, in July 2014. 73. See for details on nationalism in K.Subrahmanyam’s films: Baskaran, 1981, pp. 116–118. For a detailed analysis of Thyagabhoomi in the context of India’s freedom movement and Tamil cinema, see Narayanan (2007, pp. 130–142). 74. Naradar, the Tamil magazine that focused on arts, particularly on music and cinema, carries the advertisement of Madanakamarajan in its front page, and the film is advertised as “Gemini’s First Film”; see Naradar (1941). 75. Gopala Krishna Bharathiyar’s title of the play comes from the legend of Nandanar who, overwhelmed with devotion, kept telling the people he met would synopsis visit the Shiva temple at Chidambaram next day. 76. that For ahe detailed of Gopalakrishna Bharathiyar’sNaalai/the Nandan Charitiram, see Perumal (1981, pp. 76–82). 77. See Hiltebeitel for details on Sekkizhar (Cekkilar): Hiltebeitel 1989, p. 397. Zvelebil gives the date of Sekkilar’s (Cekkilar’s) Periya Puranam as “sometime in 1135 AD,” see the footnotes: Zvelebil, 1987, pp. liv–lv. The canonical Jivaka Chintamani was published by U.V. Saminatha Iyer in 1887. For the text of Jivaka Chintamani, see Tirutakkatevar, 2012. 78. See Paavalar (1938, p. 61). In fact, Paavalar’s essay also points to the potential in the narratives of Nayanmars, the devotees of Lord Shiva, and thus, prefigures Vasan’s production of Nandanar, Mangamma Sabatham, and Avvaiyar. 79. Vasan has been acknowledged as the producer mainly resposible for making the Madras studios visible in the North. For instance, the legendary Nagi Reddy, of the Vijaya-Vauhini Studios, credits Vasan as singularly responsible for inspiring studio owners like him to venture into Hindi films: Vasan, through the unparalleled suceess of Chandralekha, inspired AVM Studios, Patchiraja Studios, Venus Studios (and the legendary director C.V. Sridhar) and Vijaya-Vauhini Studios to make films in Hindi; see Nagi Reddy (2009, p. 99). 80. See for details on the shooting of the famous drum dance sequence in Chandralekha: “Chandralekhavin Vettrikku Paraichatriya Murasu Nadanam,” Amarar Vasan, pp. 184–187 (Reprinted from the issue of Pesum Padam, December 1957). Also see Mutthiah, 2008. 81. For instance, Guntoosi, in its November 1949 issue, carries a news item about Gemini’s Hindi film Nishaan, which was released on November 4, 1949, at Regal Theater, in New Delhi. The chief guest for the inaugural show was Sardar Baldev Singh, the first defence minister of the Indian

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AVM and Gemini Studios Government under Prime Minister Nehru, who praised Vasan’s film and lauded his efforts from South India. The collections of the show—2,000 rupees—were handed over to the minister, for improving the conditions of the Indian troops, by the senior Gemini Studio official, the publicity officer V.K.N. Chari; see Guntoosi (1949, p. 53). 82. Vasan was conferred with Padma Bhusan, the third highest civilian award in India—“given for distinguished service of a high order to the nation, in any field”—in 1969. See for details of Padma Bhusan awarded in 1967: “Padma Bhusan Awardees”; www.indiagov.in (accessed February 13, 2010). 83. According to R. Venkataraman, the ex-President of India (1987–1992), Congress Party was responsible for making Vasan a Rajya Sabha Member. In fact, Kamaraj, the frontline Congress leader, sent the message of Vasan’s nomination to the Rajya Sabha (Upper House of the Parliament) from R. Aalakkinaar,” Venkataraman. For details, Venkataraman, “AvarDelhi Than through Ennaiyum Amarar Vasan,see p. R. 275. For his Rajya Sabha Membership see the official website of the Indian Government: “Nominated Members”; www.rajyasabha.nic.in (accessed July 7, 2009). 84. See S. Balasubramanian’s poignant essay on his father: Balasubramanian, 2004, pp. 6–17. In December 1969, the Congress Party split into two factions—Congress (O) and Congress (I); Indira Gandhi, who was the prime minister of India from 1967, was the leader of Congress (I). See for a brief history of the split: Hardgrave, 1970, pp. 256–262. Besides, Vasan wanted the then Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru to inaugurate his Gemini Color Laboratory in 1958 and had gone all the way to Delhi to invite him. For details, see Kittappa, 2004, pp. 176–177. 85. For instance, when he was the president of the Film Federation of India, in 1954, he critiqued the adoption by the Rajya Sabha of a resolution by its member Smt. Lilavati Munshi, seeking “legislative or other steps to prohibit the screening of ‘undesirable’ films.” Underscoring Munshi’s silence to the question posed by the then Information and Broadcasting Minister Dr B.V. Keskar as to what is an undesirable film, Vasan argued that no producer wanted to make “an undesirable film.” Further, he claimed that they wanted to make a “desirable film, a more and more desirable film”; see for details: “Miscellaneous: This Day That Age: S.S. Vasan Replies to Critics,” December 15, 2004; www.hindu.com (accessed 15 July 2009). In fact, Vasan was the first filmmaker from South India to be the president of a national forum for producers. After Chandralekha’s success all over India in 1948, he was respected by producers from the South as well as the North. 86. See AVM (2000, pp. 149–153), for the details on the award given to Hum Panchhi Ek Daal Ke, and his breakfast with Nehru. For Meiyappan’s involvement with Devdas Gandhi and the dubbing of the documentary 185

Madras Studios on Gandhi, AVM, 2000, pp. 141–143. For Meiyappan’s deep religiosity and devotion to God Murugan and his remarks on atheists as “stupid,” pp. 30–1. Meiyappan’s wife A.V.M. Rajeshwari recounts her memories of Meiyappan’s long relationship with his colleague Vasan and says that “Both were Gandhians, who always wore Khadi; nationalism was their life-breath. In their films songs and scenes aroused the national and social consciousness”; see for details Rajeshwari, 2004, p. 140. 87. See Baskaran (2013, p. 33). Baskaran also points out how Perumal willingly removed some of the scenes in his subsequent production Poongothai (1953), when the Regional Censor Board officer objected to it on religious grounds. 88. For instance, Guntoosi, in its October 1949 issue carries a news item about Avvaiyar getting ready to be released in January 1950 (Pongal Day). See Guntoosi (1949, p. 130). Even earlier, the December 1948 issue of the magazine carries a news item about Avvaiyar’s “rapid” production, under Kothamangalam Subbu’s direction; Velaiyya, an actor with the Sakthi Nataka Sabha, has been hired for the film; see Guntoosi (1948, p. 58). 89. Ashokamitran suggests that one of the reasons for the delay in the production of Avvaiyar could be reasoned out to the great success of the play Avviyar by TKS Brothers—T.K. Shanmugam, T.K. Bagavathi, T.K. Sankaran, and T.K. Muthuswamy’s famed drama troupe. T.K. Shanmugam’s enactment of the lead singing-acting role of the old poetess, with painstaking details to makeup and authenticity, made him synonymous his role as Avvaiyar . For details see Ashokamitran (2002, pp. 172–173),with and my interview with T.K.S. Kalaivanan, T.K. Shanmugam’s son, in Chennai, in July 2007. Kamalahasan, one of Tamil cinema’s leading star/actor started his theatrical career in T.K.S. Brothers’ dramas. As a tribute to Shanmugam and his role in Avvaiyar, he named one of his films as Avvai Shanmugi (1996), a film inspired by Mrs. Doubtfire (1993), where like Shanmugam donning the elderly lady’s role in Avvaiyar, Kamalahasan impersonates an old lady—baby sitter. 90. Guntoosi, in its January 1949 issue, carries a review of the Hindi version of Chandralekha: It praises the Hindi version for its finesse and its improvement over the earlier Tamil version. The dialogues, it says, are better in Hindi, and most importantly, it appreciates the pace of the film: The Tamil version was 18,634 feet and the Hindi version has been edited down to 14,495 feet to make the film crisp by cutting down on sequences like comedy and the scene in front of the palace; see Guntoosi, 1949, p. 45. Though Avvaiyar is a specifically Tamil subject, its episodic narrative should have evoked Vasan’s interest because of the possibilities of adding 186

AVM and Gemini Studios and removing sequences/spectacles, like in Chandralekha (Hindi), and be in control of the series of “attractions” delivered to the audience in the end. 91. My interview with Pa. Chozhanadan, in Chennai, in May 2007. He has published a monograph on K.B. Sundarambal, who played the old Avvaiyar in the Gemini Studios’ production. See for details on the history of Avvaiyar and Sundarambal: Chozhanadan, 2004, pp. 88–120. 92. This scene recalls Karna’s story of floating in the basket immediately after his birth, when he is abandoned by his mother Kunti, in the Mahabharatha. However, none of Avvaiyar’s story has the basket incident. It must have been co-opted by the script writer, Pudhumaipithan, one of the iconic writers of Tamil literature, from the folklores—Karnaparambarai Kathaigal/the stories inherited as Karna’s legacy (my interview with Pa. Chozhanadan). 93. K.B. Sundrambal, was persuaded by the nationalist and Congress Party activist Satyamurthi, to join the Congress. Gandhiji too visited house in Madras, and she campaigned for the Congress actively in theher elections in 1937: A gramophone record was released with her songs on one side, and Satayamurti’s speech on the other. She remained a staunch Congress Party supporter throughout her life, wearing Khadi (Indian handspun and hand-woven cloth); see Baskaran (2013, pp. 81–82). For the influence of her songs on the nationalist movement, see Baskaran (1981, pp. 56–57). After independence, she became the first film artist in the country to enter the state legislature: She was nominated by the ruling Congress Party and became the member of the state legislative council (MLC) of the Madras State in 1958; see Baskaran (2009, p. 98). Vasan and Sundarambal, thus, had their Congress Party loyalty and nationalist imperatives as a common platform to mount their response to the secessionist rhetoric of the DMK in Parasakthi. 94. See for details on the music recording facilities in Gemini Studios for producers: Nath, 1945, pp. 8–15. Films like Jeevan Mukti, Nandanar, Prahaladha, Anantha Sayanam, Harichandra, and Dasi Aparanji used the BAF system for recording, whereas Madanakamarajan, Baala Nagamma, Baktha Naradar, and Mangamma Sabatham used the RCA format. 95. See Kusalakumari (1954, p. 57). Twenty minutes into the film, there is the scene where the young Avvaiyar (Kuasalakumari) encounters an elephant and welcomes it with a smile and follows it joyfully as it leads her to the statue of Lord Ganesha and disappears. This scene reveals that Vasan’s interest lay, unlike that of his peers, in avoiding stock shots and shooting with real animals/characters on locations. The high-angle shot as the young maiden goes after the elephant is beautifully shot and exemplifies cinematographer Thambu’s skills and the meticulous production design of A.K. Shekar along with K.R. Sharma and M.S. Janakiram. (The baby

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Madras Studios Avvaiyar, prior to the apperance of young Avvaiyar, was played by Baby Saraswathi [Baby Sachu], who later had a sucessesful career as a comedienne/character actor.) 96. See Pandian’s essay on Parasakthi, for the binary of Bhratanatyam/ Brahmins (high culture) and DMK/cinema (low culture) in the context of Jolly’s scene with Gunasekaran: Pandian, 2005, pp. 68–69. 97. See Stuart Blackburn’s essay for the incident surrounding the Sangam poets’ ridiculing of Thiruvalluvar’s caste, and the golden plank in the pond accepting his couplets: Blackburn, 2000, pp. 461–462. 98. According to one of the legends, Thiruvalluvar was insulted because of his birth in the Pariah (untouchable) caste, Blackburn, 2000, pp. 461–462. But today it’s accepted by the scholars that he was a Samanar/Jaina poet. See for the details on the views of scholars based on their analysis of Thiruvalluvar’s works: Cutler, 1992, pp. 549, 556 (footnote 31), and 559 (footnote 35); www.jstor.org (accessed February 25, 2010). 99. See for details on the mystic-poet Bogar and his travel to China: White, 1998, p. 61. 100. For instance, the cover of the book, iPaatti—Thagaval Yugak Kuzantaip Paadalgal—New Age Kid’s Song Book, feautures K.B. Sundarambal as Avvaiyar listening to songs through the headphones from her ipod on the cover. Madhan Karky and Nandhini Karky, iPaatti—Thagaval Yugak Kuzantaip Paadalgal—New Age Kid’s Song Book (Chennai: Mellinam, 2009). Patti means grandmother in Tamil, and because of Gemini’s popular film Sundarambal has become the iconic grandmother of the Tamilspeaking world like Avvaiyar. 101. See Sundarambal (1953, p. 15). Sundarambal’s choice of her favorite scene in the film gives us an idea why Avvaiyar should have been such a big success at the box-office despite being episodic and a compilation of dramatic events/spectacle shot over a period of time. Scenes like this should have appealed to the masses, particularly women. 102. The search for elephants led Vasan from the emaciated elephants in a circus to Aanai Malai mountains, but finally the arrival of the army of elephants was shot on location in Mananthavadi forests, at Vayanadu in Kerala. Almost 100 elephants were involved in the shooting for 15 days. For matching their attack on the fort, a set was constructed in Gemini Studios. Serrendipitously, some elephants were being transferred from the forests in Mysore to Andaman Islands around that time. On their way for 10 days they were at Gemini Studios, and “cooperated with the director and acted as per his direction”; see for details on the elephant scene: Amarar Vasan, pp. 180–181. 188

AVM and Gemini Studios 103. Like Ananda Vikatan, its competitor Kumudam too came to be known for its film reviews within the popular magazine format of helping its readers decide about the value of the film: Kumudam’s review of Vasan’s Chandralekha is insightful: Though the story is ordinary, the shocking events inserted into the narrative are something new to the Tamil cinema. There are some shortcomings: The songs are not so good; the film is too long; the time period of the story should have been defined; in a scene, there is a wall clock in the King’s office, whereas he is writing with a feather-pen. Kumudam (1948, pp. 14–16). 104. For Murugan as Tamil God, see Clothey (1978, pp. 106–112). Lord Murugan has always been a ubiquitous figure in Tamil literature and played a signficant role in Avvaiyar’s life. 105. Siruthondar, one of the 63 devotees in Periya Puranam, tries to prove his devotion byalso cooking son devotees to pleaseof Lord Thirugnanasambandar, amonghis the own 63 prime Lord Siva. Siva, was a child prodigy, and according to legends was breastfed by Parvathi, Siva’s consort; see for details, Sekkizhaar (1985). 106. See for the details on Nallathangal as a tragic ballad: Arunachalam, 1976, pp. 184–185. 107. For details, see Ananda Vikatan cartoonist, the legendary Gopulu’s essay: Gopulu, 2004, p. 231. Kungumam, often referred to as vermillion, the red powder that generally marks the forehead of married Hindu women, is made out of turmeric, saffron, and slaked lime. 108. See for Randor Guy on Vasan, and Miss. Malini: Guy, 2003. Also see the gossip coulmn by “Nunippul” (Surface Grass) in Guntoosi, where Vettukkili points out how Ramnoth was the main reason for the success of Miss. Malini and not its director Kothamangalam Subbu: Vettukkili, 1954, p. 23. 109. See Muthiah, 2004. Reprinted in Muthiah, 2011, pp. 124–125. 110. Avvaiyar created a record by being continuosly screened in Ashoka Theater and Queen Cinema in Kuala Lumpur for 45 days after its release on Deepavali in 1953 in Malaysia; there were special screenings for school children; see Guntoosi, 1954, p. 53. 111. In Guntoosi’s August 1954 issue, to a question from a fan as to why the songs of Avvaiyar have not been released on gramophone record, Guntoosi (P.R.S. Gopal) replies that probably releasing the songs on disc would affect the box-office collections of Avvaiyar and then he qualifies his statement by saying that it is in Vasan’s nature to tread the path not trodden by others; see Guntoosi (1954, p. 19).

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Chapter 4 Vijaya-Vauhini and Prasad: The Other Narratives

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his chapter studies in detail two of the significant Tamil films produced by Vijaya-Vauhini Studios: Pathala Bhairavi (dir. Kadri Venkata Reddi, 1951) and Missiamma (dir. L.V. Prasad, 1955). While the objective of analyzing Pathala Bhairavi is to trace how the srcins of the producers B. Nagi Reddy and Chakrapani affected their productions at the Vijaya-Vauhini Studios at Madras, the purpose behind the detailed study of Missiamma is to explore reasons behind the long and prolific producer–director collaboration of Vijaya-Vauhini and Prasad, and to study Prasad’s dexterity as a director who could delicately balance drama and comedy to achieve success at the box office, which later led to his becoming a leading producer and the owner of the last major Madras studio— Prasad Studios. Nonetheless, any meaningful analysis of Pathala Bhairavi and Missiamma requires a knowledge of the specificity of the producers B. Nagi Reddy and Chakrapani, and director Prasad, as hailing from the Telugu-speaking region of the Madras Province (present-day Andhra Pradesh) and the impact of this history on their films. The Vauhini Studios, one of the major studios in Madras, and a contemporary of AVM and Gemini, was the biggest in Asia at one point.1 The Vauhini Studios made 46 films between their 190

Vijaya-Vauhini and Prasad

first production Shavukaru (Telugu, 1950) and Shriman Shrimati (Hindi, 1982), under their various production companies: Vijaya 2

Productions Ltd, Vijaya Pictures, Vijaya International. Later, in the Pvt. 1990s, Nagi Reddy’s son B.and Venkatarami Reddy produced three films, Brundavanam (1992), Bhairava Dweepam (1994), and Sri Krishnarjuna Vijayam (1996), all directed by Singeetham Srinivasa Rao but under a different banner of Chandamama Vijaya Combines. Seven years back, Nagi Reddy’s great-granddaughter B. Bharathi entered production with her Tamil film Thamira Bharani (Vijaya Productions, 2007), with Vishaal in the lead, which was successful at the box office. 3 L.V. Prasad (1908–1994), the preeminent producer, director, and actor of the Indian cinema, directed 28 films between 1949 and 1977 (11 in Hindi, 9 in Tamil, and 8 in Telugu), and his company Prasad Productions produced 30 films between 1956 and 1996 (18 in Hindi, 3 in Telugu, 2 in Tamil, 4 in Bengali, and 1 each in Kannada, Malayalam, and Oriya). Prasad’s second film as a director, Shavukaru (1950), was produced by Vijaya Pictures; although the film was critically acclaimed, it was not a success at the box office. However, his next bilingual film, Kalyanam Panni Paar (Tamil) and Pelli Chesi Choodu (Telugu), which he directed for Vijaya Pictures in 1952, was a big hit. This led to further successful bilinguals by the same team: Missamma (Telugu) and Missiamma (Tamil) in 1955, and Kadan Vangi Kalyanam (Tamil) and Appu Chesi Pappu Koodu (Telugu) in 1958.4 Thus, Nagi Reddy-Chakrapani and Prasad have come to be known as the premier successful team producing bilingual films in Tamil and Telugu. My focus here, however, is to analyze Pathala Bhairavi and Missiamma in the context of the volatile sociopolitical scenario in the Madras Province between 1950 and 1955, when these films were 5

made by Vijaya-Vauhuni and Prasad: In 1949, as the DMK came into being with its agenda of a separate Dravida Nadu, the Telugus (the Telugu-speaking population in Madras), who had contributed to the economical development of Madras city in particular, from the time of British rule, and who were entrenched both industrially and politically at the time of India’s independence in Madras 191

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Province, staked their claim for a separate and autonomous Andhra province with the Telugu slogan Madras Manade (Madras Is Ours). Thus in the earlyand 1950s, became of contention, as both the Tamils the Madras Telugus city wanted it to abeseat a central part of the linguistic state they were claiming.6 In October 1952, a Madras city resident and a Gandhian, Potti Sriramulu, seeking the “separation of Telugu-speaking areas from the Madras province,” went on a fast. 7 After 58 days of fasting, he died in the early hours of December 16, 1952, which led to widespread violence against the indifference of the Congress Government to Sriramulu’s demands, both in the state (with Rajagopalachari as the chief minister) and at the center (with Jawaharlal Nehru as the prime minister), and to the burning of public properties in the Madras Province and the Andhra region, including Vijayawada, Vizianagaram, Visakhapatnam, Guntur, Eluru, Tenali, Ongole, and Nellore. The agitation turned violent, and in the subsequent police shooting seven people were killed in Vijayawada and Ankapalle. Within three days, as the violence continued, Nehru announced the formation of a separate state: On October 1, 1953, Andhra State, the first linguistic state of India, came into being. Simultaneously, a Tamil-speaking Madras State was mapped out with Madras city as its capitol. The State Reorganization Commission set up subsequently enabled the passing of the State Reorganization Act in November 1956, “providing for fourteen States and six centrally administered territories” (Amritavalli and Jayaseelan, 2007, p. 67). Thus, the films made between the period of 1950 and 1955, chosen in this chapter for detailed analysis, were by filmmakers who had Telugu as their mother tongue, but who later became movie moguls in Madras, and thus become significant for exploring the way they reflect the complex background of their makers as they navigated through a tumultuous time in Madras marked by disparate linguistic claims and conflicts. B. Nagi Reddy, the proprietor of Vauhini Studios, was born in the Andhra region of Cuddapah, in the small village Pottimpadu, but was educated in Madras, where he started the Telugu monthly magazine Andhra Jyothi in 1945, and his popular children’s magazine Chandamama (Telugu) and Ambulimama 192


(Tamil) in 1947 with his business partner Chakrapani, before they started producing films together. L.V. Prasad was born to an agriculturist a remote village, Somavarapadu, in his Eluru in Andhra region,inbut went to Bombay in 1930 to try luckTaluk in Hindi films, before relocating to Madras to act in the pioneer filmmaker/director H.M. Reddy’s classic Telugu film Grihalakshmi (1938).8 Later, along with Nagi Reddy and Chakrapani, Prasad attained huge success and became an icon of the Madras film industry. If Pathala Bhairavi and Missiamma shed light on the subtle and indirect way the Telugu-speaking filmmakers dealt with the increasingly impassioned environment in Madras surrounding Tamil language and culture, particularly through the rhetoric-driven and inflammatory writings and speeches of the Dravidian ideologues, the silence of Tamil cinema on the contentious issue of Madras city is conspicuous: On the one hand, the early 1950s when rights of the Tamils to Madras city were challenged was also the time when the young DMK party members were entrenching themselves as popular Tamil screenwriters, and successfully mobilizing the masses, for their political and electoral imperatives and, therefore, Madras being both the headquarters of South Indian/Tamil cinema and as the podium for their rhetoric was an indispensible space for them; on the other, their silence could be attributed to their objective of mobilizing not just the Tamils but all the South Indians/Dravidians, speaking not only Tamil and Telugu but also Kannada and Malayalam languages, for their cause of a united Dravidian Land to counter the hegemony of the North. More important, Madras film industry itself was primarily a mélange of people from the South; for instance, most of the iconic Tamil actresses were from the adjacent states—Savithri was from Guntur (Madras Presidency/Andhra Pradesh), Padmini from Thiruvanathapuram (Travancore/Kerala), and Pandari Bai from Bhatkal (Uttara Kannada/Karnataka). From a sociological perspective, people involved in the making of films in Madras mirrored the audiences who received them: They were spread not only across languages but also religions and castes. For instance, Marcus Bartley, Masthan, and Vijayam were top cameramen; many top actors came from the Isai Velalla communities, for instance, T.R. Rajakumari 193

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and T.A. Mathuram; even more important, seminal writers like M. Karunanidhi and legendary choreographers like Vazhuvoor K.N. Dhandayuthapani Pillai. Historian Theodore S. Baskaran’s current project traces the centrality of the Isai Vellala community during the emergence of Tamil cinema, particularly in the 1930s, when the narrative was structured around song and dance sequences, and the Isai Vellala community by providing not only the performers but also the choreographers significantly influenced the form and content of (early) Tamil cinema.9 In the case of the Telugu-speaking people like Nagi Reddy and Chakrapani and their director Prasad, bilinguals should have made sense only most because of writers, their catering to a larger audience but alsonot because of the technicians, and stars of the South, including the iconic N.T. Ramarao (NTR) of Pathala Bhairavi lived in Madras during the 1950s and the 1960s. In fact, NTR’s debut film wherein he played the role of a police inspector was Mana Desam (Our Country, 1949), directed by L.V. Prasad. It was produced by actress Krishnaveni, along with her husband Raja of Mirzapuram, who owned the Shobanachala Studios in Madras, under the banner of MRA Productions. Kaladhar, who would later play a central role in the art department of Vijaya-Vauhini Studios, was in-charge of wardrobe, and M.A. Rehman was the cinematographer.10 Mana Desam was based on the Bengali novel Vipradas, written by the iconic Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay.11 The popular film magazine, Guntoosi, in its November 1949 edition, carries an editorial on the “Telugu and Tamil” issue that is about the decision of the State Congress Committee to separate Andhra State from Madras Presidency. Guntoosi, however, points to the contribution of actresses from other states to the Tamil film industry: Kannamba, Bhanumathi, Anjali Devi, Rajamma, Varalakshmi, Vasundhara, Pushpavalli, Suryaprabha, Jayamma, Malathi, Shanthakumari, Krishnaveni, Suryakumari, and Balasaraswathi; very few actresses like T.R. Rajakumari, Madhuri Devi and B.S. Saroja were from Tamil Nadu. “As far as art is concerned there should be no discrimination based on caste, religion or language.” Nonetheless, Tamil actresses 194


must also be given opportunities (see for details Guntoosi, November 1947, p. 7). Elavarthi Satya Prakash in hishistory insightful essay on Telugu identity in Tamil cinema sketches a brief of the migration of Telugus to Tamil Nadu, which dates back, according to available sources, “to the Nayaka rule during the Vijayanagara times” and points to how “the early Dravidian leadership because of its eclectic mix was content with Aryan–Dravidian, Brahmin–non-Brahmin binaries” but analyzes how it has changed drastically over the years due to “the complexities involved in the twin ideologies of non-Brahmin identity and linguistic nationalism.”12 Satya Prakash also draws attention towith the film Pandiya Kattabomman (dir.which B.R. portrayed Panthulu, 1959), SivajiVeera Ganesan playing the titular role, a king from the Telugu-speaking Poligar community as a staunch Tamil nationalist, and Madurai Veeran (1956) in which MGR played the titular folk hero who was a Telugu “commander in Tirumala Nayak’s army.” In the 1950s, Sivaji and MGR could play a Telugu hero, though appropriated as a Tamil nationalist/folk deity, arguably because the film industry was an even greater “eclectical mix” than the Dravidian party. Nevertheless, as explicated by Satya Prakash, the silence ofroots the young Dravidian could be attributed to the Telugu of some of the topideologues leaders of the Justice Party and Dravidian movement, including Periyar. Pathala Bhairavi, classified as a folklore film, was the first big budget extravaganza produced by Vijaya-Vauhini and remains, along with Maya Bazaar (1957), the company’s most popular film to this day.13 According to S.V. Srinivas, Chandamama, the illustrated children’s magazine started in July 1947 by Nagi Reddy and Chakrapani, the producers of Pathala Bhairavi, was packed with “‘inauthentic’ folktales.” Influenced by the Orientalist fantasies seen in the stunt films of Douglas Fairbanks, the folklore film, far removed from the domain of authentic folk tales, is thus an industrial genre created by the confluence of the publishing and the cinema industry. 14 The folktale film, as an amalgam of industrially driven print and film media, has significance for my analysis of Pathala Bhairavi. 195

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In a similar vein, A.K. Ramanujan and Stuart H. Blackburn observe that the weekly magazines may “borrow folk themes and symbols,” but drive isand toward modern Likewise, fiction particularly in their claims fortheir authorship innovations. they discuss the gap between radio, cinema, and folklore: Although they are “oral-aural” media, their production and distribution technology widens the gap between “carrier and audience, so that they cannot be spoken aloud by one person to others.” Nonetheless, the Indian films are affected by folklore as “these mass media … are surrounded by and embedded in oral traditions.”15 Thus, the oxymoron “folklore film,” like “oral literature,” has been of great interest to scholars even if in the first instance folklore cinema is not about live performance like the folk theater, but at a deeper level cinema is about performativity and it borrows from many traditions, including the oral-aural: Pathala Bhairavi is a classic example of such a mélange. The narrative of Pathala Bhairavi revolves around the exploits of Thotta Raman (NTR), a gardener’s son, living with his widowed mother, and his friend Anji (Balakrishnan). The playful Ramudu falls in love with the princess Indumathi (Malathi) and wants to marry her. The King of Ujjayini (CSR) scorns the poor Ramudu and asks him to become his equal in wealth if he aspires to his daughter’s hand. A chance encounter with the sorcerer Nepala Mathiravathi (S.V. Ranga Rao) leads Ramudu to the subterranean abode of Pathala Bhairavi (the ferocious Goddess of sorcery/magic). When Ramudu comes to know that the sorcerer is going to offer him in sacrifice to the Goddess, since she needs a courageous and righteous man as an offering, he cleverly beheads the sorcerer instead, and through the magical powers of the Goddess Pathala Bhiravi (Girija), attains the wealth and the status to marry the princess. The king agrees to the marriage after visiting Ramudu’s Maya Maligai (Magical Palace), but on the day of the marriage, at the opportune moment of his tying the Thaali (Mangalsutra/sacred gold chain) around her neck, she vanishes. The sorcerer had plotted her abduction through her maternal uncle Surasenan (Relangi Venkata Ramiah), who has been dreaming of marrying her, by stealing the statuette of Pathala Bhairavi from Ramudu’s pooja (prayer) room. Upon obtaining the 196


statuette, the sorcerer transports Ramudu’s magical palace and the princess to his place in the forest. lostholding all his him magical powers,for and the queen, of king, and Having his mother responsible thewith disappearance the princess, Ramudu pledges to bring her back. The shocked and grieving princess rejects the lascivious advances of the sorcerer, declaring her love for Ramudu; the angry sorcerer asks Pathala Bhairavi to bring Ramudu to the palace, and Ramudu is transported instantly. Raman’s friend Anji joins him and together they plot and relieve the sorcerer of his powers and the statuette. Finally the sorcerer is killed, and Ramudu marries the princess and his friend Anji marries her maid Nalini, Bhairavi. with the blessings of the king, queen, Ramudu’s mother, and Pathala In the beginning, after the major title-cards (first in English and then in Tamil) of the production company and the name of the film, significance is given to the writers by the following card in English: “Story, Dialogues, and Songs” are credited to P. Nagendra Rao; just below (on the same card) “Screenplay” is credited to K.V. Reddy, B.Sc. (Hons.) and K. Kameswara Rao, BA. However, the next card in Tamil gives different information: The Story is credited to Nagendra Rao, andRamiahdass. below his name, Songs Dialogues are Productions credited to Thanjai Thus, we can and gather that Vijaya Ltd was predominantly a producer of Telugu films despite their production in other languages, and they have used the English title-card meant for their Telugu film (Patala Bhiaravi) in the Tamil version too. Besides, it informs us that P. Nagendra Rao was the story writer for both versions; K.V. Reddy (the director of the Telugu as well as the Tamil versions) has written the screenplay with K. Kameswara Rao, and the songs and the dialogue have been written for the Tamil version by Thanjai Ramiahdass. Similarly the title-card for music in English credits it to Telugu cinema’s iconic playback singer-music director Ghanatasala, followed by a Tamil title-card announcing the name of G. Venkateshwara Rao as the music director; however, the tunes and the number of songs (10) remain the same in both versions. 197

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Thus, Pathala Bhairavi informs us that it is a Telugu/Tamil bilingual film, not a Tamil/Telugu one. (See Photo 13 in the photo group section.) dialogue as well as the songs in though the Tamil version are literallyThe designed after the Telugu srcinal, in the hands of the master writer Thanjai Ramiahdass they become a creative translation—a transcreation—of the srcinal. Ramiahdass became Tamil cinema’s landmark writer as far as bilinguals/remakes were concerned. Out of the 21 films he wrote the dialogues for, 14 had versions in other languages. Ramiahdass’s name became synonymous with Vijaya Productions’ Tamil films, as he wrote the dialogues as well as the lyrics for five of their films apart from Pathala Bhairavi, Kalyanam Panni Paar (1952), Gunasundari (1955), Missiamma (1955), Maya Bazaar (1957), and Kadan Vangi Kalyanam (1958).16 Arurdoss, arguably Tamil cinema’s most prolific and successful dialogue writer of the last century, considers Ramiahdoss his Guru, not merely since he too started his career in Vauhini Studios in the early 1950s as an assistant to Ramiahdoss but also because of Ramiahdoss’s unique ability to instantly write meaningful lyrics for Carnatic (South Indian classical) as well as Hindustani (North Indian classical) based tunes.17 The film marks its location as Ujjayini (present-day Ujjain) in Madhya Pradesh in the Malwa region of Central India, but the language and culture depicted are those of the Madras city of the 1950s, predominantly made up of the Telugu/Tamil populace. Thus, it vastly differs in its use of the Tamil language from films like Uthama Puthiran, Parasakthi, and Avvaiyar, which do not acknowledge the mixed nature of Tamil in its usage. The strong Telugu accents of Pathala Bhairavi’s major characters like Raman, Anji, the sorcerer, the king, the queen, and Surasenan further underscore the film as a myth/fantasy-driven folklore film from the Tamil/Telugu region of the Madras Presidency/province. Besides, the film aligns itself, through its status as a simultaneously produced bilingual (rather than dubbed) Tamil/Telugu film, with an overlapping and a linguistically contested area of the Tamils/ Telugus in Madras, and undermines the Tamil/Dravidian writers’ claims regarding Tamil Thaai/Tamil Mother as the supreme mother 198


of all Dravidians. By contesting the pure Tamil language as seen in the alliterative and florid monologues of Annadurai (Velaikkari, 1949) Karunanidhi (Manthiri Kumari, 1950), through casual use ofand Telugu-accented Tamil (dialogues and lyrics by itsThanjai Ramiah Dass) it draws attention to the contemporary reality of the “purity” of Tamil as spoken in the Madras region, which has a history of thousands of years of kings from various dynasties like the Chozhas and Marathas conquering, occupying, ruling over, and inflecting the language spoken by their subjects.18 This element of deconstructing purity reflexively points to the folklore dynamics of inversion of the high culture of the pure through the low culture of the mixed or the polluted.19 The protagonist Thotta Raman is addressed variously: as Ramu (by his mother), Rama (by his friend Anji), and Thoattaraman (by the king). Thotta is referring to the garden (Thottam in Tamil), but such a usage is very rare in the Tamil region, whereas it is a common prefix to refer to a gardener or somebody who is living adjacent to and taking care of the garden/grove among the Telugu-speaking people. In the first 20 minutes of the film, the inconvenience of the Telugu actors speaking Tamil, particularly the protagonist Raman (NTR) and Anji (Balakrishna), becomes obvious as they stress the wrong syllable in the words, whereas the princess (Malathi) and the queen (Lakshmikantham) speak Tamil effortlessly. Similarly Raman and his mother’s scenes in the beginning foreground the contrast of his difficulty and her ease with the delivery of Tamil dialogues. Thus, the film announces its bilingual spirit through the casting of its actors; the mixed casting of Tamil- and Telugu-speaking actors prefigures their speaking of both languages, since it is a bilingual production with synchronous sound recording within studios. Thereafter, around the 11th minute of the film’s beginning, the second song, Ithihasam Kettira?, frames NTR as the Kathanayagan (hero) of the film even before he has met and confronted the villain, as observed by Srinivas (2001, pp. 48–49). The street singer (T.G. Kamala) and her troupe of four members, during their performance at the city square, remind their assembled audience of the mythical hero, who comes in every Yuga (eon), and they ask if any 199

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such hero (amidst them) would come forward to carry on the battle (against injustice). Kamala invokes the figures of Veera Migu Jaya (the andbattlefield, victorious)and Vikramadityan, whoSalivahanan, fought valiantly until deathbrave on the the fearless King as icons of such heroism. The inaugural line of the song, Itihasam Kettira? (Would you listen to history?), recalls the lyrics in the Telugu version, Itihasam Vinnara?, which carries the same meaning and evokes the Burrakatha style of oral storytelling that is popular among Telugu people.20 (See Photo 12 in the photo group section.) However, the use of the word Itihasam (history), with its Sanskrit root Ithihaasa (chronicle/history), is far the Tamil word trend: Varalaaru (history), and signifies theremoved film as from challenging a visible The very late 1940s and the early 1950s in Tamil cinema, marked by the entry and success of the Dravidian ideologues as screenwriters, saw a movement toward a very conscious use of “pure” Tamil words, shunning its long and complex relationship with Sanskrit, both in terms of borrowing mythological themes for its narratives and the vocabulary for its dialogues and songs. Nonetheless, this song in Pathala Bhairavi revisits that history not only through the repetitive use of words andtheJayam but also recalling the exploitslike andIthihasam the fame of North(victory) Indian kings like by Vikramadityan and Salivahanan. Vikramadityan’s reference in the song is not accidental as he was the legendary king of Ujjayini, whose seat is now occupied by the heroine’s father: Though the title of Vikramaditya has been associated with many valorous kings from India—including the famous Chandragupta II of the Gupta dynasty—historically the name signifies the king of Ujjayini, who lived in the first century BC.21 The myth of Vikramaditya is of even greater relevance as he is the hero of Muppatirantupatumaikatai (The tale of thirty-two images), the Tamil text that uses a unique format for its narration: An episodic narrative of 25 tales, woven around Vikramaditya and the Vampire (Vetala), is framed by a story-within-story format of another series of 32 tales revolving around Vikramaditya and his throne. Vikramacarita, the srcinal text in Sanskrit (the source for 200


the Tamil retelling), must have been written “not earlier than the thirteenth century” according to scholars.22 The Vikramacarita played a central in the magazine career of Pathala Bhairavi’s producers: Chandamama, the role children’s of Nagi Reddy and Chakrapani, became most famous for its Vikram and Vetaal stories (reinvented from the Vikramaditya–Vetala episodes): The popular series ran for years. The format of an unending serial, with a question posed by Vetaal to be answered by King Vikram at the end of every installment, suited the requirement of an interesting grid to fill in the fantasies of their creative writers, who specialized in children’s stories filled with adventure, intrigue, horror, and morality. The June 1950 issue of Ambulimama in Tamil, in its editorial, announces that the publication of the magazine began in 1947 in Tamil and Telugu; within three years the magazine has expanded its publication to four languages: Tamil, Telugu, Kannada, and Hindi, and sales have increased to over hundred thousand copies a month (in all the four languages together). Later Chandamama went on to publish in 12 Indian languages and English. In 2006, its circulation was above 200,000 copies per month.23 Thus, the film prefigures the interest of its producers, publishers Nagi Reddy and Chakrapani, in the Vikramaditya legend, and underscores their straddling of a cinema of fantasies along with a children’s magazine. Toward the end of the song, after recalling the heroism of historical and mythical figures, as Kamala keeps probing for a contemporary hero, one man in the audience looking at Thotta Raman, responds: “Yes … there is our Bale Raman.” Soon after, when Surasenan comes with his henchmen and troubles the onlookers and starts looting their belongings, Raman beats him, and the people hit back at the henchmen, and Surasenan runs away saying that he will complain against Raman to his brother-in-law, the king. Meanwhile the singer comes forward to acknowledge Raman as the hero, and ties a Ratchai (a protective shield/thread) around his wrist, and people celebrate his heroism through their loud cheer: Bale Ramanukku Jai! (Victory to Bale Raman!), Kathanayaganukku Jai! (Victory to the hero). The name “Bale Raman” shifts the focus back again to another historical persona, this time from the South, 201

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Tenali Raman. Garlapati Tenali Venkatarama was an eminent poet in the court of King Krishna Devaraya of the Vijayanagar Empire during the him sixteenth century folk traditions thewit South reinvented as a court jesterCE. andThe spun stories aroundinhis and satire, in their objective to critique the establishment. David Dean Shulman, in his insightful essay on the tragic-comic traditions in South Indian literature, identifies the tragic with Viraha (longing in separation), and the comic with Vilayatal (lila/play of the Gods). In the classical traditions, the figure of the king, who is often alone in his burdens, necessitates the presence of his binary opposite, the clown/vidusaka, often a clever Brahmin. For instance, the supreme King paradoxically Dasaratha, ofnurtures the Kambaramayanam, by his loneliness, a profound desireovercome to renounce his throne. Thus, the King and the clown/Brahmin/ascetic are mirror images of each other in classical literature, whereas the folk invention of a court jester like Tenali Rama(n) is unique in his power to scathingly attack and satirize the king and his governance: Being a non-Brahmin he is not weighed against scales of absolute religious or moral conduct, nor does the dichotomy of spiritual/material pursuits trouble him.24 The apopular persona of Tenali Raman alsoTenali saw Chandamama running very successful series of his stories. Raman’s witticisms are often acknowledged and appreciated with the remark, “Bale/Clever Raman,” during folk performances. In the film, Thotta Raman’s name is punned by Surasenan calling him Sappattu Raman/ the voracious-eater Raman, but he’s never directly addressed as Tenali Raman: Such a remark would go against the film’s conscious projection of him as its (action) hero. Nonetheless, through hailing him as “Bale Raman,” immediately after crowning him as its hero, the film acknowledges Thotta Raman’s wit, and his mischievous antics, especially in the early scenes of the film. Besides, the indirect but unambiguous reference to a famous Telugu court jester throws light on the quick-witted quality needed not only by a court jester in the past but also by the hero in the present when the rights of the subjects are in jeopardy, as the king is spending all his time inside the 202


palace playing chess with his queen while his misfit brother-in-law is on the loose. Therefore, when Raman the takes up the cause on the people, and beats Surasenan, singer expresses her behalf joy andofsays: “You showed the true qualities of a hero; you saved the honor of Ujjayini.” The singer’s naming of the locale as the ancient Ujjayini underscores the film’s privileging of a mythical time and place. Pathala Bhairavi thus disavows the claims made by the activists of the DMK movement of Dravida Nadu. The film elides discussion on the issue by not referring to any region in South India, and by invoking another immemorial land, Ujjayini, once the capitol of the ancient kingdom of Avanti, and the birth place of Sanskrit’s greatest bard Kalidasa (circa second-century BC and fifth-century AD), and placing it as the center of its actions.25 Furthermore, when the sorcerer comes to Ujjain seeking Raman as a sacrifice to be offered to gain the ultimate power from Pathala Bhairavi, he is introduced by his assistant (addressed variously in the film as Shadajapa/Dingiri) as Nepala Manthiravathi (Nepalese Magician). Besides, a painted snow-clad mountainous region is revealed as the backdrop to the introductory scene at the temple, thus confirming that the sorcerer is from the remote North. However, the Goddess, who appears in that temple, informs the sorcerer that he has to go further North to get magical powers from Nepal, and to the east of Yojanagiri to reach Pathala Bhairavi’s subterranean abode under a Banyan tree; thus, the mythical, fantasy-driven plot of the film pulls its characters further north of Ujjayini. 26 Therefore, Raman’s journey in the film is laid out to the north from Ujjayini along with the sorcerer, as their interests coincide: Raman wants to become rich through some magical power that will instantly give him the riches to marry the princess and the sorcerer is interested in sacrificing Raman to attain the power to get all that he desires. Before Raman undertakes his journey in search of wealth, his mother blesses him: “Come back victorious like Sita and Rama (of the Ramayana).” This recalls the very first scene of the film wherein Anji tells Raman’s mother, “That Rama is the king of Ayodhya; and this Rama is the king of mine, yours, and all of us.” 203

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Later, Surasenan’s angry mocking at the palace reveals that Anji is a shortened version of his full name, Anjaneyan. In a conspicuous reference the Ramayana, Raman’s friend Anji in Pathaladevotee/ Bhiravi bears the toname of Anjaneyan/Hanuman, the supreme confidante of Lord Rama.27 Such parallels, and Pathala Bhairavi’s analogy with the Ramayana, culminate in the penultimate sequence to the climax, wherein the sorcerer steals the statuette and transports both the magical palace of Raman, and the princess Indumathi: She is served and watched over by a number of women, whose behavior recalls the female demons who kept guard over Sita when she was abducted and kept captive in Ashokavanam (Ashoka Grove) in Lanka (Sri Lanka) by Ravana. Like Ravana, the sorcerer keeps tempting the princess with his wealth and power, but like Sita she doesn’t budge, and keeps lamenting her separation from Raman and hurls abuses at the sorcerer. In Tamil literature, after 10 months of captivity, the Sita of popular folklore like Catakantaravanan (Ravana of the hundred heads), unleashes her fury on the demonic Ravana and kills him.28 However, Pathala Bhairavi as a folkloric but mainstream film is invested in drawing parallels between Rama and its hero, not the heroine: Indumathi waits like the idealized Sita of Valmiki, and finally, Raman arrives and saves her. Nevertheless, Pathala Bhairavi uses some of the popular generic elements from the folk tradition: The sorcerer has his limited magical powers hidden in his beard, apart from the unlimited ones embodied in the statuette. Therefore, Anji, who has cleverly moved into the palace in the garb of his assistant Dingiri, lures the sorcerer to shave his beard off so that Indumathi will find him attractive and yield to his desires. The bewitched sorcerer contemplates for a moment and then decides to shave off his beard as he has the more powerful statuette with him. However, when he goes to meet Indumathi, he encounters Raman, who had been waiting for him and in the ensuing fight he loses his statuette as well as gets thrown off the palace from a good height. In Hindu mythology, hair has played a significant role. For instance, the most sacred of all plants is Tulasi (“matchless”), considered to be the Goddess Lakshmi’s hair.29 In folk traditions, 204


hair is both celebrated and ridiculed: Its marginal status is mocked by drawing attention to the unkempt hair on Ravana’s 10 heads, and by mimicking the difficulty has shaving at the time in plays where Ravana he is celebrated asthem, a greatwhile devotee of same Lord Siva, his hair exemplifies the intangible pranic (life-force) energy, which helps him with his penance and austerities.30 Besides, the earlier sequence of Anji’s reaching the magical palace to help Raman is enabled by the folk-inspired technique of using the magical shawl and footwear, the former enabling him to become invisible and the latter transporting him to the desired destination. Chandamama is famous for its fantasy-driven plots that animate children’s fantasies with devices like Mayakambalam (a magic carpet) and Mayamothiram (a magic ring). Anji’s magical devices, which he later lends to Raman, enable both the comedy and the action in the climactic sequence of Raman retrieving the statuette and getting rid of the sorcerer. The artfully rendered special effects of these sequences foreground the finesse of Vijaya-Vauhini’s technicians, cinematographer Marcus Bartley, and the chief technician of processing in the laboratory, N.C. Sengupta, B.Sc.31 (See Photos 26 and 28 in the photo group section.) One of the great masters of the studio era, Marcus Bartley filmed almost all Vijaya Productions starting with their first film Shaukaru (1950) to Yehi Hai Zindagi (1977), for over three decades. As early as in March 1947, Pesum Padam extolls the arrival of the sound equipment from Western Electric, for the first time in India, at Vauhini Studios. It also expects that the sound expert, A. Krishnan, will join Vauhini Studios as the sound engineer, and suggests that Vauhini’s films, which are already of high standard, would further gain in “shades and moods” (see Pesum Padam, March 1947, pp. 23–25). One of the highlights of Pathala Bhiaravi is the climactic sequence wherein Anji, after having snatched the statuette back from the sorcerer, asks Pathala Bhairavi to transport the magical palace back again, along with its occupants, to Ujjayini. As the magical palace begins to move, the combat between the bitter sorcerer, still trying to reach for the statuette, and Raman gets increasingly vigorous and physical (Wrestling [director]: Choudhari), and this fight 205

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scene in the moving palace became so popular that later posters gave it prominence to attract repeat viewers.32 The reason for its popularity is easypalace) to understand, as the work of the Mayamaligai (magical flying over theminiature mountains is matched aptly with the back projection technique used to showcase the fleeting snowclad mountains in the backdrop as Raman and the sorcerer intensify their attacks on each other inside the palace with a huge ornamental window. Ace cinematographer Bartley’s signature-shots were in the moonlit studio sequences of the Vijaya-Vauhini films: The songs picturized in the studio interiors, where the lovers seemed besotted by the cool moon rays created by the imaginative lighting of Bartley, became so popular that audiences came to expect such a song sequence in any film from the Vijaya-Vauhini production house. 33 (See Photo 27 in the photo group section.) The moon-lit scenes in the 1940s and early 1950s meant meticulously painting a moon in the background and simulating the light in the studio interiors to match that painting.34 He paid great attention to details regarding the paints used by the art director M. Gokhale and saw to it that the painters Muthu and Murthi (Pathala Bhairavi) were credited in the titles. Muthu and Murthi worked under the set-supervisors Kuppuswami and Govindaswami, who worked in collaboration with Gokhale and Bartley. After the initial discussion of the film for about three months, in which Bartley and Gokhale actively participated with the writers and the director, the production of the film took about six months.35 The cumulative effect of such a creative collaboration between production designers and the cinematographer reflects not only in the scenes of spectacle, like the scene of the flying magical palace, and the rich studio interiors of the king’s palace, but also in the street scenes and city square where T.G. Kamala sings. Even the very inaugural scene of the film, set in the minimal environment of Raman’s cottage-like house, with its overpowering wall of the king’s palace in the background, showcases the vastness of the studio, and prefigures through its production design the scale of the spectacle in Pathala Bhairavi. 206


The spectacular third song, Amaithi Illa En Maname (My restless mind), and the fourth one, Ennadan Un Premaiyo (The Wonder of Love), became In highly andIndumathi canonical is in on thethe history of Your song picturizations: bothpopular the duets, spacious balcony of her palace, and Raman is in the garden, and as they sing, both of them are composed for the most part with the moon in the frame either at the beginning or later as the camera tracks to frame the pining lovers with the full moon: With his moving camera Bartley frames the mostly static lovers, isolated from each other, and the moon at varying distances (through its proportion in the frame), and underscores his ability to technically choreograph a song. His classical framings and the sculpting of the passionate lovers’ faces through lights add to the romance through the distinct capturing of their joy as well as anxiety and his carefully planned movements embellish the melody of Ghantasala’s music as it moves in unison with the voices and the instruments. “His camera movements were musical.”36 The lyrics of the songs emphasizing romance and love recall Thanjai Ramiahdass’ early career: After resigning his job as a teacher, he started a drama troupe, which performed many of his plays. The songs he wrote—most of them romantic—for his plays were compiled and released as a gramophone record, and its success led to his popularity as a songwriter in Madras. Thus, he was hired to write the lyrics for the film Mariamman (1948) initially; however, on seeing his talents the director S.S. Ramachandran asked him to write the dialogues as well. Thus, Ramiahdass began his career in cinema as a lyricist-dialogue writer.37 The dialogues in the film, however, are written within the parameters of an srcinal Telugu story, which privileges Sanskrit as the tool used by the sorcerer Nepal Manthiravathi/Nepalese Magician, effectively played by Ranga Rao, arguably the best character artist of the studio era in Telugu as well as Tamil. It is exemplified by the way the sorcerer keeps dropping rhyming (nonsensical) words in Sanskrit, like Dhaam Hak and Draam Hak, and tries to baffle his audience in the streets of Ujjayini, when he is showing off his skills of sorcery: Upon the request of his assistant Dingiri, he produces caps on the 207

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heads of people out of nowhere. To further enchant the people, and to lure Raman, he shows his wizardry by ordering through his concocted and converting a stone intoina handy monkey, later theSanskrit monkeymantras, into a beautiful dancer, who comes forand the sixth song of the film—Madavel Kanaiyal. Furthermore, in his mystical place (at Nepal), he chants mantras like, Chandi Prasanna, Chamundi Prasanna … Kapalini Prasanna…. Prasanna (gracious) is a common Sanskrit word used by priests to invoke the propitiated presence of a desired Goddess/ God. Kapalini indicates literally the consort of Kapali—Lord Siva who wears a garland of skulls. Kapala translates into skull, so in this context he invokes the ferocious Goddess Kali, known for her affinity for skulls and sorcery, since he believes she will guide him to the abode of Pathala Bhairavi. Kapalini is invoked by the sorcerer not only through his animated chanting in Sanskrit but by chopping off his left arm, which he later reattaches through the miracle herb (Sanjeevini), with the assistance of Dingiri. This scene, by juxtaposing high culture (Sanskrit mantras) with low culture (black magic), draws attention to its folkloric imperatives. The Goddess (Krishna Kumari), upon her presence, addresses the sorcerer in Sanskrit as Kapalika, a member of a sect believing in human sacrifice. The preoccupation with Sanskrit in the use of mantras as well as during key moments in major scenes illustrates the different relationship Tamil and Telugu share with Sanskrit. According to the highly respected and preeminent Tamil scholar Kamil V. Zvelebil, the early history of Tamil literature sheds light on this issue: [T]he early Tamil Poetry was rather unique, not only by virtue of the fact that some of its features were so unlike everything else in India, but by virtue of its literary excellence; those 26,350 lines of poetry promote Tamil to the rank of one of the greatest classical languages of the world—though the world at large just about begins to realise it…. But in Telugu, Kannada, and Malayalam, the beginnings of written literature are beyond any dispute so intimately connected with the Sanskrit models that the first literary output in these languages is, strictly speaking, imitative and derived, the first literary works in these languages being no doubt adaptations and/or straight translations of Sanskrit

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Vijaya-Vauhini and Prasad models. The process of Sanskritization, with all its implications, must have begun in these communities before any attempt was made among the Telugu, Kannada, and Malayalam peoples to produce written literature, and probably even before great oral literature was composed.38 (Italics in the srcinal)

We can, therefore, understand the predilection for Sanskrit in films where Telugu writers (story: P. Nagendra Rao) play a significant role. The choice of the film’s title exemplifies this: Pathala in the title derives from Sanskrit Patala (subterranean/underneath [abode]), and Bhairavi denotes “fear-inspiring.” Besides Sanskrit, Pathala Bhairavi draws from Arabic sources as well, specifically the MiddleEastern folktale of Aladdin: It is one of the tales in The Book of One Thousand and One Nights/Arabian Nights. In the Arabian folktale, Aladdin is in a Chinese city, and the sorcerer is in the Maghreb (a region in North Africa). Similar to the Nepala Manthiravathi trying to trick Raman for the human sacrifice, the sorcerer in the Maghreb tires to trap Aladdin in a subterranean cave and get the magical lamp. Two Genies, one with inferior and the other with superior powers, are replaced by similar Goddesses: Kapalini and Pathala Bhairavi. Aladdin’s pattern of repeated travels from China to the Maghreb, and back again to China in the end, is echoed in Raman’s repeated travels from Ujjayini to an unspecified northern region, and to Ujjayini at the end. Parallel to the Maya Maligai, Aladdin has his own wonderful palace—bigger than the emperor’s—realized by holding the lamp, and asking for the desired object. However, unlike the trickery used by the Nepala Manthiravathi to get the statuette through Surasenan, in the Arabian Nights, the rich and powerful Aladdin marries princess Badroulbadour, who, being unaware of the secrets of the lamp, exchanges the lamp with the deceitful sorcerer posing as a trader in “new-for-old” items. Nonetheless, Nepala Manthiravathi’s asking the statuette to transfer the magical palace with Indumathi to his place in the north is prefigured in the sorcerer bidding the Genie of the lamp to transfer the palace with Aladdin’s wife to the Maghreb. In the climax of the Arabian Nights, Aladdin goes to the Maghreb 209

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with the power of the smaller Genie in his magical ring, defeats the sorcerer, and gets back his wife and his lamp. In Pathala Bhairavi, however, it’s the getsprincess Raman to his keeps palace,rejecting as he wants to humiliate himsorcerer in frontwho of the who his proposals. Finally after defeating the sorcerer, Raman and Anji return and get married to their beloveds. In the end, when Pathala Bhairavi makes an appearance to bless the couple, the father of the bride—the King of Ujjayini—pleads with her for the well-being of his subjects, and she grants his wish in Sanskrit: Tathastu! (So be it!) Finally, Anji asks her for the boon of the audiences who have seen the film, and those who have heard its story through its viewers, for a long and well-lived life, and she provides her blessing again: Tathastu! Thus, the format of vrat katha,39 in the Hindu tradition with its subsequent reward, is used only as an isolated frame to end the film. The climactic sequence thus reflexively recalls the free borrowing of the film from varied sources like the Indian and Arabic folk tales, and Hindu mythology. These specific influences rooted in tradition have enabled the classification of Pathala Bhairavi as a folkloric film, though it would also equally qualify as a fantasy film in the action/adventure mode, which uses folkloric elements to frame the romance between a poor gardener and a princess. The dominant elements of folklore and fantasy in Pathala Bhairavi underscore the importance of the srcins of Vijaya-Vauhini Studios as an enterprise of Nagi Reddy and Chakrapani, who began their career as publishers/authors of the famous children’s magazine Chandamama. Two years after the instant success of Chandamama in Telugu and Ambulimama in Tamil, in 1949, Nagi Reddy took over the Vauhini Studios and launched Vijaya Productions with Chakrapani and produced their first film Shaukaru (Telugu), which was released on April 7, 1950. Pathala Bhairavi, their second film, was their first bilingual. The Telugu version of Pathala Bhairavi was released on March 15, 1951, and the Tamil version two months later (May 17, 1951).40 It was a huge success at the box office in both versions, but in Telugu it set a benchmark by running for more than 100 days in 28 theaters, catapulting its hero NTR into superstardom.41 210


Pathala Bhairavi remains highly popular today, as evinced by the stage shows, inspired by the film, of professional theater groups. The Surabhi group, traditionPathala of the itinerant staged two playsinintheChennai, Bhairavi“Company and Maya Dramas,” Bazaar— 42 inspired by the films of Vijaya-Vauhini in the 1950s. Thus, the film itself has now become a text for live performance, which in return inflects the oral-aural traditions surrounding folklore.43 Thus, the traditional transmission from oral to text (Chap books) to performance gets complicated by the influence of these popular films, and they recall Ramanujan’s and Blackburn’s statement: Though they are far removed from the “oral-aural” context of a live folk performance, they are still embedded in and affected by oral traditions. Echoing their erudite observation, through a reversal of transmission, Surabhi, the 124-year-old theater group, must be finding a link through the folkloric film Pathala Bhairavi to the oral traditions of the past to continue the legacy of the company dramas.

Vijaya-Vauhini and L.V. Prasad: Missiamma Missiamma, in the romantic comedy genre, is far removed in its content and style from the folkloric Pathala Bhairavi. Missiamma, directed by L.V. Prasad, and released after Chandraharam (1953), points to Vijaya-Vauhini’s interest in straddling between the categories of the mythological and the social in their productions. The very first production (Shavukaru, 1950), which started VijayaVauhini’s collaboration with Prasad as a director, was a social: The film begins with a local Harikatha (narration of the stories of the Lord) performance that critiques miserliness as a social evil and sets the tone for a melodrama about two neighboring families in a village (Rajadhyaksha and Willemen, 2002, p. 320). The same year also saw Prasad directing an urban melodrama, Samsaram, written by Vempati Sadasivabrahmam and produced by Sadhana Pictures. If Shavukaru was about two village families, led by the rich moneylender and his peasant neighbor, uniting after the misunderstandings created by a helper, Samsaram (1950) focused on the reunion of a joint family that gets fragmented due to the split engineered 211

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by the members of the family—mother, sister, and brother-inlaw—between the middle-class government clerk Raghu (NTR) 44

and hisbox-office, wife Manjula (Lakshmirajyam). Samsaram wasacclaimed, a success at the whereas Shavukaru, though critically had a lukewarm box office reception. In his monograph on Prasad, K.N.T. Sastry, noted journalist and filmmaker, claims that the writer of Shavukaru, Chakrapani, was influenced by the Bengali novel Parineeta, which was reflected in “the structural finesse and the allegorical approach” of the film (1993, p. 47). Parineeta, the source of inspiration for Shavukaru, is a novella written by the iconic Bengali writer Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay. Chakrapani, the writer and coproducer of Shavukaru, had a relationship with Bengali literature well before its making: He is well known in the literary field as the translator of popular Bengali novels into Telugu. Aluri Chakrapani or Aluri Venkata Subbarao (August 5, 1908–September 24, 1975) suffered from tuberculosis and was treated in the sanatorium at Madanapalle in the early 1930s. While recuperating there he came in contact with a Bengali writer who had also come for treatment. During his long stay there Chakrapani learned Bengali, which helped him later in his efforts to translate the canonical works of Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay, including Devdas, into Telugu.45 His translations were published in Telugu magazines like Vinodini and Chitragupta. The popularity of his translated works led Chakrapani to publish a literary magazine Yuva, wherein apart from his translations, he also published the works of Telugu writers like Chalam, and his ambitions as a writer-publisher led him to Madras and his liaison with the BNK press (founded by B.N. Reddy, brother of B. Nagi Reddy) and later to his partnership with B. Nagi Reddy. However, even before he wrote the story and dialogues for B.N. Reddy’s Swargaseema (1945), he was hired by director Pulliah 46

as the writer for his film Dharmapathni (1941). While Chakrapani’s script for Shavukaru was critically acclaimed for its “soft narration,” and the film was well-received by the middle-class audience, it was Samsaram that became the trendsetter for the later films of Prasad, with its highly dramatic narration interspersed with comedy.47 The huge success of Samsaram impacted 212


both Chakrapani and Prasad, as in their later films they were looking for ways to address social issues not in a literary poignant style as in Shavukaru but in a melodramatic comedy: VijayaVauhini’s Tamil/Telugu bilingualmode Pelliprivileging Chesi Choodu/Kalyanam Pannippaar (story: Chakrapani, dir. Prasad, 1952) claims to address the issue of dowry but disavows the gravity of the social evil in its narration as it privileges comedy and ends with a message that dowry shouldn’t be an issue between couples and in their blissful married life. Two years later, we can see the issue of unemployment used as a narrative ploy to set up the romance between a couple in a similar bilingual Missamma/Missiamma, by the same team. Nagi Reddy informs us that after Pathala Bhairavi, he and Chakrapani were disappointed when their ambitious and colossal film, Chandraharam (1954) with NTR, Sri Ranjani, S.V. Ranga Rao, and Savithri in the lead, was a box-office disaster. Its narrative was driven by fantasy and special effects; thereafter, he and Chakrapani decided to make films that would entertain the whole family. 48 Later, their Maya Bazar (Tamil/Telugu bilingual, 1957) draws for its plot an episode from the Mahabharata but reinvents it as a wholesome family entertainment by rendering it as a cinematic folklore. Missiamma was inspired by Jyotish Banerjee’s Bengali film Manmoyee Girl’s School (1935). Banerjee’s film itself was an adaptation of Star Theatres’ highly successful play of the same name, written by Rabindranath Maitra. Maitra’s social-comedy, which premiered in 1932 as Star Theatres’ production, has inspired several adaptations and remakes: The popular Bengali versions include the one directed by Hemchandra Chunder (1958), apart from the one by Banerjee that Prasad adapted for his Hindi remake ( Miss Mary, 1957), in addition to the Telugu/Tamil bilingual, and Anant Mane came out with a Marathi version ( Jhakli Mooth, 1957).49 (See Photo 25 in the photo group section.) Missiamma’s narrative revolves around the family of the zamindar/landlord (played by S.V. Rangarao) of Andipettai. The zamindar lost his oldest daughter Mahalakshmi in a Mahamagam festival at Kumbakonam 16 years ago. The Maasi Magam festival is celebrated on the full moon day in the nakshatra/constellation 213

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of Magha, during the Tamil month of Maasi (February–March) every year, and the Mahamagam (Great Magam) is celebrated 50 Kumbakonam are as famous as once in 12 years, and festivities the Kumbh Mela in North India.at The main ritual associated with the Mahamagam is the huge crowd that throngs the Mahamagam Tank at Kumbakonam, in Tanjavoor district, 273 kilometers away from Chennai. In 2004, during the last Mahamagam, 600,000 people took a bath or took the holy immersion on March 6. 51 The film’s revelation right in the opening sequence of Mahalakshmi’s loss 16 years earlier becomes significant, as the desire to get her back drives the plot from the beginning to the end: Standing under the photograph of a young Mahalakshmi, her mother (played by Rushyendramani) reveals that she had gone with her husband to take the holy dip, and due to the heedless behavior of a maid lost her daughter who had wandered into the crowd, and she asks detective Raju to find her lost daughter at any cost. In the Telugu version, the Mahamagam is replaced by the Pushkara Mela—a similar festival marked by a holy dip in the Godavari river. The rivers that mythologically symbolize the purging of sins become a source of guilt for Mahalakshmi’s mother: According to legend, the Mahamagam tank itself was formed by the nectar from a pot broken open by the arrow of Lord Shiva (aka. Krathamurthy/the great archer), and therefore, the water has the power to mitigate the sins committed even in the holiest of cities, Varanasi in the North. (The South–North rivalry for superiority extends to the domains of timeless legends and colorful myths too.) Moreover, Kumbakonam is supposed to be the spot where during the great deluge, the holy pot containing the source of life— Jeevadharam—ended up.52 Nevertheless, in the film, such a mythic source of life becomes a significant marker of absence and disap-

pearance at the very beginning of the film. Even more important for us is the fact that the holy dip in the tank is always preceded or followed by a dip or bathing in the waters of the Kaveri River, which runs through Kumbakonam.53 Kaveri has its srcins in Talakaveri, Kodagu/Coorg District, in the Western Ghats (eastern slopes of Brahmagiri Hills) in the state of Karnataka 214


and runs south and east through Tamil Nadu before entering the Bay of Bengal though two points, one at Devakottai and the other 54

at of Poompuhar.at Nasik The river Godavari similarly hasthe itshistorical srcins in city Triumbakeshwar in Maharashtra, and reaches the Bay of Bengal from the east coast of Andhra Pradesh. Kaveri travels through the states of Karnataka, Kerala, and Tamil Nadu, and the Kaveri Water Dispute—the disputes surrounding the sharing of water by the states—has a long history involving predominantly the states of Tamil Nadu and Karnataka that dates back to 1892.55 The water dispute surrounding Godavari too has a long history and it goes by the name of the Krishna–Godavari Water Dispute as it involves the sharing of water from two rivers, the Krishna and Godavari, by five states—Maharashtra, Karnataka, Andhra Pradesh, Madhya Pradesh, and Orissa.56 The history of complex water disputes, involving all the major rivers and the states they run through in an agrarian economy with a tropical climate like India, is not difficult to understand. Nonetheless, the embroilment in these disputes of the states of Tamil Nadu and Andhra Pradesh around the period of the production of Missamma/Missiamma enables us to understand why Mahamagam or Pushkara is posited as a signifier of loss. Prior to independence, the federal courts were barred from resolving water disputes in India by Section 133 of the Government of India Act, 1935, and after January 26, 1950, the Indian Constitution again barred the courts, including the Supreme Court, from intervening to resolve water disputes through Section 11 of the Inter-State Water Disputes Act, 1956.57 Nonetheless, though there was no way courts could resolve the issue, the Indus Commission (set up according to the 1935 Act), and the five tribunals (constituted according to the Inter-State Water Disputes Act, 1956) were instrumental in laying down the basic guidelines to enable the resolution of decades-long disputes between states (Garg, 2009, p. 16). The five tribunals set up in 1956 were related to the adjudication of disputes relating to the rivers Krishna, Narmada, Godavari, Ravi-Beas, and Cauvery. This points to the intensified water disputes in the years prior to 1956, involving the Krishna, Godavari and Cauvery/Kaveri, and the two states of Andhra Pradesh and Tamil Nadu—one being 215

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the state of srcin, and the other the (migrated) state of livelihood of Prasad and Chakrapani: This must have influenced the filmmakers’ thinking upjuxtaposed the site ofagainst loss in the the backdrop film, the of Mahamagam Tank andinitssetting vicinity, the mythic river Kaveri possessing the power to unite and heal. The plot thereafter is driven by the imperative of recovering the lost object/daughter Mahalakshmi. The role of Mahalakshmi was initially to be played by P. Bhanumathi, who was a big star then, but she was replaced by Savithri, a relative newcomer, when writer and associate-producer Chakrapani was irked by Bhanumathi’s late arrival on one of the initial days of shooting. Chakrapani is often described as a shrewd producer who used to be on the set throughout the shooting, supervising the way his lines were filmed. His gestural acknowledgment was sine qua non before the directors could mark their shots as “okay” takes. However, underneath the competitive, business-driven Chakrapani was the sensitive writer, who had started his career as a translator of classic Bengali novels. All the same, he relished putting on a laconic and pragmatic mask in the Vijaya-Vauhini studio complex.58 Chakrapani is often quoted for his endorsement of cinema as an entertainment for the masses rather than as a medium to tackle social issues: He supposedly told an inquisitive journalist that if his aim were to give a message, he’ll send a telegram or issue pamphlets. Nevertheless, just as Shavukaru dealt with amicability between neighbors, Missiamma too deals with unemployment.59 As the zamindar asks detective Raju to advertise for two teachers who have a BA degree, we find the unemployed Balu (R. Ganesh), sitting on a bench in a Madras park, and reading the advertisement from a newspaper. The scenes that lead Balu to the park are woven around the theme of unemployment and the urgent need for a job: When the zamindar wonders whether BA degree holders would be available for teaching in his school, Raju retorts that anywhere a tender coconut falls one could find a degree holder. Around the same time, Mary (Savithri) and Balu lose their jobs as tuition teachers since their boss is transferred. When the boss refers them to his friend who is looking for an employee, Mary and Balu compete 216


with each other for the job and discover that their boss’s friend is a fake. As the unemployed Balu keeps searching for jobs, Mary tries to ward offfather. the advances to herleads by David, given a loan to her A chancemade encounter Balu towho meethad Lohidasan (K. Sarangapani), who makes a living by masquerading as a beggar, renunciate, and so on. Once when Lohidasan is trying to squeeze some money from Balu by donning the garb of a blind beggar and Balu outwits him, they watch a procession pass by. Young men holding the banner of Sankata Nivarana Sangam (Association for Relief from Difficulties/Pain), successfully relieve the meager earnings of Lohidasan as he donates his coins for their cause. Lohidasan tells Balu, “Nowadays the business of collecting donations more prestigious than begging.” Balu responds: “Having finished ismy BA degree, I can neither act like them, nor like you.” The next scene has Balu standing in front of a kiosk in a park and bending to look at the page of a newspaper read by another man. The newspaper reader says, “Oh! Wanted Column …,” and gives the paper to Balu. Balu receives the paper and responds: “I too was reading the Sports Column earlier … now I am forced to look at the Wanted Column.” Although Missiamma is predominantly a film in the romantic comedy genre, as the scenes above illustrate, thethroughsubtext of the anxieties surrounding employment and money runs out the film. Also the poignant dialogues concerning the difficulty of getting jobs even for educated young people undermines the projection of Chakrapani as unilaterally a commercial writer-producer from the Vijaya-Vauhini camp. When Lohidasan advises Balu that just applying for jobs is not enough and that he has to be streetsmart, he uses the term paguththarivu to indicate the pragmatism he is hinting at. But paguththarivu is also the word appropriated by the Dravidian movement in its meaning as “rationality” to foreground their ideology. Paguththarivu, which is the word used generally for common sense, here in the case of Lohidasan is subverted to mean “to manipulate or deceive” others of their possessions, and thus, its contextual usage signifies a veiled critique of the Dravidian rhetoric by the Others—mainly the people from Andhra in Madras in the 217

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early 1950s, when ownership of Madras city was contested by both the Tamil- and Telugu-speaking populace. Besides, thevery subtext of lossMissiamma and separation presaged through comedy in the beginning. startsiswith a short introductory scene that privileges humor to set the tone of the narrative: In the Mahalakshmi Primary School, we find a teacher sleeping on his chair, and a student grinding medicinal herbs for him in the stone vessel on the table. In the adjacent room, (detective) Raju is teaching the children, as we see a man entering to complain about his buffalo that has disappeared. On Raju’s inquiry the owner reveals that the buffalo had recently given birth and the calf is at home. Raju immediately responds by saying that the mother will not be staying away from the calf unless she has been caught and tied up in the “pound”—the state-owned ranch where rescued cattle are held. Though at the surface level characters like an herbal-medicine advocate and a pretentiously self-proclaimed detective taking on the roles of teachers in a remote village are successful in eliciting laughter and setting up the tone of comedy, at a deeper level the separation of the mother and the calf has resonance not only for the narrative in which the family is searching for their lost daughter but of the discourse surrounding Madras city as a lost object when Andhra State was created on October 1, 1953, after Potti Sriramulu’s fast and death, as noted earlier. Chakrapani’s background as a writer-translator of classic novels enabled his molding of stereotypical characters and stock scenes with a complex subtext. Simultaneously, Prasad’s background also enlightens us concerning the characters and the narrative of Missiamma. As K.N.T. Sastry claims in his monograph, Prasad’s history is certainly a “rags to riches” story. Prasad—Akkineni Lakshmi Varaprasada Rao—was born into an agricultural family on January 17, 1908 in Somavarapadu, a remote village in Eluru District in Andhra Pradesh. His interest in theater made him leave his debt-ridden father, mother, wife, and young daughter—without informing anybody— for Bombay when he was 22 years old with just 100 rupees in his pocket. On January 1, 1930, he arrived in Dadar, Bombay, to try his luck in the Kohinoor Studios.60 Prasad’s life, like his films, was full 218


of twists and turns: He rented a room at the Ramakrishna Lodge and started frequenting a tailoring shop across from the Kohinoor Studios compound the stars used to come for costumes and their tailoring needs.where However, his enthusiasm about cinema could elicit only mockery and laughter from them. But that did not deter the young Prasad from getting acquainted with and feeling closer to them. One day to his dismay he found that the small trunk he had carried from his home with his meager belongings had been broken open and his money stolen. However, the thief had left 15 rupees for Prasad to get a ticket back home. Such incidents had the opposite effect on the resolute Prasad, who now stood along with his trunk outside the zinc sheets, which made up the compound wall of the Kohinoor Studios, peeping through the holes to get a glimpse of the stars and technicians. The tailor, on observing Prasad with his trunk, heard his story, and offered him help: Prasad had to clean his shop and set up his hukkah (water pipe) in return for staying in his shop. Prasad was glad to have a shelter in Bombay and gladly accepted the offer. When the tailor arrived in the morning, Prasad went out and started hunting for a job in films and was soon running errands at the Venus Film Company. The job led him nowhere, as Venus neither paid his wages nor made the films announced. Nevertheless, his acquaintance with Dharilal at Venus helped him get employed in a carnival and hone his skills as an actor. He had to wear masks and entice people to the various games. Later Akhtar Nawaz cast him in a small role in the silent film Star of the East, which too turned out to be an abandoned project. Again his friendship with Dharilal came to his rescue: Dharilal’s sister Moti was a star working for the Imperial Film Company, and through her Prasad got a small role in Ardeshir Irani’s first Indian talkie film Alam Ara (1931). It was at Imperial that Prasad met the iconic Telugu film director H.M. Reddy who cast Prasad in bit roles in both Kalidas (the first Tamil talkie, 1931) and Baktha Prahalada (the first Telugu talkie, 1931). Thus, Prasad had the unique distinction of having acted in the first talkie in three languages, Hindi, Tamil, and Telugu and, thereby, in industries that produce the most films every year in India. Prasad reestablished 219

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contact with his home at this point, and his family members were happy to know that he was alive and doing well. However, Prasad’s daughter Bombay. had passed away, and he went home to bring his wife to Back in Bombay, although he got to work as an assistant director in Ali Shah (Kamar-Al-Zaman, 1931), he lost his job at Imperial due to retrenchment. Till 1938, he got some small roles and jobs as an assistant, but his plight had not improved despite having spent eight years in Bombay. Hence, he decided to leave Bombay for his home again in the hope of raising finances to start his own production company. However, his plans did not work out, and he found himself a misfit to take up agriculture again. A chance telegram from H.M. Reddy with an offer to act in his upcoming film proved the next turning point in Prasad’s life. He left for Madras and got a role in Grihalakshmi (H.M. Reddy, 1938). Then, he worked with Reddy subsequently as an assistant director-actor in his films Tenali Ramakrishna (1941) and Gharana Dhonga (1941). However, fate intervened again in the form of the Second World War, and since Madras was targeted by Japanese bombings, Reddy left with his family to Poona (now Pune), and Prasad found himself back in his village. The depressed Prasad was again transported to Bombay, through a call from Tantra Subrahmanyam, to work as a production supervisor and assistant director for the film Kashta Jeevi—a project that was abandoned after shooting for three weeks. As Prasad got work as an assistant director in films due to his experience and contacts, he could survive. He revived his skills in acting by joining the Prithvi Theaters, run by the famous Prithviraj Kapoor. Prasad’s contact with Prithviraj’s son Raj Kapoor at this point (in the early forties 1940s) helped him later when Prasad wanted him to play the hero in Sharada (1957), Prasad’s first film in Hindi as producer-director. In 1943, Prasad got an opportunity to work as an assistant director in Grihapravesam. But the financier wanted Prasad to direct thefilm, and ultimately Prasad also did the lead role opposite P. Bhanumathi, and Grihapravesam, released in 1946, became a critically acclaimed and a commercially successful film. Prasad’s “penchant for lighthearted melodrama” found its initial approval among the audience 220


and paved the way for his later films like Samsaram and Missiamma, wherein he could balance melodrama with comedy (Sastry, 1993, pp. 33–42). Prasad’s own mixed fortune with jobs in the early part of his career could thus be seen to resonate in the statements on unemployment and the state of being a learned “misfit” in Missiamma discussed above. But of even greater import is Prasad’s relationship with the hukkah-smoking tailor near the compound walls of the Kohinoor Studios. The experienced tailor Khan, who helped Prasad at a crucial juncture in his life, epitomizes one among the many Muslim artists, artisans, and craftsmen, who came from the North and played a significant role in Bombay’s entrenchment as the headquarters of the Hindi film industry. 61 The Hindu–Muslim ties between Prasad and Khan and the conditional tenancy play out in Missiamma, as the one between a couple across faiths and conditions attached to the realm of jobs that includes tenancy: In Missiamma, Balu, a Hindu, and Mary, a Christian, both in search of jobs find an advertisement in the newspaper asking for an educated couple with BA degrees to work as teachers in the Mahalakshmi Primary School. The initially reluctant Mary is convinced by Balu that the only way for them to get out of their unemployment and financial crisis is to act as a couple temporarily. Mary, who is established as a devout Catholic right from the beginning, is forced continually into situations where her faith is questioned or challenged. When David harasses her father for money and chases her to get her consent for marriage, she asks her father (actor Durairaj, who played Kalyani’s father in Parasakthi) to sell her necklace and pay off the debt. Mary says that the Hindu Gods in the locket do not have any meaning for her, but her mother says that the jewel is valuable as they discovered her with it when they found her and ever since their lives have changed for the better. The father further adds that initially he too thought the same about Hindu Gods but ever since Mary entered their life he has realized that all the rivers lead to the same sea. Chakrapani’s script and Prasad’s direction underscore their imperative to highlight the difference of the Other while at the same time making a plea for peaceful coexistence. 221

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Mary is initially irritated and reluctant when Balu proposes the idea of acting as a couple for the teachers’ job; however, later she changes her mind andpay convinces her parents that if she works for two months they can off the loan of 400 rupees. Furthermore, Mary is impressed with Balu when he refers to Jehovah as the creator; she expresses her surprise and enquires whether he has read the Bible, and he says that he has read all the scriptures, including the Bible, Puranas, and the Vedas. When she tells him about her bad experiences with people whom she had trusted in the past, he assures her that he will only act like a husband for the sake of the job and is willing to take an oath in the Matha Kovil/Church of the Mother. She is by his asks if he in the Matha heswayed reiterates his words generaland religiosity bybelieves telling her about his Kovil belief too; not only in the church, but the mosque, and the temple, besides in “mantras, tantras, bhootas, pretas, cremation grounds….” She intervenes by replying that she, however, trusts only in Jesus as she touches the cross on her necklace. Nonetheless, Mary’s simple desire for a space to practice her faith meets with repeated obstacles once she reaches Andipettai. Right from the moment when the zamindar arrives at the station to receive her and Balu, her identity eitherzamindar threatened to beshe erased or manipulated. On looking at the iselderly , when says that he reminds her of a Pathiri (priest), Balu intervenes to explain to a perplexed zamindar that she meant he reminded her of her “father” (not a P(f)athiri). Such puns with words across languages are repeated by straddling across religions in the next dialogue, when Mary replies to the zamindar’s query about her father’s name, and says it is “Paul,” and Balu again interrupts to say that it is “Gopal— S.G. Pa(u)l.” The zamindar replies with a smile that his name is also the same. Thus, Mary’s identity gets problematized once she signs the application as Mrs M.T. Balu—a wife of a Hindu—to get the job. Once in Andipettai, both the zamindar and his wife start treating her like their daughter, as in their wishful thinking they believe she is their lost daughter Mahalakshmi, who has returned home after 16 years. 222


On reaching the zamindar’s home, his wife Kamakshi notices that Mrs Balu is not putting the vermilion mark— pottu/bindi, the signifier a married Hindu woman—on her Kamakshi forehead and asksasks her servant toofbring the vermilion. The inquisitive further why they have not brought their children along. When Balu replies that they don’t have a child yet, Kamakshi advises Mrs. Balu, “Going around the statue of Lord Ganesha under the Banyan tree five times will give you a son next year.” Mary, peeved at the inquisitive reception, says that she has a severe headache and gets up to leave the zamindar’s home, as she wants to take a bath. As the servant brings the vermilion and hands it to Kamakshi, Balu again saves the delicate situation by saying that there’s no need to apply the vermilion mark now that she is going to take a bath and takes the small vermilion container from Kamakshi. On reaching the small house provided for them, Mary wonders how she is going to put up with the zamindar and his wife as they are forcing her to do things she is not used to. Balu tells her that as a Hindu wife it’s normal they would expect her to wear a vermilion mark and convinces her to do so since it is going to only be for two months. As she leaves to sleep in the bedroom, Balu follows her and asks her not to display the cross on her necklace. As she bolts the door from inside, on the soundtrack the instrumental tune of Raj Kapoor’s song Dum Bhar Jo Udhar Munh Phere ( Awaara, 1951) gets louder and is played at length throughout the sequence wherein Mary tries to look at the mirror with the vermilion mark on her forehead, and Balu comes knocking at her door since he gets hiccups and the water jug is in the bedroom. As she gives him the jug and turns in after bolting the bed room door again, she catches the hiccups from him and tries to control them by crossing her heart and reading the Bible, but the hiccups increase, and she goes back for the water jug to the living room. In this scene, Mary’s interrupted crossing of her heart on the bed, due to the sudden hiccups, before going to sleep, and Balu’s advice to her regarding the cross underscore the loss of her freedom as a minority (religious) identity. Besides, the scene also recalls her peaceful crossing of her heart at her home (in her bed) to the sounds of the church bell after convincing her parents. In a 223

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beautifully lit close-up (the painter Marcus Bartley at his best) she goes to sleep, and both her face and the church bell on the sound 62

trackHowever, fade away.Nagi Reddy, in his reminiscences, hints at how Bhanumathi and Chakrapani were both accomplished writers and knew each other from the days of Dharmapathini (1941, Telugu, dir. P. Pulliah), wherein Chakrapani was the writer and Bhanumathi the heroine, but they could not agree on the main characters—from the Hindu and Christian communities—lying about their marital status to get the job (Nagi Reddy, 2009, pp. 90–91). Since this conflict between Bhanumathi and Chakrapani was during the second schedule, during which Bhanumathi was acting opposite the rising star NTR, it could be inferred that Bhanumathi, despite the potential of the movie to succeed, should have found the role emotionally draining as it was about the gradual erasure of identity. Nevertheless, the above sequence, exemplifying Prasad’s authorship by juxtaposing humor with a dramatic situation, is also layered with references to Raj Kapoor and thereby recalls Prasad’s earlier life in Bombay and his relationship with the Kapoor family through his role as an actor in the productions of Prithvi Theatres. Besides, the background music marks the similarity in the real-life romance between a married male star (R. Ganesh/Raj Kapoor) and the female lead (Savithri/Nargis).63 Nonetheless, the initial brewing of love between Balu and Mary subtly indicated in the above scene and Balu’s balancing acts for peace (in the earlier scene) are short lived, as Mary gets annoyed by the constant interference of the zamindar and his wife and their repeated invitation to their home for a feast. In their attempt to please her, as they imagine her to be their elder daughter, the more they pamper her, the more Mary gets annoyed. Mary is also irritated by (and jealous of) the naïve Seetha (Jamuna), the younger daughter of the zamindar who is interested in music and gets along well with Balu. Once when Mary refuses the invitation of the zamindar, Balu goes alone and tells the disappointed zamindar that Mary is not well and hence could not accompany him. The worried zamindar asks Balu to go back home and take care of her, and he follows Balu with his wife and the herbal doctor 224


(ex-teacher). A terrified Balu requests the angry Mary to bail him out of the situation by acting sick. The nosy herbal doctor interprets her sickness an imbalance per the tradition—but on as Mary’s shoutingofatdoshas—as him diagnoses herAyurvedic illness as insanity. When Mary gets furious and says that he’s the one who’s insane and starts praying, he says that she’s possessed by an evil spirit. Mary jumps out of the cot and asks them all to get out. The zamindar, his wife, and the herbal-doctor move hurriedly to the living room, and Balu tries to pacify her, but it is to no avail. As the doctor chants some (Hindu) mantras in Sanskrit and Tamil, to ward off the spirit, the angry Mary threatens Balu that if the priest doesn’t leave, she will reveal the truth. Balu comes hurriedly out to the living room, asks the doctor to be quiet, and tells the zamindar, “It’s not a Hindu spirit; it’s a Christian spirit which has possessed her since the college days. Our (Hindu) mantras can’t do anything to ward it off.” As the doctor’s chanting becomes louder, Mary loses her composure, comes out, and orders him to leave. The zamindar and his wife stand there pleading with her, and the zamindar asks her if they are outsiders that she is asking them to get out. Mary responds by saying that they are outsiders in her life, and that she feels alone. When the zamindar’s wife asks who she is, an angry Mary reveals her true identity: “I am not your daughter.… My name is Miss Mary. I am a Christian, and I am not married…. I have come to work in your school and I will go at 10, and come back at 5. I don’t need your home or your feast…. Call me Miss Mary or Missiamma from today.” She goes inside and hangs Mother Mary’s framed painting on the wall, and sings: Ennai Aalum Mary Matha, Thunai Neeye Mary Matha (Mother Mary, ruler of my heart, you’re my succor [music: S. Rajeswara Rao, lyrics: Ramiah Dass, singer: P. Leela]). As the song ends, Balu assures a confused zamindar that Mary will be all right henceforth. Thereafter, Mary, before going to sleep, crosses her heart, and as she lies down the camera closes in on her to frame her in a midshot. To the church bells in the soundtrack, as she goes to sleep, she has a dream: David abducts her with his henchmen and tries to propose and chase her as she escapes, and the valiant knight Balu with 225

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his sidekick Lohidasan saves her. However, Mary’s feeling of safety at the zamindar’s lodge is threatened again as she feels her valiant knight is also chased by the zamindar ’s younger daughter Seetha, who wants to learn music from Balu instead of Mary. This triangle, though in the vein of romantic comedy, leads to Mary’s dramatic announcement about leaving for Madras, though Balu requests she stay at least until the end of two months, as she had promised. The inquisitive zamindar and his wife arrive to stop Mary from leaving from Andipettai, and a grieving Balu says, “It’s not even two months and she wants to leave,” and Mary reacts, “I wanted to leave after the first month, but he will not allow.” The zamindar and his wife misunderstand the situation and think that Mary is pregnant and therefore longing to see her mother in Madras. This leads to their arranging for the celebration of Mary’s seemandham—a ritual associated with decorating a pregnant woman’s hands with colorful bangles and praying/wishing for the safe delivery of the child. Mary, unaware of the Hindu ritual of seemandham, consents to participate and arrives at the zamindar’s house to find that she is the center of the festivities: in the chorus song, “Sri Janakidevi Seemandham Vareer, Mahalakshi Sundara Vadaname Pareer (Sri Janakidevi [Holy Sita of the Ramayana], please come to the seemandham, see the beauty of Mahalakshmi),” as the women around Mary put bangles on her hands and apply sandalwood paste and sprinkle her with rosewater, Mary becomes confused and curious. She gets restless, as they wish her to deliver a son with a smile like that of the full moon and ask her to seek everyone’s blessing for the well-being of the child in this world. The song starts as a comedy by focusing on the misunderstanding on the part of the zamindar and his wife, but is later rendered poignant by Savithri who as Mary underscores both her isolation and the absurdity of the situation through her acting. As Mary finds the (Hindu) trappings around her at Andipettai getting stronger, her father and mother in the meantime rush from Madras and reach the zamindar’s house to protect her from David, who has stolen and run away with her letter and her necklace with the tiger nails, which she had worn as a child when she got lost 226


during Mahamagam. Finally, the confusion is cleared up through Paul’s—Mary’s father’s—revelation of her true identity: She is not Mary but ends Mahalakshmi he and united his wifeafter found 16 years ago. The film with the whom happy family throwing David out. Thus, the film interweaves the genres of romantic comedy and melodrama to narrate the love story of Balu and Mary. Kumudam, in its review, praises Missiamma as “an interesting film with quality humor”: “In the beginning one is uneasy as to how the love affair of a Christian heroine and a Hindu hero is going to be retooled for a comedy”; how the film is going to navigate between a sensitive storyline and controversial events. But “the director has used every difficult situation as an opportunity for boundless humor.” Kumudam acclaims the “understated finesse” of Prasad in handling a sensitive story.64 The subtlety of Prasad in handling a sensitive affair epitomizes his silence/whisper as an outsider. Nevertheless, what marks the film as unique is the acting of Savithri in Mary’s role. She became a big star after the phenomenal success of the film in both Telugu and Tamil (Manian, 2007). She could straddle between her ability to time her comedic retorts and portray the loneliness and longing of Mary for freedom to retain her identity. In her body and performance are written the discourse of Otherness and marginality central not only to Prasad, Nagi Reddy, and Chakrapani, as outsiders in Madras (being filmmakers from the Andhra region), but also to Savithri and R. Ganesh as well: Savithri migrated with her parents to Madras from Andhra to act in films, and R. Ganesh, hailed from the Tamil Brahmin community, an identity at the forefront of the attacks by the Dravidian movement and parties. Savithri, the daughter of K.V. Chowdhary, who was in the automobile business, leaned to dance from Poorna Sastry while she was in school and gave performances in many places in Andhra like Masulipattinam, Kakinada, Tenali, and Guntur. As she got the opportunity to work as a second lead in Prasad’s Samsaram, her family migrated to Madras. But she got a chance to appear only in a group dance in the film. It was at this time that she met R. Ganesh (later known famously as Gemini Ganesan, when he changed his name after the huge success of Missiamma to avoid the confusing of 227

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his name with that of another successful [Sivaji] Ganesan), the assistant at the casting department in Vasan’s Gemini Studios. Soon after, Savithri appeared in aPathala dance picturized her in version of Vijaya-Vauhini’s Bhairavi, on which ledthetoTelugu Chakrapani’s casting her as the replacement of Bhanumathi in Missamma/ Missiamma (Narayanan, 2002, pp. 373–374). The star texts of Savithri and R. Ganesh also throw light on the reception and success of Missiamma. Savithri had already acted as the female lead opposite R. Ganesh in Manam Pol Mangalyam (1954), and the rumors were rife among the film journalists about their closeness and fondness for each other (Anandan, 2007). During the shooting of Missiamma, on a rainy night, Savithri left her home and her father, who was against her romance with the married R. Ganesh, and ended up at his home and started living with R. Ganesh and his wife Alamelu (see for details Deenadayalan, 2006, pp. 45–47). It was only later (in 1956), after Missiamma’s huge success, that Savithri started appearing as Savithri Ganesh, beginning with a Lux toilet soap advertisement, and acknowledged her marriage with R. Ganesh/Gemini Ganesan (Deenadayalan, 2006, p. 20). (See Photo 31 in the photo group section.) In Missiamma, therefore, along with the crisis of identities surrounding language and geography (Telugu people in Madras), Savithri’s blurred state as a lover/wife of R. Ganesh also plays itself out.65 Though the popular magazines like Ananda Vikatan and Kumudam didn’t carry gossip columns in the early 1950s, readers could know through the coded language—such as the prominence given to popular star couples like Sivaji-Padmini and GaneshSavithri in terms of (intimate) stills and their placements—that there was something going on behind what was revealed on screen. There were also yellow journals like the popular Hindu Nesan (aka Indu Nesan) and its variants that fed the public’s imagination through the news they got from the film journalists on location. 66 The discourse surrounding the secret romance of Savithri with Ganesh contributed to the film’s massive success in both its versions, as exemplified by an avid fan’s article in Kumudam in September 1957: The awardwinning essay, which won the second prize of 50 rupees, titled “My 228


Favorite Star Gemini Ganesan,” focuses particularly on Missiamma to foreground Gemini Ganesan’s ability to softly counter the fiery Savithri in full many in thethe film: With curlyawesome! hair, and dressed in suitofasthe hesequences rushes to catch bus he looks (See Photo 24 in the photo group section.) When he says, “Please trust me, if you do not believe I can show my conduct certificate,” to convince a suspicious Savithri, “his youthful charm fascinates us.” Subsequently, the writer invokes Raj Kapoor and Nargis in the essay, thus alluding to the way a married but suave Ganesh has charmed a fiery but innocent Savithri. This letter presages the popularity of gossips surrounding stars and their personal life in popular magazines like Kumudam and Ananda Vikatan (see Gopalan, 1957, pp. 34–36). Therefore, the most significant factor determining the huge success of the film was Savithri’s rising stardom and acting in the lead role as Missiamma/Missamma, though the heroes were different—R. Ganesh in Tamil, and NTR in Telugu. Savithri, singularly hailed as the Mahanati (the Great Actress) in Telugu, and Nadigayar Thilagam (the icon among actresses in Tamil), was one of the great actresses of the last century. In Missiamma, her greatness resides in her rendering poignancy and depth to Mary’s character even though the narrative favors a romantic comedy genre: Savithri, while showing her versatility in comedy—unlike her great contemporary from the north, Meena Kumari, who mainly excelled in tragic roles—also delicately sketches Mary’s predicament as a representative of the minority whose voice is not heard in the zamindar household.67 Thus, Vijaya-Vauhini’s Missiamma, even as it exemplifies Prasad’s and Chakrapani’s imperatives to package comedy with social drama to guarantee success at the box office, also underscores their predicament as outsiders in Madras during the ascent of the Dravidian movement in the mid-1950s. To conclude, in the case of Patala/Pathala Bhairavi, it disavows the contentious issue surrounding the ownership of Madras by choosing the popular folkloric/fantasy genre and escaping to the North. More important, Nagi Reddy and Chakrapani were in the early stages of establishing their production company, 229

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Vijaya Pictures, along with their huge investment in Vijaya-Vauhini Studios at Vadapalani, in Madras; whereas Prasad’s bilingual social drama Missamma/ highlyand reflexive the turbulent situation in Madras,Missiamma as (forced)issilence erasureofbecome part of the narrative centered on the predicament of the Other, Madras/ Mahalakshmi as the lost (and regained) object is rearticulated poignantly for a pan-South Indian audience.

Notes 1. Vijaya-Vauhini Studios was the biggest in India at one point of time: Vauhini Studio had 11 floors, and Vijaya 2; thus, the total of 13 floors along with the expansive Vijaya Gardens made it unequalled in the 1950s and 1960s (my interview with Aranthai Manian in Chennai in August 2007). 2. For details see B. Nagi Reddy’s filmography as a producer: Mishra, 2006, p. 60. However, Mishra’s account of 46 films has omitted the Tamil film Nam Naadu (1969), made under Vijaya International banner and produced by B. Nagi Reddy. At the same time it includes a Kannada version of Missiamma, which was only a bilingual made in Tamil and Telugu and not a trilingual—Tamil/Telugu/Kannada as claimed in the filmography. Thus, the total number of films made from 1950 to 1982 is 46: 20 in Telugu, 16 in Tamil, 7 in Hindi, and 3 in Kannada. However, according to Rambabu,

3. 4.

5. 6. 7.

General Manager of Vijaya Group of Hospitals, Nagi Reddy was involved in the production of 44 films, and his brother B.N. Reddy produced 12 films under the Vijaya Pictures banner. Rambabu, who had worked with Nagi Reddy, is working on a monograph on Nagi Reddy and Vijaya-Vauhini Studios. See for details on the film Thamira Bharani and its producer: Kumar, 2007. For details on L.V. Prasad’s productions and directorial ventures, see the official website: “L.V. Prasad: Filmography,” www.lvprasad.org (accessed July 16, 2009). Later, when Missiamma was remade in Hindi as Miss Mary (1957), Prasad directed it, but it was produced by the AVM Studios. Pathala Bhairavi was under production for almost a year from February 5, 1950 (my interview with Kaladhar in Chennai, in October 2007). See for details Venkatachalapathy’s essay: 2006, pp. 9–18. See for details on Potti Sriramulu’s fast unto death, and its consequences: Amritavalli and Jayaseelan, 2007, p. 66. Also see historian Ramachandra Guha on Potti Sriramulu’s role in the creation of the Andhra State: Guha, 2003.

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Vijaya-Vauhini and Prasad 8. See for details on B. Nagi Reddy: Mishra, 2006, p. 57; for Prasad’s early life see the official website: “L.V. Prasad: Story,” www.lvprasad.org. Nagi Reddy’s partnership with Chakrapani continued until the latter’s death in 1975—till the production of the Hindi film Julie (1975), and the Telugu film Shri Rajeswari Vilas Coffee Club (1976). 9. My conversation with Baskaran in Toronto on June 28, 2014, on the occasion of his being conferred the prestigious Iyal Virudu/Iyal Lifetime Achievement Award by the Tamil Literary Garden for his pioneering work on Tamil cinema and environment/wildlife conservation. According to G. Chandrika, In the nineteenth century the term devadasi came to be equated with prostitutes. Their identity was derived from their talents in the performance of music and dancing. The devadasis did not belong to a single caste but were drawn from diverse groups like the Melakkarar, Nayanakkarar, Nattuvanar and the Sengunthar. In the early twentieth century these caste groups assumed the name isai vellalar which meant the cultivators of music. (2009) 10. My interview with Kaladhar in Chennai, in October 2007. 11. For details on Mana Desam, see Narasimham (2012). 12. See for details Prakash (2010, pp. 142–155). Satya Prakash also details the contemporary discourse surrounding the Telugu identity of actor Vijayakanth and politician Vaiko (V. Gopalaswamy), and the DMK leaders’ exploitation of it for their divisive (electoral) politics, and the erasure of the Telugu Reddiyar identity of actor Vishaal, who is often presented as belonging to the Thevar community in his recent films. 13. See for the classification, Srinivas’ essay on the film: Srinivas, 2001, p. 45. Pathala Bhairavi was a bilingual made in Tamil and Telugu simultaneously. Srinivas refers to the Telugu version as Patala Bhairavi. In Tamil, it is referred to as Pathala Bhairavi, as indicated in the English title card, and the censor certificate of the film. 14. See Srinivas (2001). The influence of the Douglas Fairbanks’ stunt films is quoted by him from Rajadhyaksha and Willeman (1999). 15. See for Ramanujan and Blackburn’s observations on Indian folklore, weekly magazines, and cinema: Stuart and p.monthly 25. Theirmagazine observations on weekly magazines could beRamanujan, extrapolated1986, to the Chandamama, as it was writer Chakrapani’s authorship backed by the line drawings of great artists like Sankar and Chitra that marked Chandamama as unique. Please see Chitra’s unique line drawings in the 1950–1951 issues of Chandamama, hosted at their official website: “archives”; www.chandamama.com (accessed July 17, 2009). 231

Madras Studios 16. See for details Aranthai Manian’s chapter on Ramiahdass in his book on the dialogue writers of the Tamil cinema: Manian, 2007, pp. 56–57. Manian also worked as a journalist in Bommai, the Tamil film magazine published by the Vijaya-Vauhini group from 1986 to 1996. The first issue of Bommai came out in July 1966, and the magazine was published for three decades until 1996. Manian has authored 35 books in Tamil, out of which 12 are about films. 17. Arurdoss has been credited with having written the story/dialogues for almost 500 Tamil films; see Sivaji Ganesan’s tribute to Arurdoss in the back cover of the book: “Kalaiviththagar” Arurdoss, 2005. See also Arurdoss’s reminiscences of his days with “Rajadhi Raja/Emperor” Ramiahdoss: Arurdoss, 2005, pp. 245–248. Arurdoss credits three writers of the early Tamil cinema for their ability to meet cinema’s demands for “instant” creativity: Ramiahdoss, K.P. Kamatchi (a lyricist-poet, who also played the role of the lusty priest in Parasakthi), and Kambadasan—considered the first writer to give Tamil cinema dialogues a literary flavor (Kannagi, 1940). Arurdoss also points to the alcoholism of all these three writers, which resulted in their untimely death; Arurdoss got 50 rupees a month as a Vauhini Studio employee, whereas P. (Pingali) Nagendra Rao as well as Ramiahdoss, dialogue writers of the Telugu and Tamil versions of Pathala Bhairavi, were on the payroll of the studio at 500 rupees a month; stars/ actors like NTR, Savithri, and A. Nageshwara Rao were paid between 1,000 to 2,000 rupees: It is unimaginable today that writers get paid half the amount of stars/leading actors in the Indian was mainstream milieu. Pathala Bhairavi Arurdoss joined Vauhini when running film successfully in Madras: Ramiahdoss’s dialogues and songs in the film became so popular that producer Nagi Reddy wanted at least one song by him in all their Tamil productions. See for details, Arurdoss, 2005, pp. 249–251. 18. The Chozha dynasty, which included the Tamil, Andhra, and the Oriya regions, ruled until the thirteenth-century AD (from circa 300 BC), and it was at the heights of its power from the later half of the ninth century to the beginning of thirteenth century AD; see Sastri (1966, p. 5). The Marathas ruled Thanjavoor/Tanjore from circa 1530 AD until 1642 AD. Along with the decline in the fortunes of their patronizer—the Vijayanagar Empire— their control dwindled too; see Vriddhagirisan (1942, pp. 14, 166–167). 19. According to A.K. Ramanujan, in the Indian context different genres like the classical, modern, and folklore specialize in different “provinces of reality.” “What one does another does not. The realities of the civilization are expressed in a spectrum of forms, where one compliments, contradicts,

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Vijaya-Vauhini and Prasad reflects and refracts another—we have to take them together to make sense of the civilization and catch a glimpse of the complex whole”; see Dharwadkar (2004, p. 25). 20. See for details on the history and performance of Burrakatha: Das, 1980. Burrakatha, an art form of the travelling minstrels/gypsies, was used to entertain and educate the people. 21. For details on Vikramaditya’s period and ascension to throne, see Jain (1972, pp. 159–160). 22. See Zvelebil (1997, pp. 295–296). The Muppanttirantupatumaikatai, which Zvelebil studies in detail in his essay, is written by G. Arunachala Mudaliyar, and published in 1882. In Footnote no. 5, Zvelebil points to a Telugu Text Ravipatigurumurti, which included modern versions of Vikramacarita; Zvelebil, 1997, p. 295. 23. See Rajawat, 2006. For the June 1950 issue of Ambulimama, see Ramsurya the officialand website www.chandamama.com, “archives” (accessed July 20, 2009). In July 2008, Chandamama launched its website, and its (limited) issues of the past are now available in eight languages in its online portal. According to the CEO of its new corporate body, soon all the past issues (of the last 60 years) will be available online. (N. Viswanatha Reddy, son of B. Nagi Reddy, is one of the directors of the new Chandamama Corporate.) See for details, Swathi, 2008. The “Vikram-Betaal” narratives, “Jataka” tales, and “Panchatantra” stories (along with those of “Akbar-Birbal”) have been the most popular among the regular readers of Chandamama. See for details the interview with Subramanyan: Venkat, 2007. 24. See for details on Viraha and Vilayatal, Shulman (1985, pp. 40–46). For details on King Dasaratha wanting to be a renouncer in Kampan’s version of the Ramayana, see Shulman, 1985, p. 56. For Shulman’s analysis of Tenali Rama in folk traditions, see Shulman, 1985, pp. 180–185. 25. See for details on Ujjain, as a center of culture in the past and the birth place of Kalidasa: Jacksons, 1902, pp. 307–317, and the official website of the renowned Kalidasa Academy in Ujjain: “Kalidasa’s Profile.” 26. Yojanagiri, is another mythical place: One of the meanings of Yojana in Sanskrit is a measure of distance—the maximum distance a yoked pair of horses would run at a stretch. It is approximately calculated as 8 to 9 miles. However, Yojanagiri, could also be interpreted as the “Distant Mountain.” For the meaning of Yojanam, see Apte (1997, p. 460). 27. Hanuman, the popular Monkey God, is the “simian companion of Rama, the hero of Ramayana, and now a beloved deity in his own right.” For the central role of Hanuman in the Ramayana, and the way scholars and his devotees approach him, see Lutgendorf (2007, pp. 3–88).

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Madras Studios 28. See for Sita’s battle with Catakanta Ravanan, where he gets killed: Shulman, 1986, p. 113. See for a comparison between the Sitas of Valmiki, Kampan, and the Catakantaravanan folklore, Shulman, 1986, pp. 126–127. 29. For the centrality of trees and plants in Indian mythology and their stories, including that of Tulasi, see Maneka Gandhi and Yasmin Singh’s book for children where she draws a lot from the various folk traditions: Gandhi and Singh, 1989. 30. My interview with one of the preeminent folk artist Kaavu Pandian, of the Villu Pattu/Bow Song tradition at Valuthoor, Tirunelveli, in March 2007. 31. Vijaya-Vauhini films carried a prominent credit-title with its studio and laboratory information: A title-card announcing “Produced at: The Vauhini Studios,” and just below it “Processed at Vijaya Laboratory, Madras.” This informs us why in South India the films of Vijaya Productions are always to as Vijaya-Vauhini films. Also,and unlike in the of the Modernreferred Theatres, where credits for processing editing arefilms combined together in the same title-card (for instance, Manthiri Kumari, 1950, carries the credits for “Laboratory: Modak, Krishnamurthy,” and “Editing: L. Balu” in the same card), Vijaya-Vauhini films had a separate card for their chief technician of the laboratory: N.C. Sengupta, B.Sc. The assistants were listed in the “Assistants” title-card, which came in the title hierarchy later: Pathala Bhairavi credits A. Thyagarajan, S. Rajanna, and V.D.S. Sundaram, as its laboratory assistants. From such precise credits, one could infer the significance given to processing at the Vauhini Studios. 32. My interview with the projectionist Sivaraman of Krishna Theatres, Ambasamudram, at Kallidaikkurichi in April 2007. Krishna Theatres was one of the oldest theaters in Tirunelveli District. 33. My interview with P.N. Sundaram, one of the preeminent cinematographers of the studio era, who started his career in Vauhini Studios and was the President of SICA—Southern India Cinematographers’ Association— in Chennai, before he passed away in March 2010. See for Sundaram’s details as the President of SICA: the official website of SICA: www. sicachennia.com (accessed July 21, 2009). Legendary cinematographer Marcus Bartley was elected as a member of its advisory committee, and the iconic A. Vincent was elected as the Chairman of its Council of Members, when the inaugural meeting of the Cinematographer’s Council was held on June 20, 1971. 34. P.N. Sundaram, who had worked in the electrical and camera department of the Vijaya-Vauhini Studios in the 1950s, spoke to me about Bartley’s clever concealment of lights for the moonlit effect (my interview with P.N. Sundaram). However, Kaladhar, nonagenarian art director, spoke to me about the deft hands of people in his (art) department, whose painting

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Vijaya-Vauhini and Prasad skills could aesthetically create the moonlit environment along with the imaginative experiments of Bartley’s lighting. According to Kaladhar, in Pathala Bhairavi no lights were hidden behind the painted moon in the studio, as a source for lighting. Refer my interview with Kaladhar in Chennai, in October 2007. According to Kaladhar, lights were mounted on a platform (from an angle) closer to the painted moon. 35. My interview with K.G. Naidu, whose father Krishnan was the supplier of paints during the production of Pathala Bhairavi, in Chennai, in August 2007. The film took almost a year to complete if you take into account the pre- and post-production activities: Pathala Bhairavi was made in VijayaVauhini Studios from February 1950 until February 1951. 36. My conversation with H. Sridhar, the chief audio engineer, Media Artists in Chennai, in April 2007. Sridhar has collaborated with A.R. Rahman and frontlineManian directors, Ratnam.2007, pp. 55–56. Manian 37. many See Aranthai for including details onMani Ramiahdass, also reminisced about Ramiahdass’ romantic lyrics in my interview with him, in Chennai, in August 2007. Manian, as noted earlier, was associated with Bommai, the in-house publication of Vijaya-Vauhini for two decades. 38. See Kamil V. Zvelebil’s insightful and passionate argument for Tamil’s classical status: Zvelebil, 1973, pp. 1–2. Also see, George L. Hart’s—another legendary Tamil scholar’s—statement on Tamil as a classical language: George L. Hart, “Statement on the Status of Tamil as a Classical Language”; www.tamil.berkeley.edu (accessed July 22, 2009). 39. According to Philip Lutgendorf, “A vrat is a disciplined religious observance for a fixed period (usually a day), involving partial or complete fasting, the ritual worship of a deity, and the recitation or hearing of a relevant katha (story).” For details on vrat, see his seminal essay on the film Jai Santhoshi Maa: Lutgendorf, 2003, p. 21. 40. My interview with Film News Anandan, in Chennai, in July 2007. For the release date of the Tamil version, see Anandan (p. 28 [56]). 41. Aranthai Manian spoke to me about the stupendous success of Pathala Bhairavi, which catapulted NTR into superstardom (my interview with Aranthai Manian, in Chennai, in August 2007). Also see for details on Pathala Bhairavi’s success, and its director K.V. Reddy’s (Donga Ramudu, 1955) fame: A.S. Sashidhar, “Donga Ramudu Was Included in FTII,” August 13, 2012; www.timesofindia.indiatimes.com (accessed July 28, 2014). Nagi Reddy mentions about how the success of Pathala Bhairavi propelled him and Chakrapani to attempt a “more wonderful/spectacular” film in Chandraharam, which failed at the box-office; see Nagi Reddy (2009a, pp. 92–93). 42. See for details: Metro Plus Channel: Magic and Mythology, April 21, 2009.

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Madras Studios 43. Folk performers often quote from popular theater/cinema during their performances in village festivals, particularly in the context of the inversion and recuperation of ideas. For instance, they would be invested in Raman (emblematizing Lord Rama of Ayodhya) going in search of miraculous powers from a ferocious (village) female deity—Pathala Bhairavi—who is in her mystical abode. 44. See for a detailed synopsis of Samsaram: Sastry, 1993, pp. 119–120. Sastry is a documentary filmmaker besides being a film critic and a columnist. He has also published a monograph on the legendary actor Chittoor V. Nagaiah, who had acted in Tamil and Telugu films for over four decades. 45. My interview with Aranthai Manian, who had researched on VijayaVauhini when he worked as a journalist for Bommai, in Chennai, in August 2007. For details on the collaboration between Nagi Reddy and Chakrapani, see (2008, 161, 164). For further details on Chakrapani, see NagiNarayanan Reddy (2009a, pp.pp. 85–94). 46. B.N. Reddy—Bommireddi Narasimha Reddy—B. Nagi Reddy’s elder brother, and the preeminent Telugu film director was the first South Indian to receive the prestigious Dada Saheb Phalke Award in 1974. Chakrapani’s popularity as a writer, even before his partnership with B. Nagi Reddy, is reflected in his being hired as a writer for the film Dharmapathni (1941). Director Pullaiah, who made films in Telugu and Tamil, was highly successful in Telugu, and known for his penchant for melodrama. 47. Sastry identifies the characterizations in Samsaram as prefiguring the stereotypical characters of the Telugu cinema: The binary of the cultured and the rustic brother, the domineering mother-in-law and the meek but virtuous daughter-in-law, and the husband–wife comedy duo. The writer Sadasivabrahmam became so popular and sought after for his scripts that he was often referred to as Katha(story)—Sivabrahmam; see for details Sastry (pp. 47–48). 48. Nagi Reddy informs us that after Pathala Bhairavi, he and Chakrapani were disappointed when their ambitious and colossal film, Chandraharam (1954) with NTR, Sri Ranjani, S.V. Ranga Rao, and Savithri in the lead, was a box-office disaster. Thereafter, he and Chakrapani decided to make films that would be good family entertainments rather than just a fantasy or folklore; see Nagi Reddy (2009a, pp. 92–93). 49. For details on the crew and cast of Manmoyee Girls’ School (Jyotish Banerjee, 1935), and its remakes and adaptations, see: Rajadhyaksha and Willemen (2002, p. 264). 50. The Purna Kumbh Mela is celebrated in Allahabad every 12 years. The Magh Mela or the Maha Maham is often considered the Southern variant of the Kumbh Mela. See for details on the Kumbh Mela as a site in which

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Vijaya-Vauhini and Prasad nationalism, social reform, orientalism, and homogenization of rituals and religion intersect: Maclean, 2008, pp. 111–190. Maclean notes that pandas/ priests in places like Vrindavan and Kumbakonam have attempted to boost the status of their respective sites of pilgrimage by adopting the Kumbh Mela model and argues for the malleability of religious rituals; see Maclean, 2008, p. 102, for details. 51. See for details of the last Mahamaham that was celebrated in 2004: S. Vydhiyanathan and G. Srinivasan, 2004. The Tamil Nadu Government is already making preparations for the 2016 Mahamaham. 52. See for details, Hindu, June 5, 2009. 53. See for the holy bathing areas in the Kaveri river during Mahamaham: “Kumbakonam Municipality: Theerthams,” the official website of the Government of Tamil Nadu, www.kumbakonam.tn.gov.in (accessed September 14, 2009). 54. See for the srcins and the course of River Kaveri: Subbayya, 1978. 55. See for a brief history of the dispute which began from an agreement between the princely state of Mysore and the state of Madras under British administration: “History of the Cauvery Dispute,” SaveCauvery.com, Web, September 14, 2009. For the significant events marking the dispute over the decades, see Ramana (1992, pp. 37–50). 56. See Ramana (1992, p. 75). For a detailed history of the Krishna-Godavari dispute see, Ramana, 1992, pp. 24–36. 57. See for details on the adjudications of the inter-state water disputes in Garg, 2005, pp. 15–16. 58. India: Art director (of Missamma/Missiamma) Kaladhar, who was then 94 years old, had worked in Vijaya-Vauhini Studios from their first production Shavukaru (1950) till Uma Chandi Gowri Sankarula Katha (1968) for almost three decades. He had worked directly under Chakrapani’s supervision (my telephonic conversation with him on September 14, 2009, and my interview with him in Chennai, in October 2007). 59. My interview with writer Ramanujam, who had worked with Thanjai Ramiah Dass (the dialogue writer for the Tamil version) as an assistant, in Chennai, in August 2007. 60. See for details on Prasad’s struggle in Bombay to enter and work in the film industry: Sastry, “A Rags to Riches Story,” pp. 1–27. See for a concise history of Prasad, “L.V. Prasad Story,” www.lvprasad.org (accessed September 23, 2009). This official website is maintained by Prasad Studios. 61. My discussion with K. Hariharan, director of the Prasad Film Academy in Chennai, in April 2009, and my telephonic conversation with him on January 21, 2010. 237

Madras Studios 62. In Missiamma also Bartley had his signature studio-moonlit song that became very popular: Vaarayo Vennilave/Welcome Bright Moon! (music: Saluri Rajeshwara Rao, singers: A.M. Raja and P. Leela). Kumudam in its review of Missiamma praises the moonlit sequence and Bartley’s cinematography; see Kumudam (February 1, 1955, p. 25). 63. But unlike Raj Kapoor and Nargis, R. Ganesh and Savithri got married. 64. See for details Kumudam (February 1, 1955, p. 25). The popular Tamil weekly Kumudam points to the sensitivity of a narrative revolving around an interreligious love affair in the mid-1950s. Nagi Reddy, Chakrapani, and Prasad would have chosen the subject not only because of their trust in their abilities for comedy but also to draw attention to their “difficult situation” as Telugu filmmakers in Tamil Nadu in the mid-1950s subtly. 65. According to a recent book on Savithri, she got married to R. Ganesh as early as in 1952, in Chamundi temple, though she revealed the marriage four years later in 1956. See for details: Murthy and Somaraju, 2009, pp. 445–449. 66. Talk-A-Tone collection at the Tamil Nadu Government Archives at Egmore, in Chennai, informs us that even during the 1940s gossip surrounding film stars was popular in magazines, as it carried a regular column by “Studio Guy.” Of course, Hindu Nesan was a hardcore yellow magazine, which came into limelight when its editor C.N. Lakshmikanthan was murdered in November 1944 at Vepery, in Madras. He was stabbed on the 8th and died the next morning, and two of Tamil Cinema’s top stars, MKT and N.S. Krishnan, were charged and convicted, but acquitted after a long and sensational trial. Sri Ramulu Naidu of Pakshiraja Studios was also implicated but acquitted. See for details on MKT and NSK’s (tragic) conviction and the historical “Lakshmikanthan murder case”: Suresh Balakrishnan, 2010, pp. 216–400. See footnotes in pp. 169 and 232 for TalkA-Tone’s investment in gossip on the Tamil star MKT in the 1940s. 67. The February 1955 issue of Guntoosi carries a review of Missiamma that praises Savithri’s acting as “the best so far.” She has portrayed various shades of emotions that fit the role she has played; see Guntoosi, February 1955, p. 6.

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Chapter 5 Traces of the Studio System: A Certain Tendency of the Tamil Cinema

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he continuing relevance of my analysis of the key films of the major studios of Madras, particularly from the period 1940– 1955, becomes clear when we look at the significant trends in the Tamil cinema over film the last five decades. When look atrole Modern Uthama Puthiran, Theatres’ seminal thewedouble that P.U. Chinnappa played in the film, today retrospectively has become the starting point in the history of the Tamil cinema of its obsessive involvement and experimentation with multiple roles. If folkloric traditions could be pointed out as the source of the inspiration, the studios enabled the realization of those ideas and the magic of watching two or more similar figures on screen through the technical expertise of their cinematographers and production designers. The expert of the technicians providedivided the perfect masking needed for skill photographing actionscould in perfectly segments of the film, and the rock-steady quality of heavy cameras like Mitchell enabled the success of such experiments in films with characters in double or multiple roles.

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Later, in the mid-1970s, when the lighter Arriflex camera replaced Mitchell as the camera most used in Madras, the development in the technology processing made it possible forduring such effects to be achieved not only of in-camera in the studio but also postproduction in the laboratories. The development in technology and the skill of technicians specializing in special effects also contributed to the finesse in framing the same actor in various segments of the frame enacting different roles. The Prasad Laboratories, the major film-processing studio in India, had its first optical printer— Oxberry—by 1975.1 Sadly, the Prasad management has announced the official closure of the Prasad laboratories in December 2013 (see Sashi Kumar, 2010). The closure marks a watershed moment in the history of cinema as Prasad Studios owned the largest laboratory in Asia: From 1976 to 2013, in 37 years they have processed 3,800 films, which is more than two-thirds of the films produced in Tamil during the last century. The closure of the Prasad labs marks the distinct transition of Tamil cinema to digital technology as any movie shot henceforth on film cannot be processed in Tamil Nadu as Prasad was the last laboratory to process films. Any study of the legacy or influence of the Madras studios, therefore, also revolves around the Prasad Studios and its laboratories because most of the Tamil films and its remakes made in Madras, as discussed in this chapter, were processed there from the mid-1970s onward. Over the last decade Prasad has become the preeminent facility in South India for computer-generated images using high-end technology. Prasad EFX, a division of Prasad Corporation Ltd, which is one of the pioneers in digital postproduction facilities in India, has clients all over the world. The last decade has seen the increasing use of CGI’s—computergenerated images—playing a central role in the visualization of multiple roles on screen. But even prior to the 1950s when the facilities for special effects during postproduction in the laboratories were scarce, F. Nagoor, the production designer-producer, and Jiten Banerjee, cinematographer-director teamed up to cast P.U. Chinnappa in multiple roles way back in 1949, in the film Mangayarkarasi. The film had Chinnappa in triple roles—he played the old king, his son—the crown prince—and the grandson. P. Kannamba played the female 240

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lead in this folktale-inspired costume drama with a strong Oedipal subtext: Kannamba is married to the crown prince, but loses her son who among the common He laterout meets his mother— now grows living up in penury after having folks. been thrown of the palace by the king on account of his suspicion over her alleged affair with the court-poet—and without knowing her identity desires her. However, his proposals remain one-sided. Later in the court, when the grandfather (the king) and the grandson accuse her of prostitution, at the opportune moment, the crown prince who had been abducted by an apsara—a heavenly seductress—arrives with the help of an angel, and clears all misunderstanding. Mangayarkarasi was a box-office success, and its art-direction and camerawork, and the performances of the singer-actor P.U. Chinnappa and Kannamba were instrumental in the unparalleled cult status that the film attained later. Modern Theatres’ Uthama Puthiran was remade 18 years later, in 1958, under the same title by Venus Pictures with Sivaji Ganesan playing the double role. Sivaji Ganesan like Chinnappa (in Mangayarkarasi), also played a triple-role in Deiva Magan (1969), and later in Thirisoolam (1970)—remade as Mahaan (1983) in Hindi, with Amitabh Bachchan essaying the triple role for his regular collaborator from the South, producer-director S. Ramanathan. Earlier Sivaji Ganesan had played nine roles in Navarathiri (1964), which was later remade in Hindi with Sanjeev Kumar as Naya Din Nayee Raat (1974). In a career spanning 288 films from 1952 to 1999, it is significant that Sivaji Ganesan chose to mark his 100th film Navarathiri, and his 200th film Thirisoolam with multiple roles.2 MGR, Sivaji’s rival and the most popular star of the Tamil screen, too played double roles in many of his films: Significantly for his maiden venture as a producer-director, MGR chose to play a double role—Nadodi Mannan (1958). If Uthama Puthiran was an adaptation of Dumas’s The Man in the Iron Mask, Nadodi Mannan was inspired by Anthony Hope’s novel The Prisoner of Zenda (1894). Among MGR’s topmost blockbusters are Nadodi Mannan and Enga Veettu Pillai (1965)—produced by B. Nagi Reddy and Chakrapani of Vijaya-Vauhini and directed by Tapi Chanakya—where his double roles were the main attraction. Two years later, in 1967, Enga Veettu 241

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Pillai was remade by the Vijaya banner in Hindi as Ram Aur Shyam (1967) with Dilip Kumar playing the lead. 3 (See Photo 33 in the photo group Thus, thesection.) flow of remakes of double and multiple roles suggest a movement predominantly from the South to the North. However, there have been many exceptions like the remake of Aaradhana (1969) as Sivakamiyin Selvan (1974), wherein Rajesh Khanna’s double role in the srcinal film was played by Sivaji Ganesan in the remake. Similarly MGR essayed Rajesh Khanna’s twin roles in Sacha Jhoota (1970) in the Tamil remake Ninaithathai Mudippavan (1975). The Tamil cinema as well as its reigning stars’ obsession with multiple roles is exemplified by the remake of Yaadon Ki Baaraat (1973) as Naalai Namathe (1975): MGR chose to play a double role that was not there in the srcinal, by playing the roles of both Dharmendra and Vijay Arora in the srcinal. Similarly in a curious case of closedcircuit remakes, the South to North movement of Enga Veettu Pillai-Ram Aur Shyam was reversed when Hema Malini played the female versions of Ram and Shyam in Seeta Aur Geeta (1972), which was then remade in Tamil as Vani Rani (1974)—by the srcinal producers of Enga Veetu Pillai, Vijaya-Vauhini’s Nagi Reddy and Chakrapani, remaking the remake of their highly successful film. 4 Mehboob Khan’s canonical Mother India (1957) too was remade in Tamil as Punniya Bhoomi (1978) with Vanisri in the lead. (See Photo 29 in the photo group section.) The trend continues with the present stars of the Tamil cinema. Contemporary Tamil cinema’s major star, Kamalahasan/Kamal Haasan’s penchant for playing multiple roles is well known: he set a new trend by playing a quadruple role in Michael Madana Kama Rajan (1990)—he played the roles of Michael, Madan, Kameshwaran, and Raju in the film. Recently in 2008, he upstaged Sivaji Ganesan’s nine roles in Navarathiri (1964) with his 10 roles in Dasavatharam (2008). Kamal’s prosthetic make-up was publicized heavily during the making of the film, and his make-up for the various characters in the film drew favorable as well as adverse reviews. Nonetheless, Kamal’s painstaking efforts were highlighted by the media (see Srinivasan, 2008). Similarly, Kamal’s competitor 242


superstar Rajinikanth’s film Sivaji (2007) too had him temporarily whiten his dark skin—through computer-generated images—to 5

impress the heroine. Although Sivaji did not have Rajini playing multiple roles, the authorship of its director S. Shankar underscores the continuing importance given to the double or multiple roles by frontline mainstream directors of the Tamil cinema. Shankar arguably is the biggest director in South India in terms of the budget and the box-office collections of his films over the last two decades. Out of the 11 films he has directed in the last 20 years, four of them have their heroes in multiple roles: Indian (1996) had Kamalahasan playing a double role of the father and the son; Jeans (1998) had the hero Prasanth play identical twins; and Anniyan (2005) had Vikram play a triple-role in a narrative revolving around the split personality of its protagonist. Shankar’s preoccupation with techniques like morphing, computedgenerated imageries, and contemporary advancements in prosthetic make-up technology underscore the contemporary Tamil filmmakers’ efforts to reach out to a national and a global audience to make their high-budget star vehicles viable and successful at the box office. Shankar’s Enthiran (2010) with Rajinikanth essaying a double role of a scientist and a robot exemplifies such an effort. However, as far as the narratives are concerned they are still looking for narrative devices like multiple roles to safely bet on the star capital of their leading heroes and posit the binary of the good and evil on the body of the same star who has the charisma for the initial pull at the box office. The huge success of such narrative ploys in addressing contemporary social issues have been endorsed not merely from the days of Modern Theatres’ Uthama Puthiran but from an earlier tradition of Tamil folktales and theater. For instance, Brenda E.F. Beck sheds light on the significance of Annamar Kathai (Brothers Story), which revolves around the story of triplets, two brothers and a sister, to Tamil folk (epic) tradition and culture (see Beck, 1982). The legacy of AVM’s film Parasakthi continues in the form of continual invocation of the Tamil language and Tamil culture. If we leave aside the box-office collections alone as the criteria, then Mani Ratnam would be the most significant among the Tamil cinema 243

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directors to have achieved national and international fame over the last two decades. One of his most discussed film Roja (1992), which in its dubbed version became huge box-office hit in Hindi, ends with a song in its srcinal Tamilaversion, which addresses the Tamilan/Tamilian directly: Tamila Tamila Naalai Nam Nale, Tamila Tamila Naadum Nam Naade! (O Tamilan! Tomorrow is ours, and this nation too is ours); En Veedu Thaai Tamilnadu Endrae Sollada, En Naamam Indian Endrae Endrum Nillada (Say proudly that your home is Mother Tamil’s Land, and your identity an Indian). The song, which begins with the end credits of the film—penned by the DMK sympathizer poet-lyricist Vairamuthu, and composed by the debutant A.R. Rahman—stresses languages maymusic-director change, the meaning remains the same,that and though though music may change, the language/lyrics remains the same. Toward the end it assures a disturbed Tamilian (due to issues of terrorism that the film addresses) not to lose hope as a new dawn will arrive. It ends with the lines: Unakkullae Indhiya Raththam Undraa Illaiya, Ondrana Bharatham Unnai Kaakkum Illaiya (Is there not Indian blood running in your veins? A united India will protect you, wouldn’t it?) Thealast lines of the songfilm almost contrite justification as to why mainstream Tamil likeoffer Rojaahas to deal with terrorism in Kashmir—a North Indian problem. Roja, unlike Parasakthi, does not address the claims of the Dravidian activists concerning the uniqueness of the Tamil language and culture and the hegemony of the North; nevertheless, it appeals nostalgically to the Tamil Mother and her land and recalls the discourse surrounding Tamil Thaai—the Tamil Mother, central to the discourse of the Dravidian movement in its initial agenda of the formation of a Dravida Nadu/Dravidian Land. Roja’s phenomenal success in the early 1990s in its dubbed Hindi version, wherein its specificity as a Tamil language film was erased through the soundtrack, nonetheless, marked the gradual beginning of Tamil filmmakers’ attempts to cater to a national and an international audience straddling the regional Tamil culture or local ethos and global issues. 244


Besides, Rajinikanth’s transnationally successful Enthiran set new benchmarks in the usage of studio interiors in terms of the scale the songs picturized insideIrumbile the setsoru (seeIrudhayam Photo 40 (lyrics: in the photoofgroup section). For instance, Madhan Karky, music: A.R. Rahman) and Arima and Arima (lyrics: Vairamuthu, music: A.R. Rahman) foreground the enormous interior space in studios that are still in demand in big-budget movies, though the space now mostly provides the green-screen canvas to later digitally construct a dreamy universe as per the requirements of the narrative. Enthiran, the last film in which the iconic Tamil science-fiction writer Sujatha collaborated with Shankar, borrows as much from the legendary Isaac Asimov’s laws of robotics for its screenplay as the convention of the double role in Tamil cinema. The song Boom Boom Robo Da (lyrics: Madhan Karky, music: A.R. Rahman) recalls Uthama Puthiran’s “Adimai Unakku Garvama? Thaguma?” in the presence of the protagonist and his double— Dr Vaseegaran and his invention Citti, the Robot—in the same frame. Unlike Vikraman and his double Chokkanathan, they do not sing in competition, but in vying for the heroine’s (Sana’s) heart there is a similar layer of jealousy. Even more important is the centrality of culture even in a science fiction film in Tamil: When Citti saves the life of an unclothed adolescent girl from fire, he is unaware of the repercussions that his act of saving her from the bathtub and delivering her into the eagerly awaiting media and the crowd would have: She rushes into a speeding tanker out of shame and commits suicide. Subsequently, Vaseegaran tries to imbue Citti with sentience so as to make him aware of (Tamil) culture. The specificity of Tamil culture, which was used in the 1950s for their subnationalist imperatives by the Dravidian ideologues, is retooled to reign in the indiscriminate Citti, the robot, who is an amalgam of Superman/Spiderman.6 Tamil is also invoked as a space to critique globalization, and the inequalities it creates through outsourcing, and its erasure of the local: Kattrathu Tamil/Learned Tamil (dir. Ram, 2007) exemplifies such a trend. The film critiques the present times of globalization, marked by outsourcing, and its indifference to the misery and decadence of its protagonist—a brilliant Tamil postgraduate who ekes out 245

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a living as a Tamil teacher. The hero Prabhakar (Jeeva) earns 2,000 rupees a month, whereas his contemporaries working in the field of computer andhim. information earning 100 times science more than The film,technology previously are titled Tamilalmost M.A., critiques the hypocrisy of chanting the praise of the Tamil language and culture and not bestowing dignity on people who spend their time and life for its cause in the practical world. While Kattrathu Tamil could be read as carrying the lineage of Parasakthi directly in addressing the plight of the “Tamil” people, Kamalahasan’s ambitious yet incomplete venture Maruthanayagam emblematizes the drive to recover the forgotten history of the Tamil (subaltern) rebels who worked against the colonial designs of the British Government.7 In a way Maruthanayagam could be read as a response from Tamil filmmakers to films like Mangal Pandey (dir. Ketan Mehta, 2005), which invokes a similar history of a rebel from the North. Films like Periyar (dir. Gnana Rajasekharan, 2007), a biopic on Periyar E.V. Ramasamy, the iconic leader of the Dravidian movement, also recall the times and cultural milieu of the times of the production and reception of Parasakthi. The success of Gemini Studios’ film Avvaiyar has its resonances in the mythological in Tamil cinema, which unlike in Hindi has always been a major genre, often involving the top stars as its protagonists. A.P. Nagarajan, the director most associated with the genre, adapted the format of Avvaiyar’s episodic structure in his hagiography of the mythicoreligious Tamil poets Agathiyar (1972), based on the events from sage Agastya’s life, and Karaikkal Ammaiyar (1973), one of the rare woman devotees of Lord Siva to be among the revered 63 Saivite saints in the Tamil canon (see for details on Karaikkal Ammaiyar: Craddock, 2007). However, A.P. Nagarajan’s most successful film in this genre was Thiruvilaiyadal (1965), which details 4 of the 64 Thiruvilaiyadal (the holy lilas of Lord Siva). After the success of Thiruvilaiyadal, his highly successful mythological films Saraswathi Sabatham (1966), Kandan Karunai (1967), Thiruvarutchelvar (1967), and Thirumal Perumai (1968) marked a unique period of the multistarrer—with the casting of most of the frontline stars of the times—mythologicals, unparalleled in the 246


history of the Tamil and the Indian cinema. (See Photo 30 in the photo group section.) The present trend of the mythological,byinflected with the computer-generated images, is exemplified the present Amman (the Goddess) genre films. These films as they straddle computer technology–driven special effects and the episodic narration of the mythological, also reveal the mixed traces from a spectacle like Avvaiyar and the folkloric fantasy of Pathala Bhairavi, as they are retooled for a mythosocial drama. Films like Rajakali Amman (2000), Nageshwari (2001), and Shri Raja Rajeshwari (2001) had the leading star Ramya Krishnan in the lead, whereas Meena, who had acted as the lead opposite Kamal Haasan ( Avvai Shanmughi, 1996) and female Rajinikanth (Padayappa, 1999), played the lead in Paalayathu Amman (2000) and Padai Veettu Amman (2002). While at the same time, senior actresses of an earlier generation were also busy in Amman films—for instance, Thaalikaatha Kaaliamman (2001) with Bhanupriya (in a guest role as Kaaliamman), and Sri Bannari Amman (2002) with Vijayashanthi in the lead role. However, unlike those cited above with Ramya Krishnan and Meena, these latter films endorse a general perception that heroines past their prime 8

act as the protagonists Amman films. Nonetheless, the fact Vijayashanthi, arguablyofthe most popular female action-star ofthat the South, chose Sri Bannari Amman to be her 175th film underscores the significance these actresses, like their fans, attach to these films about Goddesses and their benevolent “Grace.”9 Similarly, Pottu Amman (2000) marked the Tamil/Telugu actress Roja’s 100th film. In Sri Bannari Amman, Vijayashanthi plays the Goddess Bannari Amman as well as her double as an indigenous/herbal medicine woman in the village, enabling her to give vent to her anger against injustice and the villains and thus satisfy the expectations of her fans for action in the choreographed fight sequences. Thus, in these Amman films the subterranean Goddess Pathala Bhairavi is excavated and brought to the surface, and her unlimited magical powers are showcased through computer-generated imageries, to finally co-opt her into the domestic space as a benevolent mother 247

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who can answer the needs to settle score with the injustices/villains that surround us.10 The Telugu Arundhati (dir. Kodi 2009), Anushka Shetty film playing the titular role of aRamakrishna, woman avenging anwith evil and tormented spirit, was a huge box-office success in Tamil Nadu in its dubbed version in Tamil of the same name. For the paranormal fantasy Arundhati, computer graphics were used extensively, recalling the painstaking special effects in many of Vijaya-Vauhini’s landmark films, while borrowing its key drum-dance sequence from the legendary Chinese director Zhang Yimou’s House of Flying Daggers (2004), a sequence that seems like a homage to the spectacle of the drum-dance in Gemini Studios’ Chandralekha (dir. S.S. Vasan, 1948). Unlike in Yimou’s version where the drum-dance is used for the spectacular introduction of the blind dancer Mei (Zhang Ziyi), in Arundhati it becomes a deceitful ploy for the protagonist to take her revenge on the villain, recalling such a narrative impulse surrounding the drum-dance and its production design in Gemini’s magnum opus. Kodi Ramakrishna, the director of Amman and Arundhati, combines mythology and fantasy in the backdrop of science fiction in his latest film Avatharam (Telugu, 2014), which is being dubbed into Tamil. Nevertheless, a powerful feminist persona like that of the iconic Madhuri Devi (Manthiri Kumari) or G. Varalakshmi (Aaravalli) is absent in contemporary Tamil cinema. Though contemporary Tamil cinema has charismatic actresses like Nayanathara, they are seldom seen in roles that would challenge the status quo of the heroine playing second fiddle to the hero. When compared to G. Varalakshmi who played a supreme matriarch in Aaravalli to the extent of preventing her own daughter from getting married and being subservient to a man, present-day heroines seem to have regressed back in time in terms of their conformity to the patriarchal designs of Tamil cinema. For instance, Madhuri Devi’s screen persona appears formidable even today: As Poongothai if she unabashedly flaunts her desire for her lover Ponmudi, she loses her innocence as the minister’s daughter Amudhavalli when her lover cheats her and does not feel remorse when she kills him in self-defense in Manthiri Kumari. 248


Her didactic monologue in the court seems to have faded away along with the promise of a society that would celebrate such a courageous 11

woman by erecting a statue and honoring her. (See Photo 11 in the photo group section.) Madhuri Devi’s persona remains an oasis in the dry heat generated by the male-dominated Tamil cinema. Her collaboration with Modern Theatres proved fruitful, as she could carve a niche for herself as an actress during the 1950s when it was the studio bosses who called the shots. One of the main reasons for her seminal and unparalleled work in the history of Tamil/Indian mainstream cinema was the script written by Dravidian ideologues like Bharathidasan and Karunanidhi for films like Ponmudi and Manthiri Kumari. Another milestone in her career was Devaki (1951), which was written by Karunanidhi and directed by R.S. Mani. Though produced by Ganapathi Pictures, it was entirely shot in Modern Theatres Studios with their in-house technicians, like the iconic cinematographer Vijayam who had photographed Ponmudi the year before. In Devaki, a westernized Madhuri Devi, in shirts and pants, plays the London-returned progressive feminist Leela who brings order in the chaotic life of her sister Devaki (V.N. Janaki) by taming her wayward brother-in-law (N.N. Kannappa) and forcing him to rethink his life and change his ways. The bold and aggressive fashion in which Madhuri Devi elicits the confession from her brother-in-law and forces him to feel guilty and repent his past deeds, disavowing her sister’s plea on behalf of her husband, is the climactic moment of the film. Madhuri Devi’s cross-dressing enabled her to create a unique space for female desire: In Aayirm Thalai Vangiya Aboorva Chinthamani, not one but five women fall for her “masculine” charm, and in Jupiter Pictures’ Kanniyin Kadhali (dir. Ramnoth, 1949), a tale of mistaken identities, she takes on two male roles apart from the leading female one. In fact, the preeminent Tamil film journalist of the 1950s, Guntoosi’s editor P.R.S. Gopal, titled his essay on her as, “Aan Veshangalil Asathiya Pirabala Nadigai” (The popular actress who impressed us with her male roles).12 Madhuri Devi’s roles in Modern Theatres’ Ponmudi, Manthiri Kumari, and Ganapathi Picrures’ Devaki emblematize Periyar’s 249

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progressive ideas about women and his investment in fighting for their rights and equality, which was at the top of his agenda along with hisThe relentless fight against the unparalleled evil of the caste system. insightful articles by progressive women in journals like Kudi Aarasu and Puratchi of the Self-Respect Movement of Periyar inform us of their anticipation of a persona like that of Madhuri Devi to advocate for their cause in the public sphere (see Geetha, 1998, pp. WS9–WS15). Madhuri Devi’s indomitable spirit and magnetic persona bestowed on her the rare honor in a male-dominated Tamil film industry of dominantly figuring in some of the posters of Manthiri Kumari, which was released on June 24, 1950, to attract the audience as her presence often guaranteed some form of transgression or intervention.13 Modern Theatres and Sundaram’s collaboration with young writers influenced by Periyar’s progressive ideas, though aimed at exploiting their market value among the Tamil audience, had sequences that created rupture in the narrative by undermining the masculinity that drove the action and violence during key moments in the film. For instance, A.V.P. Asai Thambi, another young writer from the Dravidian camp, wrote the dialogues for Sarvadhikari (dir. T.R. Sundaram, 1951), an adaptation of Gallant Blade (dir. Henry Levin, 1948). It showcased Anjali Devi as a woman of loose morals only to invert her image as a faithful lover. Besides, M. Saroja, who vies with Anjali Devi for the hero MGR’s love in the film, would stand up to the arch villain Nambiar when it came to swordplay. Saroja’s heroic swordplay preceded the iconic MGR’s attempt to save the heroine from the villain and mirrored V.N. Janaki’s similar intervention into the homosocial world of men in Maruthanattu Ilavarasi (dir. A. Kasilingam, 1950) whose dialogue was written by Karunanidhi. The interest in electoral politics of the Dravidian Progressive Federation, which weaned its ideologues away from Periyar and his Dravidian Party’s uncompromising stance on gender equality, is epitomized by the bigamous relationship of Tamilselvan (Prakash Raj) with Senthamarai (Tabu) in Iruvar (dir. Mani Ratnam, 1997). Such inner contradictions among the ideology-driven screenwriters, 250


who later became powerful politicians, underscore the gradual dilution of Periyar’s ideals, epitomized by Madhuri Devi’s relatively fleeting presence in Tamiland cinema despite her unparalleled success in roles written for women, its complete absence in contemporary Tamil cinema:14 Clara, who was rechristened as Chandra, played the role of the “shrew” to be tamed in her debut film Vaayaadi (dir. Kannan, 1940), produced by AVM.15 Later as Madhuri Devi, Clara would become the icon of rebellion in Tamil cinema both in her professional and personal life: While actresses sue their mother (Kumari Rukmini) or financiers (V.N. Janaki and Vasundhara Devi) for cheating them of their money or even a producer (Vyjayantimala versus AVM) for payment due to them, Madhuri Devi gets sued by her mother for “looting” her belongings and wealth; in another case, she is accused of “breaking chairs, and throwing stones,” and disturbing peace during “family quarrel,” and sued for “disorderly behavior” (see Verman, 2012, pp. 395–421). Besides, her interest in cross-dressing and poaching into the territory of men was not restricted to her films with Modern Theatres alone: In Kanniyin Kadhali, an adaptation of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, Madhuri Devi played the male (Cesario/Sebastian) and the female (Viola) and carved a niche for herself as the gender bender of Tamil cinema (see Vamanan, 2012, p. 168; also see Guy, 2009). Mani Ratnam’s magnum opus Iruvar, which revolves around the long and enduring friendship/enmity of MGR and Karunanidhi and their intense love-hate relationship, revisits the earlier times of the Madras studios when Dravidian movement and its ideologues like Karunanidhi were instrumental in shaping the narratives of films and the personas of stars like MGR. Iruvar, though justly criticized by scholars like Chakravarthy for its commercially driven narrativization of the Dravidian movement and its commodification of history (Chakravarthy and Pandian, 1997, pp. 2997–2999), is nonetheless a poignant and nostalgic homage to the studio era and the technicians, writers, and stars associated with it, as exemplified by the meticulously mounted songs (music: A.R. Rahman, cinematography: Santhosh Sivan), which were written by Vairamuthu, a preeminent Dravidian ideologue of the contemporary times 251

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(for details on Iruvar’s aesthetics, see Eswaran Pillai, 2009, pp. 226– 235). (See Photo 34 in the photo group section.) Iruvar’sofsongs unparalleled in their visualization within the oeuvre Maniremain Ratnam, who is well-known for his attention to details, and thereby draw attention to the lineage of his father Rathinam of Venus Studios, which was once famous for its aesthetically pleasing songs in films like Uthama Puthiran (1958), a remake of The Man in the Iron Mask that retools the narrative of Modern Theatres’ 1940 version, Kalyana Parisu (1959) and Suraj (1966). Mani Ratnam, who privileges classical Hollywood-driven style of immaculate compositions and control over framings and the choreography of actions, has often preferred shooting inside the studios or in the backlot. For instance, the (Dharavi) slum sequences in Nayakan (1987) and the milieu of the religious carnage in Bombay (1995) were staged in sets constructed inside Chennai studios (see Gopalan, 2008); the use of the open space within the (Venus Studios) complex for the protagonist’s apartment in Anjali (1990), recalls a similar usage of (backlot) space inside AVM Studios in Parasakthi. The narrative of Mani Ratnam’s Bombay, though focusing on the fraught relationship between Hindus and Muslims in contemporary Mumbai, uses the Madras studio archetype of the “family picture/joint family melodrama” genre when the Hindu and Muslim fathers/fathers-in-law come together because of their yearning for their grandchildren’s affection and bury their differences, which seemed to be insurmountable till then, in a city tragically and violently burning along with its cosmopolitanism. Similarly Nayakan (1987), though invested in paying homage to Coppola’s The Godfather (1972) through a carefully structured gangster narrative, however, inverts the character of the abusive son-in-law into a conscientious cop to set up a binary, and finally resolve the contradiction within the don (Velu Nayakan) by focusing on melodrama centered on his grandson, whereby providing a space for Nayakan’s confession regarding the ambiguity surrounding his values that marked the climactic moment of the film. In Nayakan and Bombay, role of the child/children acting as a conduit to bring peace among the feuding family members recall Kamalahasan’s debut film: 252


AVM Productions’ Kalathur Kannamma (dir. A. Bhimsingh, 1960), wherein Selvam (Kamalahasan) brings his parents together, was a critical andthe commercial andofwon Kamalahasan national award for best child hit actor the for year. The director,thethe iconic A. Bhimsingh, later became the preeminent technician from the South who reinforced the myth in the North that Madras studios made films only about families. Many of his remakes from the srcinals shot in the Madras studios, including at Newtone Studios, which he managed as a lessee, were highly successful at the box office. For instance, his debut film in Hindi, Main Chup Rahungi (AVM Productions, 1962) was a remake of Kalathur Kannamma, and other successful films like Raakhi (1962), remake of Paasamalar (1961); Khandaan (1965), remake of Bhaagappirivinai (1959); Sadhu Aur Shaitaan (1968), remake of Saadhu Mirandaal (1966); Gouri (1968), remake of Shanthi (1965); Aadmi (1968), remake of Aalayamani (1962); Gopi (1972), remake of Muradan Muthu (1964); and Naya Din Nayee Raat (1974), remake of Navarathiri (1964), among others. Bhimsingh’s Tamil films like Baagappirivinai, Paasamalar, Padikkadha Medhai (1960), and Paava Mannippu (1961) have come to signify the (joint) family melodrama and the best of the Madras studio productions of the late 1950s/early 1960s in the Tamil imaginary and have become part of the contemporary folklore surrounding cinema. Bhimsingh’s films are also known for their ensemble cast of eminent actors and his team, which included the ace cinematographer Vittal Rao, who was known for his penchant for close-ups, and eminent writers like M.S. Solaimalai and Aroor Das. Besides, L.V. Prasad, who produced and directed Sharada (1957), Chhoti Bahen (1959), Beti Bete (1964), Daadi Maa (1966), Jeene Ki Raah (1969), Shaadi Ke Baad (1972), Bidaai (1974), and Jay Vijay (1977) in Hindi under the banner of his studios, Prasad Productions, was the other director chiefly responsible for the association of the Madras studio pictures with family melodramas in the imaginary of the North Indian audiences, as the titles of his films suggest. (See Photo 36 in the photo group section.) L.V. Prasad’s Missiamma too has become the signpost for soft romantic comedy with melodramatic undertones: Mercury Pookkal, 253

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released in March 2006, was advertised as a film “like Missiamma.”16 The Telugu title of the famous Vijaya-Vauhini film was recycled by a recent Telugu film Missamma (dir. Neelakanta, though it was not a remake. In contrast, Missamma NRI (dir.2003), K. Sharat Chandra, 2010) repurposes the main plot of Missiamma for its narrative centered on two immigrants who enter into a fake wedlock because of the specificity of their situation. Recently, to celebrate the centennial of Nagi Reddy’s birth, his granddaughter Bharathi Reddy produced Vijaya Productions’ Veeram (2014), with the popular Tamil star Ajith, which was a huge box-office success. The story, however, was stereotypical in its recycling of the regular formula of family melodrama and violent action through a star vehicle. Nonetheless, in the portrayal of the hero who lives in a village with four of his brothers, the beginning of Veeram recalls many of the joint families in the narratives of the studio films, wherein brothers live harmoniously together, including in Parasakthi. Thus, we can see that the traces of history from the studio era and their landmark films that I have discussed in detail are easily visible in contemporary films made in the Tamil and Telugu. Though the technology has changed with the times, from the masking done ‘in camera’ to the computer-generated images in special effects studios during postproduction, the themes and the privileging of certain genres, narrative formats and devices, all point to the continuing relevance of the Madras studios and their films, and their seminal influence. The traces are visible in any number of significant contemporary trends. (For the detailed history of the movement away from the studios in the 1970s, with the help of lightweight cameras and the privileging of the aesthetics of “realism,” epitomized by directors like Bharathiraja, Mahendran, and Rudhraiya, see Eswaran Pillai, 2012b.)

Notes 1. My interview with the chief of processing at Prasad laboratories, S. Sivaraman, in March 2007, in Chennai, and my telephonic conversation with him on October 1, 2009.

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Traces of the Studio System 2. See for Sivaji Ganesan’s filmography, official website of the late Sivaji Ganesan maintained by his sons www.nadigarthilagam.com/Sivajimainc. htm (accessed on October 2, 2009). 3. Enga Veetu Pillai itself was a remake of Ramudu Bheemudu (1964) with NTR in the lead. 4. Salim-Javed, the celebrated writer duo of the Hindi cinema were credited with the screenplay and dialogues for Seeta aur Geeta. Ramesh Sippy, the legendary director of Sholay (1975), was the director of the film. Seeta aur Geeta’s reversal of the role from male twins to the female, added the word “ulta/reversal” to the Madras industry parlance. 5. See for details on the film Sivaji: Subramanian, 2007. 6. See for details, my conference presentation at Iowa, and the forthcoming book: Pillai, 2012. 7. See for Kamal’s intentions to revive the project: Subramanian and Naig, 2014. Also see Shiva Prasad, 2014. 8. But even the titular roles of Ramya Krishnan, who was a glamorous heroine in the 1980s and the 1990s, in director Rama Narayanan’s Rajakaliamman (2000), Nageswari (2001), and Annai Kaligambal (2003) came much later in her career. Nonetheless, the huge success of Ramya Krishnan’s CGIdriven Ammoru (1995, Telugu; dir: Kodi Ramakrishna) and its dubbed Tamil version Amman made mythosocial genre enormously popular and attractive for young actresses. 9. See for the details on Bannari Amman as Vijayashanthi’s 175th film: 10. Kumar, See for a2002. detailed reading on Sri Bannari Amman: Blake, 2014, pp. 40–47. Lisa Blake’s insightful reading of the recent Amman genre films in Tamil, like Sri Bannari Amman (The Goddess of Bannari, 2002), Kottai Mariamman (Mariamman of the Fort, 2001), Raja Kaliyamman (The Stately Goddess Kali, 2000), and Padai Veetu Amman (Mother of the Battle House, 2002), argues for how the goddess in the film, instead of empowering, disenfranchises women as the “saviour figure” (Blake, 2014, p. 48). 11. In fact, Manthiri Kumari had to be re-censored in 1955 since the censor certificate given to it was valid only for five years from the year of its release in 1950. However, when Modern Theatres’ applied for recertification, the Censor Board ordered many cuts to the (already censored) film that had run successfully in many places from 1950 onward. The Modern Theatres, therefore, refused to budge in and filed a case against the Censor Board in the High Court. As a result, the High Court had passed an order for the temporary screening of the film from July 6, 1955; see Guntoosi, 1955, p. 20. This event signifies the regression in terms of the portrayal of independent

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Madras Studios spirited women on screen due to cultural censorship of the people in power. 12. For details on Madhuri Devi’s “male roles,” see Guntoosi (1949, p. 10). For Guntoosi Gopal’s detailed portrait of Madhuri Devi, see Vamanan (2012, pp. 168–176). 13. Refer posters in Modern Theatres Studio (Floor 1), box (no. 1). “Kanal Therikkum Vasanam! Anal Therikkum Nadippu!” (Fiery Dialogues! Fervent Acting!), announces the poster that informs us about Manthiri Kumari’s screening from July 24 (1950) onward in Paragon and Broadway Theaters in Chennai, and in other cities of Tamil Nadu. Below Madhuri Devi, who occupies the space on the left side of the poster alone, are the credits: Direction: T.R. Sundaram and Ellis R. Dungan, dialogues: Karunanidhi, and music: G. Ramanathan. This poster also figures in the in Ananda Vikatan, 1950, p. films 97. like Vidiyum Munn (dir. 14. advertisement For instance, though critically acclaimed Balaji K. Kumar, 2013), a thriller that revolves around a prostitute who tries to rescue a 12-year-old girl, or Aarohanam (dir. Lakshmy Ramakrishnan), which focuses on a woman with bipolar disorder and her children for its narrative, are centered on women, they have not been able to challenge the male-dominated Tamil mainstream cinema the way Madhuri Devi’s Manthiri Kumari did. 15. For details on the three-in-one comedy—Vaayaadi, Poli Panchali, and Yes, Yes—see Guy, 2008. 16. See for details on the publicity of the Tamil film, Mercury Pookkal: Deenadayalan, 2006, p. 45.

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Photo 6

Photo 7

The entrance of the Gemini Studios on Mount Road

Gemini Studios’ famous floor no. 1, where films like Chandralekha and Avvaiyar were made

All photos courtesy: E. Gnanaprakasam (Gnanam)

Photo 8

The leaflet of Modern Theatres’ canonical film Uthama Puthiran (1940), the trendsetter of “double roles” in Tamil cinema

Photo 9

The vivacious Vyjayanthimala in her debut film AVM’s Vazhkai (1949)

Photo 10

The star on the horizon: M.G. Ramachandran (MGR) in Manthiri Kumari (1950)

Photo 11

Madhuri Devi, the inimitable star and an unparalleled rebellious/ transgressive persona on the screen

Photo 12

Itihasam Kettira: The Burrakatha format, of framing the narrative with an invitation to “listen,” in Pathala Bhairavi

The censor certificates of Pathala Bhairavi: the lenght is longer (17.616 feet) and the date earlier (March 12, 1951) in the Telugu version, advertised as Patala Bhairavi in the posters Photo 13

Photo 14

Kalyani seeking Goddess Parasakthi’s blessings in Parasakthi (1952)

Photo 15

The lecherous priest/pujari (K.P. Kamatchi) and the helpless Kalyani inside the temple

Sivaji Ganesan’s exhilaration on discovering the secret for “Success,” the utterance—the very first word delivered by him in AVM Studios for Parasakthi (1952)—has become part of the Tamil cinema folklore

Photo 16

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(L-R) Director Panju, Sivaji Ganesan, assistant Pattu, director Krishnan, and cinematographer Maruti Rao with Therukkoothu/Street theatre performers of the song, Desam Gyanam Kalvi Eeasan Poosai Ellam, Kasu Mun Sellathadi (Nation, knowledge, education, [and] religious rituals, these cannot challenge the might of money), in Parasakthi Photo 19

The naïve Gunasekaran is entertained by a seductive (North Indian) dancer to be swindled soon after his arrival in Madras (Parasakthi)

Photo 20

Eliding her youth: The instantaneous transformation of Avvaiyar (K.B. Sundarambal) from a maiden to an old woman in Avvaiyar (1953) by the grace of Lord Ganesha, and the awestruck onlookers Photo 21

Photo 22 The grand reception given to Avvaiyar by the Chozha King— one of the spectacular scenes in Avvaiyar shot in the backlot of the expansive Gemini Studios

n sea n a ijG av i S d n a ia B ir a d n a P g in rar t rsi o n lm if li m a T e h ,)t 4 5 9 1 ( l a a N a h d n A

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Photo 24

The charming Gemini Ganesan in Missiamma

During the shooting of AVM’s Miss Mary (Hindi, 1957), which was a remake of Vijaya-Vauhini’s Missiamma/Missamma (Tamil/Telugu, 1955) [from L to R] Director L. V. Prasad, Gemini Ganesan (sitting), and Om Prakash (behind)

Photo 25

Photo 26

Photo 27

A gleaming Savithri in Marcus Bartley’s painterly lighting (Mayabazar)

Bartley’s signature shot with “moon” light ( Mayabazar)

The legendary Marcus Bartley reading the light on S.V. Ranga Rao through his exposure meter in the Vijaya-Vauhini Studios, famous for its finesse in the mythological/fantasy genre (Mayabazar, 1957) Photo 28

Actresses Vanisri, Padmini and Nargis with Sivaji Ganesan at the muhurat shot of Punniya Bhoomi (1978) which was a remake of Mehboob Khan’s iconic Mother India (1957)

Photo 29

Savithri as Goddess Saraswathi in Saraswathi Sabatham (1966), produced and directed by A.P. Nagarajan, the master of the mythological genre Photo 30

Photo 31 Gemini Ganesan and Savithri (second from right) announcing their marriage, seen here with Rajamani Ammal (Sivaji’s Mother) and Sivaji Ganesan

Photo 32

The familiar AVM Studio interior: Uyarndha Manithan (1968), starring Sowcar Janaki, Sivaji Ganesan, and Sivakumar

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taa L ( trh o N e h t d n a ) n sae n a G aji vi S ( h t u o S e th m o rf s d n e ge :L ged ir b e h t sa a m e in C / es k a m e R 6 3 o t o h P

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T.R. Sundaram, and the famous arch of Modern Theatres, in a poster announcing the release function (on February 8, 2004) of his biography (written by Ra. Venkataswami) Photo 37

Photo 38

Photo 39

The dark and violent Kokki Kumar (Dhanush) and his gang in Pudhupettai (2006)

The lost and angst-ridden mystic: Rudran (Arya) as the Aghori in Naan Kadavul (2009)

Photo 40

Photo 41

Rajinikanth and Aishwarya Rai in Enthiran (2010)

The amnesiac Tamils: Naduvula Konjam Pakkatha Kaanom (2012)

Chapter 6 Dravidian Utopia and Dystopia: Canonical and Contemporary Tamil Cinema

R

evisiting the history of the Madras studios and the narratives of their landmark films, produced during the decades of the 1940s and the 1950s, attain utmost significance at this point of time in the history of the Tamil cinema and the Tamil people. The primary reason is the official announcement of the Sri Lankan Government on May 17, 2009, of the end of the more than three-decade-long Sri Lankan–Tamil conflict that came to an end with the genocide of the Tamils. The panel of experts of the UN have implicated both the Tigers (Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam [LTTE]) and the Sri Lankan State in the “crimes against humanity,”1 particularly during the last months (April/May 2009), when 330,000 helpless civilians were caught between the ultras who wanted to use many of them as shields and the Sri Lankan army that kept shelling the area they were trapped in (UN Report, 2011). The panel, thus, … found credible allegations that comprise five core categories of potential serious violations committed by the Government of Sri Lanka: (i) killing of civilians through widespread shelling; (ii) shelling of hospitals and humanitarian objects; (iii) denial of humanitarian assistance; 257

Madras Studios (iv) human rights violations suffered by victims and survivors of the conflict, including both IDPs and suspected LTTE cadre; and (v) human rights violations outside the conflict zone, including against the media and other critics of the Government. The Panel’s determination of credible allegations against the LTTE associated with the final stages of the war reveal six core categories of potential serious violations: (i) using civilians as a human buffer; (ii) killing civilians attempting to flee LTTE control; (iii) using military equipment in the proximity of civilians; (iv) forced recruitment of children; (v) forced labour; and (vi) killing of civilians through suicide attacks. (UN Report, 2011)

The above announcement by a neutral body like the UN marks the end of a distinct phase in the struggle of the Tamils in Sri Lanka for equal rights and justice as the citizens of that country. Though the LTTE had its srcins in the early 1980s, scholars date back the origins of the conflict to the period immediately after Sri Lanka’s independence in 1948, that is, to the 1950s (see Eswaran Pillai, 2014). In the context of LTTE’s interest in mainstream cinema, 2 particularly in Tamil films and Hollywood, the subnationalist rhetoric of the Madras studio films and its Dravidian utopia attain significance as one of the cultural propellers of the strident voices against the forces of the Sri Lankan State and its agenda of Sinhalese nationalism. Professor Karthilkesu Sivathamby of Jaffna University was the first to come out with a seminal book on the rhetoric of Dravidian politics through mainstream Tamil films, The Tamil Film as a Medium of Political Communication (1981), though Robert Hardgrave’s article on “DMK and the Politics of Tamil Nationalism” (1963–1964) prefigures such a scholarly effort. Later M.S.S. Pandian’s critique of MGR’s star charisma and deconstruction of Tamil cinema as the opium of the masses, in his seminal Image Trap: M.G. in Filmof and (see Pandian, 1992), points Ramachandran to the appropriation film Politics for propaganda, popularity, and politics as well as the anxiety surrounding cinema’s centrality to the sociopolitics of Tamil Nadu. Nonetheless, scholars like Chakravarthy and Pandian have underscored the undeniable contribution of the Dravidian movement to Tamil Nadu politics in its 258

Dravidian Utopia and Dystopia

historical challenging of the hegemony of Brahminism, in their critique of Mani Ratnam’s Iruvar and its attempt at obscuring it (see Chakravarthy anddemise Pandian, 1997, the pp. preeminent 2997–2999).scholars in the susAfter MGR’s in 1987, tained study of the Dravidian movement and its history, V. Geetha and S.V. Rajadurai (see for the history of the Dravidian movement: Geetha and Rajadurai, 1998), had pronounced the end of the era of the Dravidian politics as early as in 1991 when DMK lost badly in the parliamentary elections (Geetha and Rajadurai, 1991, pp. 1591–1592). Nonetheless, the Dravidian Progressive Front’s complete rout in the state assembly elections in April 2011, two years after the massacre of the Sri Lankan Tamils at Mullivaikkal, was accepted by Tamilians all over the world as a foregone conclusion: the emptiness of the rhetoric of Tamil nationalism of the Dravidian Progressive Front became too obvious when it sat quietly in coalition with the Congress party, sharing power at the center, apart from ruling over the state when thousands of Tamil civilians died under the most tragic of circumstances in recent history. As Karunanidhi, who wrote the dialogues for Parasakthi, was in power as the chief minister during that darkest period in the history of the Tamils, it would be instructive for us to revisit the times of the Dravidian ideologues and the films that enabled them to hone their skills in rhetoric surrounding Tamil nationalism and utopia. Although getting completely routed and drawing a blank in elections is not unusual in politics, DMK’s dismal performances in the parliamentary elections in 1989 and 1991, as seen above, raised an alarm regarding its decline as a political power. Nonetheless, the death of a charismatic leader like MGR in 1987, and the unexpected assassination of the ex-prime minister Rajiv Gandhi in 1991 could be argued to have played a role in the dismal performance of the DMK. The results of the recent April 2014 parliamentary elections, however, do not offer any such excuse: After two decades, again the second-largest party in Tamil Nadu assembly, the DMK, has not been able to win a seat. The AIADMK’s winning of 37 out of the 39 seats when the general tendency of the people is not to vote for those already in power informs us of the disillusionment of the people of 259

Madras Studios

Tamil Nadu with the politics of the DMK. Though the defeat was predicted by the media, the huge margins of the defeat of the DMK in many expected: 11 of thethe 37AIADMK constituencies theconstituencies margins were were morenot than 200,000 In votes, and had “polled more than 40 percent of the registered votes in 33 of the 37 constituencies it won” (see Yamunan, 2014). Such a success of the AIADMK, particularly when it contested the elections alone without any alliance, makes it unprecedented, and recalls the equally significant success of Parasakthi when it ran for at least 50 days in all the 62 centers where it was released on the Deepavali day in 1952. Despite being a dark mainstream film on subnationalism, it had a strong subtext of Dravidian utopia, particularly through its songs, as we have seen.3 Therefore, its unparalleled success across Tamil Nadu certainly reflected the ethos of the Tamil people and their apprehensions regarding the Northern hegemony immediately after independence. Its huge success also vindicated the DMK ideologues’ aspirations regarding bringing in a change through electoral politics. If Parasakthi’s unenviable position marks it as singular in being the cultural artifact to read the specificity of the Tamil people as far as their aspirations regarding a utopic and egalitarian Dravidian land/culture is concerned, DMK’s unparalleled loss in the recent elections reflects the dystopia surrounding the failed promises of the Dravidian ideologues. More important, the election results vindicate Periyar’s reluctance in participating in electoral politics as he could foresee how such a move, with its inextricable ties to selfishness and greed, would dilute his philosophy of rationalism, egalitarianism, and gender equality. Though DMK’s achievements as far as affirmative action is concerned are commendable, its compromising coalitional politics has fully eroded the Dravidian utopia on which the party was founded in 1949: the Tamil genocide in the neighboring Sri Lanka in May 2009 marking the complete erosion of the Dravidian ideals with its underpinnings of linguistic and cultural unity. If Parasakthi offered a window, through cinema/box office, for the understanding of the political aspirations of the Tamil people after independence, I believe the state assembly elections in 2011 and, in particular, the parliamentary elections in 2014, offer through the electoral results a 260


(macro) lens for understanding the unusual and otherwise inexplicable trend in recent Tamil cinema. A very careful reading of recent Tamil films, from is the of this century, in order here. But evenparticularly more important theturn understanding of theistrajectory of Tamil cinema as it reflected the gradual inversion of the Dravidian utopia into dystopia.

Dravidian Ideologues and Tamil Cinema Apart from Parasakthi, Nallathambi (1949) and Velaikkari (1949) are generally referred to as the films that distinctly marked the intervention of Dravidian ideologues into Tamil cinema. C.N. Annadurai, the founder of the Dravidian Progressive Federation, who believed in the potential of cinema for the advocacy of Dravidian ideology, particularly in its critique of caste and superstitious beliefs and its aspirations for an egalitarian society where there would be equality and justice for women and the downtrodden, and its imperatives of rationalism and self-respect, was involved as a writer in both of these films. Nallathambi, though very remotely inspired by Mr. Deed Goes to Town (dir. Frank Capra, 1936) marks itself as specific to Tamil culture in its episodic format of addressing “social and cultural (issues) in the form of songs, skits, and discourses doing their campaigns against the evils of drinking, casteism, feudalism, irrationality etc.” (see Ravindran, 2009). Nallathambi prefigures writer Annadurai’s interest in text as only a pretext for attractions that helped him open up a space for advocacy, rhetoric, and politics. Cinema of attractions, according to Tom Gunning, is “a cinema that displays its visibility, willing to rupture a self-enclosed fictional world for a chance to solicit the attention of the spectator” (Gunning, 1986, p. 57). Though for his narratives Annadurai was interested as a cinephile to loosely draw from Hollywood, as exemplified by the films where he was the writer like Nallathambi (loosely adapted from Mr. Deed Goes to Town), and Rangoon Radha (dir. A. Kasilingam, 1956), which was inspired by Gaslight (dir. George Cukor, 1944), he was less interested in the fictional world of his characters and more focused on harnessing their emotional appeal for his discourse on rationalism and 261

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Dravidian ideology. Films like AVM’s Ore Iravu (One Night) (dir. P. Neelakantan; story: C.N. Annadurai, 1951) where the focus was on the narrative were less popular than Nallathambiwas or Rangoon Radha. Though the critically successful Nallathambi not a commercial success when released, it has since attained a cult status mainly because of its attractions—skits and songs. In one of the key attractions in Nallathambi, a song written by another iconic Dravidian ideologue Udumalai Narayana Kavi, “Vigyanatha Valarkka Porendi/I am going to develop science,” expresses the desire of the protagonist Nallathambi for using science/ atomic power for the betterment of the lives of people, like improving their longevity, rather than their destruction. In the context of the Second World War, such responses to the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombing, resonated with the audience and underscored the potential in songs to address transnational issues. Simultaneously, the specificity of the burning (local) issue of caste was addressed through the parody, Kindan Kathakalatchepam (Kindan discourse), which appropriated the journey of the Dalit Nandan to Chidambaram for enlightenment as a metaphor for Ambedkar’s quest for education for his objectives of interrogating and annihilating the evil of the caste system.4 Velaikkari, the next film written by Annadurai, through its commercial and critical success, prefigured the interest of the Tamil audiences in the Dravidian movement’s ideology of rationalism and antipriesthood, as exemplified by Paraskathi, and its focus on the underprivileged as suggested by the title: Velaikkari (Maid). However, class also becomes a major concern here along with caste: The uniqueness of Annadurai’s screenplay lies in his juxtaposition of caste with class. In fact, Velaikkari’s fierce attack on the decadent feudal system of the landlords marks it as different from the canonical Hindi films of the 1950s like Mother India (1957) or Naya Daur (1957) where the landlord, epitomized by the moneylender or the modern mill owner, is posited as the binary opposite of the protagonist who has to be vanquished/defeated by the end of the film. In Velaikkari, however, the landlord after the final battle and defeat is coopted since he has been structured as part of an extended family, 262


thus displacing class and drawing attention to rationalism and caste (antipriesthood) as the main focus of the film. Nonetheless, by positing thelike protagonists belonging but elitist castes Mudaliyarsasand Vellalas to (ornon-Brahmin at times Chettiyars), theupper other castes remained obscured/erased, particularly the Dalits, though a decadent Brahmin priest was a sine qua non in most of the films of this period. Although the evil of black marketing (Naam Iruvar), womanizing (Parasakthi), and feudalism (Velaikkari) among the people belonging to the upper caste was exposed, the happy ending with the (surviving) protagonists reinforced the status quo and helped entrench the caste hierarchy.

Studios, Star, and the Dravidian Movement Sivaji Ganesan, who was catapulted to stardom by the huge success of his debut film, AVM’s Parasakthi, became the most sought after star for films produced by studios and/or written by the Dravidian ideologues particularly during the 1950s. Tracing some of the key films of Sivaji Ganesan enables us to understand the trajectory of the DMK itself, as his films offer us an insight on the way Parasakthi’s phenomenal success paved the way for studios as well as screen/ dialogue writers to capitalize on the interest of the audience in the rhetoric of the Dravidian ideology–driven apprehensions surrounding the marginalization and isolation of the South/Tamils. Toward this end, I would like to focus briefly on some of the key films of Sivaji Ganesan after Parasakthi in which the major Madras studios or their founder (L.V. Prasad) were involved—Thirumbippaar (Modern Theatres, 1953), Andha Naal (AVM, 1954), and Manohara (dir. L.V. Prasad, 1954)—to study the way his films reflected the ethos of the Tamils and the desire of the studios to gain from his star capital and the aspirations of the Dravidian writers to popularize their ideas and entrench their base among the masses. Modern Theatres’ Thirumbippaar (Look Back), though not as successful at the box office as Parasakthi when it was released, has attained a cult status since then: Sundaram as the director collaborated with Karunanidhi as the story-dialogue writer on the film; 263

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Parasakthi’s romantic couple Sivaji Ganesan and Pandari Bai played siblings in this film. However, unlike in Parasakthi where Sivaji’s character becomes increasingly andplays darker until the end, in Thirumbippaar , Sivaji (asmelancholic Paranthaman) an antihero. In contrast to his sister, he is totally evil in the film where he dabbles with journalism, trade union, and politics without ethics. His sadism-driven womanizing tendencies lead him to solicit his own sister when he mistakes her at night for the (helpless) maiden whom his sister had given shelter to. It is at this dramatic moment, when his sister offers herself and angrily challenges him to go ahead with his lustful ways and satisfy himself and calls him an incorrigible animal that he relents. AVM’s Parasakthi’s success encouraged its competitor Modern Theatres to capitalize on the star persona of Sivaji Ganesan as the “dark” hero by rendering him as an antihero beyond redemption until the climax. Thirumbippaar, as was the trend with Modern Theatres’ productions, draws from multiple sources for its narrative: ranging from the myth of the mystical Tamil poet Arunagirinathar, an ardent devotee of the Tamil God Murugan in whose praise he wrote the famous musical poems anthologized as Thiruppugazh, who transforms from an incorrigible womanizer to a saint due to his sister’s dramatic intervention, to that of Ahalya/ Agalikai whom Indiran, the lord of the Devas and Swargaloka/ heaven, lusts after and deceitfully takes advantage of by disguising himself as her husband (sage Gauthama), when he was away. But of greater significance is the Dravidian ideologue Karunanidhi’s investment in a script that uses the taboo of incest to bring an insensitive brother to his senses: Sivaji Ganesan (as the antihero Paranthaman) not only uses costumes (Kurta and Pyjama) and dark glasses like Jawaharlal Nehru, the prime minister of India at that time, but also keeps uttering the word “nonsense” in the film, recalling/mocking Nehru’s dismissal of the claims of the DMK for an autonomous Dravida Nadu/Dravidian nation. Following Thirumbippaar, AVM Studios produced Andha Naal (1954), regarded as a landmark in the history of Tamil cinema for many reasons, not least because it did not have any songs. It also set the benchmark in Tamil cinema for its noir-style lighting in some of 264


its dramatic sequences by (Parasakthi’s) cinematographer Maruthi Rao. (See Photo 23 in the photo group section.) Though it has nothing much to classic do with Akira Kurosawa’s iconic Rashomon (1950) except for its whodunit plot where the murder is explored in various angles, Andha Naal is claimed to be inspired by Rashomon because of Meiyappan’s visit to Japan; see Narayan, 2002, p. 430. However, unlike in Rashomon, Andha Naal ends with the mystery being solved, and the murderer is revealed to be the wife of the (anti)hero. A title card in the beginning of Andha Naal reveals that Madras was bombed during the Second World War by the Japanese on the night of October 11, 1943. The next morning we see Rajan (Sivaji Gnesan), who is in acute pain, dying in front of the camera from a gunshot from the point of view of the killer who is not revealed. The detective Sivanandam (Javert Seetharaman), in keeping with the traditions of the film noir, interrogates a series of suspects closely related to Rajan: his wife Usha (Pandhari Bai), brother Pattabhi (T.K. Balachndran), sister-in-law Hema (Menaka), and his mistress Ambujam (Suryakala). Through a series of cyclical inquiries and cross-examinations, the narrative reverts Sivanandam’s climactic focus on Usha who breaks down as she confesses her crime of having shot her husband Rajan to death. Like in Parasakthi, Pandari Bai is ideologically driven, but in Andha Naal it is the idea of the Indian nation that she pledges her allegiances to. Her patience and persistence with the wayward and the edgy Rajan bears no fruit, as he increasingly becomes secretive and darker through the film as a traitor and an antinational spy who is a secret agent of the Japanese conversing in an unfamiliar language. Rajan also is portrayed as a terrorist and an anarchist who is voluntarily parting with sensitive information regarding the cartography and high-security areas of Madras Province, particularly that of Madras city. His nihilistic tendencies are undermined by his selfishness and avarice for money and opportunistic haste in escaping to Japan for a better life. Andha Naal, in its portrayal of the antihero or the dark protagonist, is unparalleled in the history of Tamil cinema because on the one hand it problematizes the antihero by portraying him as working against the nation when it was under the British rule, 265

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while on the other any easy identification with his motivations are rendered impossible by portraying him as being valueless and repulsive byIfrevealing his extramarital affairisand his with espionage selfish gains. Rajan’s antinational rhetoric in line that offor the subnationalism-driven agenda of the Dravidian ideologues, his indifference and abetment in the bombing/destruction of Madras city is in stark contrast to their claim regarding secession and autonomy for Dravida Nadu. The Director S. Balachandar and Screenwriter Javert Seetharaman were not Dravidian ideologues, but collaborated with AVM Studios and producer Meiyappan’s interest in capitalizing on Sivaji Ganesan’s star text, and his persona as a dark hero, defined by films like Parasakthi and Thirumbippaar. Even among the films written by the Dravidian ideologues, Andha Naal remains unmatched in its brooding and menacing tone because of the noir inspired lowkey lighting during key scenes, particularly those involving Sivaji Ganesan and Pandari Bai, like the one prior to his murder when she desperately tries to bring him to his senses after she had shockingly discovered the equipment installed by him for passing on the radio signals and secretively conversing with the Japanese in a room carefully kept under his watch. Likewise, the silhouetted scene between Sivaji Ganesan and Suryakala who plays his mistress also illustrates why the chiaroscuro lighting of the cinematographer Maruthi Rao in Andha Naal is considered a milestone in Tamil cinema. The cinematography plays a central role in the unveiling of Rajan as an increasingly dark and an egocentric character who is caught in a web of espionage which he would not disengage from even at the cost of his family, as he is willing to leave/kill his wife and escape. Guntoosi, in its May 1954 issue, calls Andha Naal as AVM’s “cinema of renaissance” in its review: “Would there be a film without songs and dance? Will no one produce a film within 12,000 feet? Would there be a social film which has a narrative beyond the (traditional) love story? For fans that were yearning for a day like that, Andha Naal/ That Day has come. Such a cinema of renaissance is Andha Naal.” The review concludes with the appreciation of Maruthi Rao’s cinematography and producer Meiyappan’s courageous effort. It asks the 266


fans to support such a film if they really want Tamil cinema to progress (see Guntoosi, 1954, p. 66). Kumudam too praises Meiyappan’s courage in trusting the potential “young talents S. Balachandar and Javert Seetharaman who areofredefining Tamillike cinema.” If AVM had “advertised the film as a thriller, then the warning that there are no songs or dances in the film would not have been so terrifying.” Though the hero dies right at the start, the film is engrossing as the narrative tries to uncover the murderer like unveiling the petals of a flower. However, the repeated shots of Sivaji Ganesan getting shot and falling on the ground are tiresome to watch. Eventually, Kumudam sums up its verdict as “Success of art; failure of narrative” (see Kumudam, 1954, p. 19). The iconoclastic celebrity of Tamil cinema, director S. Balachandar, who would indulge in many different genres in his later films, and the screenwriter of Andha Naal, Javert Seetharaman, like the Dravidian ideologue and screenwriter Anna Durai, were inspired by the classical Hollywood cinema and drew from it for their narratives and styles. Therefore, their positing of Japan as the evil Other in a narrative set during the Second World War is understandable. Nonetheless, using the mode of film noir to undergird a protagonist who is not a gangster but an incorrigible and subversive spy is compelling. But his unrestrained rhetoric against the nation, though presented from his identity as a colonized subject, because of his self-centeredness prefigures the hypocrisy of rhetoric when it is not backed by (anticolonial) ideology but selfish aggrandizement and the unavoidable abyss such hollowness can lead to. If ultranationalism is intertwined with the discourse of fascism, rhetoric without substance can lead, as in the case of Rajan, to losing one’s balance and self-destruction. From Parasakthi to Thirumbippaar, the Dravidian rhetoric changed gear from the claim of equal rights and the wishful thinking of an autonomous Dravidian nation to the mimicking/mocking of the North and responding to the perceived indifference and insult, by replacing a character who is tricked of his possessions and becomes a pauper (Gunasekaran) by an increasingly darker character (Paranthaman) who is himself a cheat and a charlatan but, 267

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nonetheless, remains redeemable by his sister during the climax; from Thirumbippaar to Andha Naal, however, he becomes not only selfish tohis theown core butanalso irredeemable and even as a in result is finally killed by wife, instance rarely found contemporary Tamil cinema that is deeply entrenched in controlling the way women behave and ultimately imposing its patriarchal order on them. By setting up its narrative during the Second World War, Andha Naal follows the conservative route of the Madras studios in toeing the official (British) line of the Japanese being the evil, particularly in its framing of the narrative through the initial title card that forebodingly reveals the Japanese bombing of the city of Madras on the night of October 11, 1943 and leading us to the following morning when Rajan is shot to death. Nonetheless, by disavowing the trend during the time of its production in 1954 of lending support to the subnationalist yearnings and the agenda of Tamil nationalism of the DMK, Andha Naal points to AVM Studios and its founder Meiyappan’s ambivalence about the commercial potential of the antinational rhetoric of the Dravidian ideologues: On the one hand Rajan’s provocative dialogues, which would cater to the sentiments of the audience mobilized by the Dravidian ideologues, are used to critique the rampant corruption in young India wherein innovators like him are not encouraged, while on the other, unlike in Parasakthi or Thirumbippaar, he is killed by his own wife to contain the subversive element within and bring order to the family/nation. Nonetheless, like the femme fatale in film noir, it is Rajan’s role as a spider, which has cast a web of espionage around it to finally succumb to its own designs, makes the most impact because of his self-centeredness and unrestrained pursuit of the unethical until the end. Thus, Rajan’s dark persona could be argued to be the apotheosis of the subversiveness at the heart of the characters like Gunasekaran (Parasakthi) and Paranthaman (Thirumbippaar) who could not fully realize their potential for disruption due to the agenda of the narratives to contain and redeem them. Andha Naal was released on April 13, 1954, and the previous month (March 3, 1954) had seen Sivaji Ganesan essaying the titular role of Manohara, directed by L.V. Prasad, and the dialogue written 268


by Karunanidhi. Manohara, inspired by Shakespeare’s Hamlet, was based on the story written by the popular playwright Pammal Sambandha Mudaliar, had played protagonist Manoharan’s role, when he adapted who his story for his the preeminent drama company Suguna Vilasa Sabha. However, a film version adapted from his popular play in 1936 was a failure. Eighteen years later when it was adapted again by M. Somasundaram,5 one of Tamil cinema’s prolific producers, the seductive T.R. Rajakumari, who had become very popular after Gemini’s Chandralekha, was cast as the sensuous, manipulative, and ambitious Vasanthasena, the mistress of the king. What is of significance for our purposes is the genre of the historical fiction, withShakespeare’s melodrama and (the femme fatale of) film noirwhich here,intersects for retooling canonical Hamlet for the Tamil audience. However, the film has a happy ending where, unlike in Hamlet, the King Purushottaman (Sadasiva Rao) as well as his son Manoharan (Sivaji Ganesan) are alive, and the family is united after dispensing with the femme fatale Vasanthasena who is killed during the climax by an invisible man—her husband Kesarivarman (M.K. Mustafa) who had been seeking revenge for her deceitful and immoral ways. L.V. Prasad the director and Karunanidhi as the screenwriter borrowed from as diverse sources, including Sambandha Mudaliar’s adaptation of Hamlet, and Hollywood classics like The Invisible Man (dir. James Whale, 1933), and Samson and Delilah (dir. Cecil B. DeMille, 1949). The climactic scene in Manohara has become one of the most popular and recounted scenes in the history of Tamil cinema when the queen Padmavati (P. Kannamba) asks her son Manoharan, who is unjustly chained to a huge pillar on the order of Vasanthasena before being executed, to break her own restraining orders and in response Manoharan pulls down the huge pillar and frees himself to settle scores with the scheming Vasanthasena and her paramour Ukrasenan (S.A. Natarajan). Nonetheless, the iconic T.R. Rajakumari and her intriguing machinations as the femme fatale Vasanthasena kept the audience on their toes, as she stood up to the figureheads of an entire kingdom to almost achieve her desire 269

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of killing Manoharan along with his infant son and placing instead her naïve son Vasanthan (T.V. Radhakrishnan) on the throne. Vasanthasena, as to indicated by her name, is from the North and is central the binary plotSanskritized of the North usurping what is rightfully due to the South and to the apprehensions surrounding its immoral/illegal ways as it plays throughout the narrative in Manohara. Nevertheless, if Andha Naal exposes its schizoid impulse in playing with the (British) nation during the colonial rule by portraying the Japanese as evil and against the idea of the plenitude of an autonomous Dravidian nation by the sadistic exultation of Rajan on the successful bombing of Madras city, Manohara too is split in its apprehensions and attraction toward theT.R. femme fatale from the North—the very casting of the sensuous Rajakumari as the femme fatale epitomizes this schizoid impulse of love/hate or attraction/repulsion between the South and the North. Such a problematic relationship presaged the empty rhetoric of the DMK along with its compromises to remain in power and not only validated Periyar’s disinterest in concessional politics but also the complete dilution of the rhetoric and the ideological underpinnings of the DMK ideologues, particularly after the untimely passing away of its founder C.N. in 1969, when Karunanidhi took over as the leader of theAnnadurai DMK. But even prior to 1969, Uyarndha Manithan, An Honorable Man, 1968 foreboded the future of the compromising and consensual politics of the DMK. Uyarndha Manithan, Sivaji Ganesan’s 175th film, brought together the actor with the director duo, Krishnan and Panju, and the producer, AVM Studios, who were instrumental in launching his career 16 years before with Parasakthi. By 1968, Sivaji Ganesan had a prolific career, as he had been acting in almost 6

11 films a year on an average since his debut; Karunanidhi was a minister in the DMK government, with Anna Durai as the chief minister, which came to power the year before in 1967. The script of Uyarndha Manithan was written by the other frequent collaborator of the AVM Studios, Javert Seetharaman, who had written the screenplay and dialogues for Andha Naal. 270


Uyarndha Manithan’s narrative revolves around the life of Raju who falls in love with an accountant’s daughter Parvathi (Vanisri) but is forced to helplessly watchRaju’s a pregnant Parvathi along her father engulfed in flame when status-conscious and with dreadful father sets their house on fire. The heartbroken Raju succumbs to his father’s desire when he emotionally blackmails him with suicide and marries Vimala (Sowcar Janaki), the rich daughter of a barrister. Later, after 19 years an adolescent by the name of Satyamurthi (Sivakumar) is employed by Raju on the recommendation of his friend Gopal. As Satyamurthi gets closer to Raju, he invokes the envy of the other employees and as a result is deviously framed as the culprit when necklace is lost. As an angry thrashes Satyamurthi, hisVimala’s righteous and bold girlfriend GauriRaju who is the daughter of Raju’s longtime driver/friend Manickam counters Raju and questions his own hypocrisy in trying to use Satyamurthi as a scapegoat to hide a sweater (woven by Parvathi with the initials “Pa”) from his wife Vimala, and argues for Satyamurthi’s honesty through a letter he wrote to his mother on her photograph. On coming to know that Satyamurthi is his son through Parvathi whom he believed to be dead, Raju breaks down and reveals his past to Vimala. The melodramatic of of thesaving familySatyamurthi coming together when Raju is left withclimax the task from is thedelayed fire that has engulfed his factory to fulfill the ritual of climactic action in a family melodrama. Uyarndha Manithan thus portrays its protagonist Raju as a weak and submissive character who is initially controlled by his conservative and heartless father, the estate owner and industrialist Sankaralingam, and later the whims and fancies of his elitist wife Vimala. (See Photo 32 in the photo group section.) When his close friend doctor Gopal criticizes his spineless behavior in the context of his affair with Parvathi, Raju responds by saying that he is a coward but not a self-centered man. Uyarndha Manithan thus symbolizes the burning away of the ideals of egalitarianism of the DMK through its key sequences when Raju’s father sets Parvathi’s house on fire and later when her son Satyamurthi (The idol of truth) walks into 271

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the factory that is ablaze in a trance when he is wrongly accused of lying and beaten up without a chance to defend himself. Although Uyarndha wassince not written by a Dravidian ideologue, it is profoundlyManithan illuminating Gunasekaran’s pessimism after India’s independence is matched by Raju’s cowardice and guilt and his compromises for a comfortable life, in the period following DMK’s ascension to power in 1967. Javert Seetharaman, who could give us a glimpse of the heart of darkness at the center of the empty rhetoric and subversiveness, which is not backed by ideology, of Rajan in Andha Naal, could also prefigure the moral corruption at the heart of the DMK from 1971 onward when it would accommodate and enter into alliance with its arch enemy, the Congress, to retain its power in the state. The father Sankaralingam’s coercion and Raju’s meek acceptance of his predicament forebodes the coalitionary politics of the DMK with the national parties like the Congress and the BJP (Bharatiya Janata Party) in the future. The title of Uyarndha Manithan (An Honorable Man) epitomizes the contradiction within the character of Raju, and in the trajectory of the rebel in Parasakthi, as he finally ends up a meek/reactionary family man who had forsaken his own offspring/lineage at a critical juncture.

Dystopia and Tamil Films of the Last Decade From the turn of the new millennium, Tamil cinema has become a marker of extreme violence and dystopia, mainly through the commercial and critical success of the films made by young filmmakers. These young directors have turned the popular perception of Tamil cinema, as family melodramas that generally ended on a happy note, on its head by boldly exploring themes that are bleak and depressing, marked by violent and tragic denouements in the story line. The preeminent auteur of contemporary Hindi cinema, Anurag Kashyap, has dedicated his ambitious film Gangs of Wasseypur (Parts I and II, 2012) to the Tamil film directors from Madurai: Kashyap thanks “the Madurai Triumvirate Bala, Ameer Sultan, and M. Sashi Kumar for inspiring [him] to go back to [his] roots.” 7 That a director from the North looks toward the South to be in touch with his roots 272


underscores the key difference, particularly during the last decade, between the Hindi and Tamil cinemas. The most significant difference the absence/erasure of villages or village life in most of the Hindiisfilms during the last decade. Dilwale Dulhaniyan Le Jayenge (dir. Aditya Chopra, 1995) inaugurated an era that would make Hindi popular cinema seek not merely a pan-Indian but also a global audience, mainly those in the Middle East, Europe, and the USA, for its box-office returns, leading generally to spectacular attractions shot on foreign locales, and its occasional revisiting of the Indian village as a pristine, pastoral land. Besides, the last decade, with the advent of multiplexes and the increasingly digital technology–driven production, distribution, and exhibition, has seen the primary targeting of the multiplex audiences: If films with big stars like Shah Rukh Khan, Amir Khan, Salman Khan, and Hrithik Roshan are released in single-screen cinema halls as well as multiplexes to get the returns quickly, they also focus on targeting a global audience because of the huge profits due to exchange rates and the expanding market for “Bollywood” in the West. Most of the other high-budget films at the next level, and the medium-budget ones, try to reap their profit from the urban, cosmopolitan, English-speaking middle class who have the capacity and are willing to pay the very high ticket prices at the multiplexes. In this backdrop, the resurgence of the Bhojpuri cinema during the last decade could mainly be attributed to the relative lack or void at the center of Hindi cinema to cater to one of its traditional base: mostly suburban and rural audiences from the Hindi-speaking belt in the whole of North India, and in particular, Uttar Pradesh and Bihar. In this context, contemporary Hindi cinema’s most acclaimed director looking toward Madurai, to the south of Chennai, to go back to his rural roots in the North is revealing of the dichotomy between the cinemas of the North and the South. A closer look at contemporary Tamil cinema is in order here. The significant films of Bala, who is well known in the North since he received the national award as the best director for the film Naan Kadavul (2009), offer us a possibility to trace the recent trend in Tamil cinema as he is Tamil cinema’s most discussed auteur. Bala 273

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could be labeled the high priest of darkness in contemporary Tamil cinema since his significant films from his debut as a director in Sethu (1999) his films most that recent Paradesi (2013), have increasingly darker.to Two would be productive forbecome our discussion here are Pithamagan (2003) and Naan Kadavul. Pithamagan’s narrative revolves around the lives of two marginal characters, one a graveyard guard/caretaker, Chithan (Vikram), and the other, a small-time conman Sakthi (Surya). Chitan struggles because of his difficulties in communicating with people in a casteist society who look down upon him as he works in the graveyard, while Sakthi, who earns a living by tricking gullible people of their money, befriends Chithan and cares for him. The narrative of Pithamagan follows the formulaic Tamil film ritual of the love stories of the two protagonists (Chithan’s weakness for Gomathy [Sangeetha], the ganja-seller, and Sakthi’s interest in Manju [Laila], the polytechnic student) in a melodramatic mode, but marks itself as different in having a gravedigger for its protagonist and detailing his life of insult and isolation in a gritty and darker style within the conventions of the Tamil mainstream cinema. For instance, the violence unleashed by Chithan in a small restaurant in the beginning where he is treated as an untouchable, and when he seeks a bloody revenge during the climax on the ganja/opium field owner for having killed his friend Sakthi. While such a violence surrounding Sakthi’s death and Chithan’s walking away into an ambiguous and dark future in the end is unparalleled in Tamil cinema in showcasing the predicament of a desolate hero, what is even more significant is the collage/remix of small segments of old and popular Tamil film songs at a key moment in the film. As Sakthi keeps increasing his stakes as a conman, he serendipitously encounters a popular Tamil film actress Simran, who plays herself in the film, and kidnaps her in the most amicable of situations when she willingly falls into his net without much resistance. Then Simran is drawn into Sakthi’s scheme of impressing/entertaining a very large audience who have instantly assembled in the vicinity and who are eager to converse with and see their favorite star dance. Through the popular record-dance format wherein Simran dances 274


with Sakthi and other enthusiasts to select lines from various Tamil film songs, Pithamagan engages the audience with Simran’s casual dancing, in her jeansofand shirt, the highly melodramatic lyrics across various genres Tamil filmtosongs, ranging from the romantic Ponmagal Vanthaal (Sorgam, 1970) to the mythological Thaga Thaga Thaga Thaga Ena Aadava (Karaikkal Ammaiyaar, 1973). The romantic seeking of a lover who anticipates the arrival of his love, and the spiritual seeking of moksha (the freedom from the cycle of birth and death), through formulaic songs and dances in Tamil cinema is ridiculed and mocked at: While Simran keeps responding to the abrupt changes in the soundtrack through her spontaneous sound bites and freeform dancing, Sakthi tries to mimic and mock the iconic heroes of the past, particularly Sivaji Ganesan, from the highly romantic song Ponmagal Vanthaal (Sorgam, 1970) to the selfindulgent Oru Kinnathai Enthugiren (Vasantha Maligai, 1972). The compilation/remix uses the concluding segment from the song Oru Kinnathai Enthugiren, which celebrates the hedonism of its hero: Katazhagodu Karpanai Rajiyam Katti Mudithathadaa, Athil Kattil Amaithathada/Verum Sattangal Dharmangal Aethum Illai, Inba Chakaram Sutruthada, hahahaha … Athil Naan Chakkaravarthiyada … Aehai! (A gorgeously designed kingdom has been visualized/with the pleasurable bed; there are no laws or righteousness/the wheel of indulgence spins/I am its driving force). During most of the above lines the camera follows Sakthi as he runs through the squatting audience to the snake pit near the compound wall, except for the concluding line when from a reverse angle the camera cranes downs on him when he laughs dramatically and sings the last line, hahahaha … Athil Naan Chakkaravarthiyada … Aehai! As the camera vertically moves down, the audience is clapping heavily, and a cut leads us to the close shot of Chithan who too applauds boisterously. This is a significant moment where on the one hand it is like a homage to one of India’s greatest method actors of the last century, Sivaji Ganesan, while on the other the mise-en-scene of the entire song is set to mock and ridicule Tamil cinema’s past/ icons. The song is framed in the beginning by establishing Simran as a popular Tamil actress from North India by carefully translating in 275

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Hindi, through a Hindi-speaking fan, the queries and responses of the audience when they are surprised by the suddenness of her arrival and withthat hershe to understands dance for them, though song we comeplead to know and can speakduring Tamil the quite a bit. By mimicking the mechanism, by which songs are recorded and played back during their picturization for the actors to synchronize their lips and emote, through the record-dance, wherein Simran and Sakthi dance to remixed songs played through the vinyl record, on the one hand Pithamagan reflexively draws attention to the mechanical artifice/nonspontaneous theatricality of the Tamil cinema of the past, and on the other hand, retools the convention of the playback for its own song/dance number aimed at entertaining a modern Tamil audience through parody. Nonetheless, Sakthi/actor Surya’s response after he asserts himself as Chakkaravarthy, which literally means an emperor, is insightful here: He seems almost apologizing for his mockery of the method acting of Sivaji Ganesan momentarily before the loud applause of the audience draws his attention back. By focusing on the lines of two of Sivaji Ganesan’s songs (sung by the legendary T.M. Soundararajan), Pithamagan while acknowledging its debt to the melodramatic legacy of an earlier Tamil cinema through its reference to an actor often praised/criticized for his theatricality, also draws attention to his rhetoric of being an emperor in an imaginary kingdom where there is no law or righteousness. It also punctuates through the camera craning down on Sakthi, the awe inspired by Sivaji Ganesan’s work/films and, thereby, the trust earned by his screen persona and the power of his rhetoric, and simultaneously by the squeezing of the applauding audience/crowd behind Sakthi, as the camera keeps coming down on him with a wide lens, the sarcasm invited by the empty rhetoric that has taken the masses for granted. Pithamagan, thus, acknowledges its complicity with the legacy of Tamil mainstream cinema in its investment in the creation of an illusory universe, but by mockery also announces its intention to move on, as exemplified by its very dark ending where one of the protagonists (Sakthi) is dead and the other (Chithan, symbolically) is walking toward (his) grave. Thus, the rhetoric of being an emperor 276


who has an illusory kingdom is inverted on its head to write an elegy for people on the fringes for whom law and justice is, in reality, a distant dream.convenience Besides, by Tamil positing as the Hindi-speaking star for whose is Simran painstakingly translated in Hindi, Pithamagan acknowledges the necessity of translation in these times of globalization where the star capital transcends boundaries, unlike the call for an autonomous Dravida Nadu in Parasakthi where the cultural hegemony of the North is looked at with suspicion. Nonetheless, the desire for concessional politics, as exemplified by the DMK and Congress leaders paradoxically coming together during the climax of Parasakthi after Gunasekaran’s long and extended tirade through theNorth film, isisstripped of its hypocrisy and the star capital/power from the openly acknowledged. The remix in Pithamagan, titled “Palaiya Padal, Puthiya Aattam/Old songs, new dance,” ends with a parody of the mythologicals: A brief rendering of lines from Thiruppugazh, “Muthaitharu Pathithirunagai,” verse sung in praise of Tamil God Murugan by his devotee (Arunagirinathar, 1964), is ridiculed as a dwarfish priest is showcased as invoking Murugan and singing in front of an hesitant Simran who impetuously poses as Murugan, as the camera dollies around. The priest abruptly stopped by Sakthiacts who cups his mouth and ispulls him away. Thefrom Tamilsinging God Murugan as the conduit to the final segment of the compilation from Karaikkal Ammaiyaar (1973) that is sung by the protagonist K.B. Sundarambal, who played Avvaiyar in the Gemini Studios production. The song Thaga Thaga Thaga Thaga Ena Adava is the climactic moment in the film when Karaikkal Ammaiyaar, one of the rare women saints among the 63 ardent devotees of Lord Shiva, realizes her life-long desire to have a darshan/view of Shiva with his consort Sakthi and 8

eternally be in their company. As Sakthi and Simran dance to the fast-paced and rhythmic lines, Simran complains about their length, thus drawing attention to the Tamil cinema of the past and their unduly long song/dance numbers. Pithamagan, thereby, reflexively draws attention to its awareness of such a critique, while at the same time its connivance with such rituals. 277

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If Pithamagan, through its dark and lonely protagonist walking away to the desolate graveyard, distances itself from an earlier Tamil cinema by mocking its melodramatic and cathartic endings, Paruthi Veeranat(dir. Ameer Sultan,intensity 2007), further underscores the impossibility of a nonviolent and honorable tragedy in the end, by having its heroine Muththazhagu (Priya Mani) violently gang raped and subsequently, on her request, chopped to pieces by her lover Paruthiveeran (Karthi) who is later killed by Muththazhagu’s father and relatives, on a misplaced suspicion that he had kidnapped and killed her. Like Pithamagan, this film too retools some of the conventions of Tamil cinema, particularly in its reaffirming of the patriarchal stance: Since Muththazhagu has lost her chastity she has no right to live. But through its violent and dystopic ending, it reflexively draws attention to the inadequacies of Tamil culture in addressing patriarchy and gender inequalities: Paruthiveeran, a petty criminal like Sakthi, rejoices at power and publicity and is as conservative as the other men in the village; Muththazaghu has the spine to stand up to her casteist father and the virulent family feud but is punished for her free spirit and for following the diktats of her heart. Subramaniyapuram (dir. M. Sasikumar, 2008) revolves around the lives of five friends during the 1980s in Subramaniyapuram, which is a part of the Madurai city. Unlike Pithamagan and Paruthiveeran, which are set in areas around Madurai, Subramaniyapuram is set at its heart. Director Sasikumar pays careful attention to details to recreate the period of the 1980s and is largely successful in his attempt. Nonetheless, the intensity of the violence in the film brackets it along with Pithamagan and Paruthiveeran as one of the most violent films made during the new millennium. The protagonists are a group of friends, mirroring Sakthi and Paruthiveeran to various degrees, who are literally on the streets whiling away their time drinking and picking up quarrels and gradually transforming into hardcore murderers when they get into the company of the local politicians who employ/exploit them as hired killers. Like Sakthi and Paruthiveeran, Subramaniyapuram’s Azhagar also has a love interest, Thulasi, and their affair too ends in tragedy since Azhagar and his close friends Paraman and Kaasi get killed under extremely violent 278


circumstances of vendetta, deceit, and revenge. Subramaniyapuram was such a huge commercial and critical success that it could be argued to beMadurai the apotheosis thefirst dark and violent filmsmillennium. produced in9 and around duringofthe decade of the new The parallels between the different roles essayed by Sivaji Ganesan during the 1950s, immediately after India’s Independence, and these dark characters who inhabit Tamil cinema from 2000 onward, is informative: While Gunasekaran (Parasakthi), Paranthaman (Thirumbippaar), and Rajan (Andha Naal) are portrayed as having middleclass backgrounds but suffering either because of their rebellious nature or lack of values, these contemporary heroes, like Chithan, Sakthi, Paruthiveeran, Azhagar, Paraman, and Kaasi, who are literally on the road most of the time, get into violence as a means as well as an end, for survival and for avenging what they feel is unjust: There are no grand narratives of values against which their characters are delineated. They seem to be subsumed by the larger (Tamil) society in which they live that pays no heed to ethics or justice. Thus, the rhetorical violence targeted at Others in the North, in some of the key films of the 1950s, has now turned into a self-defeating mission where the target is the kith and kin and the members of the community, often posited in a very bleak, dystopic landscape during the climax that is drained of all humanity; for instance, Chithan’s walking away to the desolate grave yard, the forlorn house where Muththazhagu is raped and whose vicinity where Paruthiveeran gets brutally killed, and the perilous hospital ward where Kaasi’s supply of oxygen is cut off toward the end of Subramaniyapuram. In addition, if we consider two films that retooled the gangster genre elements in a similarly gritty and dark fashion—Pudhupettai (dir. Selvaraghavan, 2006) and Polladhavan (dir. Vetrimaaran, 2007), which were also critically and commercially successful, we have five films that would make most critics’ choice of the top ten Tamil films made during the last decade. Polladhavan, recalling Vittorio De Sica’s Bicycle Thieves (1948), has its protagonist search for the stolen motorcycle, but his poignant journey would lead us through the underbelly of the city of drug peddlers, hired killers, and 279

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thieves. The cult status of these films, as exemplified by Pudhupettai that has its protagonist gangster Kokki Kumar initiated as a politician the end of the film, is predicated their engagement with toward the despair surrounding estrangement andonmalevolence within Tamil society. (See Photo 38 in the photo group section.) In Pudhupettai, toward the end, when Kokki Kumar takes the stage and thanks his leader in a flowery and rhetorical style, it recalls the history of Tamil cinema and its investment in mobilizing the public for its ideology and politics, but critiques such a lineage through the positing of a gangster as a politician, and by reflexively drawing attention to the absurdity of such contemporary realities in Tamil Nadu through the superficial speech of Kokki Kumar aimed at deceiving the public. His pronunciation of Tamil, which recalls contemporary public speakers of the Tamil language, including the rhetoric-inflected politicians, is far removed from that of the finesse of the characters from the 1950s. From the rhetoric of the Dravidian ideologues, delivered by characters like Gunasekaran, to the speeches of a gangster like Kokki Kumar, whose biography mirrors that of some of the contemporary ministers of the DMK and the AIADMK in his advancement as a cabinet minister and founder of educational institutions, the utopia surrounding values and egalitarianism has turned into a violent celebration of the dystopia of an inhumane and divided society. Such an inversion, signified by the extreme and often meaningless violence of these above-discussed films, which underscore the deep fissures predicated on caste and class within Tamil society, portend the tragic plight of the Sri Lankan Tamils, by disclosing that the unity of the Tamils/Dravidians and their collective aspirations for a Dravida Nadu, as showcased through the films made in the 1950s, were just empty rhetoric used by the DMK to mobilize the gullible public to come to power and entrench itself politically. The Sri Lankan Tamil genocide took place in 2009, in particular, when the atrocities against the civilian population reached its peak during the month of May at Mullivaikkal. Naan Kadavul (dir. Bala) was released a few months earlier in February when the situation became unbearable for the insidiously isolated Sri Lankan Tamils. 280


Though Naan Kadavul got Bala the coveted national award for the best director of the year, the critics were divided on Bala’s rendering of its controversial protagonist (Arya) who playslife antoaghori engaging in postmortem ritualsRudran and living a hermitic gain spiritual powers. (See Photo 39 in the photo group section.) The Hindu columnist, Pradeep Sebastian, while accepting the difficulty in synopsizing Naan Kadavul’s narrative, points to the “two very strange worlds” woven together by the film: “The netherworld of the aghori (members of a Hindu sect who live at cremation grounds, eat dead flesh, meditate on corpses, and beg with bowls made from human skulls) and the hidden world of maimed beggars.” Sebastian endorses Naan Kadavul’s privileging of “wit, energy” and “real emotions” instead of the “bizarre and sentimental” and says that he has not “been able to get it out of [his] head,” as “[t]here is nothing quite like it in Indian cinema” (see Sebastian, 2010). The narrative’s uniqueness lies in its straddling of the cannibalism of the mystics in the name of religion and the forced maiming of innocent children: Naan Kadavul allegorizes the plight of the Tamil civilians caught between the designs of the Buddhist fundamentalists, who are in connivance with the state in its agenda of ethnic cleansing and the forced abduction of children by the ultras to fight for their cause—one of the main reasons for its haunting/ spectral quality. Even more important, Naan Kadavul through its focus on disparate worlds prefigures the incoherence or split in subjectivity in Tamil cinema after the genocide, that is, from 2009 onward. The films most discussed in Tamil media and social networks during the last three years have been Soodhu Kavvum (dir. Nalan Kumarasamy, 2013), Pizza (dir. Karthik Subbaraj, 2012), and Naduvula Konjam Pakkatha Kaanom (dir. Balaji Tharaneetharan, 2012). These films, like the Tamil films made before 2009 that we have discussed, use some of the conventions of the mainstream cinema like songs, but break new grounds as far as their narratives are concerned. The most striking aspect about these recent films is that none of them have any big stars, though all the three of them have the young star on the horizon, Vijay Sethupathi, playing the lead role. They have been shot 281

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with digital technology and on relatively low budgets ranging from $150,000 to $330,000. Though Tamil films with big stars have been released a regular basis,recent none films of them madeimaginary. the commercial or criticalonimpact of these on have the Tamil The narratives of these films differ from the pre-May 2009 films of the new millennium that we have discussed like Pithamagan, Paruthiveeran, Subramaniyapuram, Pudhupettai, Polladhavan, and Naan Kadavul. Pizza, Naduvula Konjam Pakkatha Kaanom, and Soodhu Kavvum are not marked by their extremity of violence or dark, desolate universe. Rather, these films have an irony and dark humor that is not gritty but self-reflexive, as they often mock at their characters or their predicament that seems to be beyond their will or control. The protagonists also suffer from either amnesia/shortterm memory loss (Naduvula Konjam Pakkatha Kaanom) or hallucination/schizophrenia (Soodhu Kavvum) or attacks by paranormal forces (Pizza), which render their subjectivity incoherent and ambiguous in an urban narrative, marked by irrational/bizarre events and humor. This trend is unique in the history of Tamil cinema, as even during the 1970s when studios lost their centrality as production houses and available technology like lightweight cameras enabled filmmakers to shoot their films on locations with available light, the protagonists were dark and ambiguous, but were etched very clearly as far as their motives and prejudices were concerned. Their subjectivity was never in question, as it was coherent and logical in the context of their cultural milieu; for instance, the protagonists in 16 Vayathiniley (dir. Bharathiraja, 1977), Aval Appadiththan (dir: Arumugam Rudraiah, 1978), and Uthirippookkal (dir. Mahendran, 1979) (see Eswaran Pillai, 2012b, pp. 77–89). Subsequently, the young actors who worked in these films became big stars of Tamil cinema in their own right, particularly Kamalahasan and Rajinikanth (see Photo 35 in the photo group section). Writing on Rajinikanth’s gradual rise to stardom, cinema scholar K. Hariharan claims him to be “the greatest rebel any cinema has ever witnessed” (see Hariharan, 2011). Nonetheless, one can see parallels, particularly in the prolific number of films that Rajinikanth acted in, 282


100 films during the first decade of his stardom from 1975 and 1985, and the iconic Sivaji Ganesan who too started as a rebel and an antihero and was then Hariharan, co-opted aslike a protagonist the classical mold by popular cinema. other Tamilincinema observers, is invested in theorizing the Tamil cinema of the new millennium, particularly the ones produced before 2010, and draws from the Indian aesthetics of Rasa theory, and categorizes them under the label “films of bhibatsa/disgust” (Hariharan, as quoted in Sebastian, 2010). Like Hariharan, who endorses these films of disgust for retrieving the people from the regressive “‘Dravidian’ stupor,” Baskaran too praises the visibility of the marginalized in these films where the sound does not dominate the visual (Hariharan, as quoted in Sebastian, 2010). Writing in the Tamil cinema journal Kaatchippizhai, editor Subagunarajan argues for some of the recent films, including Pizza and Soodhu Kavvum, as falling under the category of cult films (see Subagunarajan, 2013, pp. 7–9). Baradwaj Rangan, The Hindu film critic, also is highly appreciative of the “irreverent” quality of Pizza and Naduvula Konjam Pakkatha Kaanom: “They rise from the boldness that digital technology brings with it” (see Rangan, 2012). The low-budget filmmaking made possible by digital technology has not only freed these young filmmakers from clichés and preconceived notions about the audience but also the burden of becoming an auteur (Rangan, 2012). All they “want to do [is] nothing more than entertain audiences (especially urban audiences) in a smart manner” (Rangan, 2012). From the films that evoke “disgust” like Pudhupettai and Naan Kadavul to the “irreverential” films like Pizza and Naduvula Konjam Pakkatha Kaanom, one can read the melancholia of extreme self-centeredness and isolation turning into irreverence for failed traditions/narratives, surrounding Tamil/Dravidian nationalism/ subnationalism, since May 2009. Thus, as Tamil cinema scholars are trying to grapple with the success of these films that are breaking new ground within the popular Tamil cinema format, their attempts mirror the split at the center of these films: Pizza, Naduvula Konjam Pakkatha Kaanom, and Soodhu Kavvum are driven by protagonists who come in handy for planting the various twists and turns and 283

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evoking humor and astonishment in the audience, as they mirror the vast majority of their audience who, like these unstable protagonists, would like someone else to them thinktooncome theirtobehalf, and keep them entertained without forcing terms with their sense of loss and guilt in the context of their being silent witnesses to the massacre of Tamil people in a neighboring nation. They are able to identify with the incoherent subjectivity of these protagonists, which frees them, at least temporarily, of the need to face their collective responsibility. The narratives of these films inform us of the reasons for their success across demographics of the Tamil community: Pizza mixes the ghost and the heist genre to focus on its protagonist Michael Karthikeyan (Vijay Sethupathi), a pizza delivery boy, who plots with his girlfriend Anu (Remya Nambeesan), a heist of the 20 million rupees ($330,000) worth diamonds belonging to Shanmugham (Naren) who is the owner of the pizzeria. Michael concocts a story about the spirit, which has possessed Shanmugham’s daughter, to explain the disappearance of the diamonds that he carried in a box of candies to Shanmugham’s home to hide them away during an income tax raid at his pizzeria. Nevertheless, Michael, as fate would have it, would go one last time to deliver the pizza before escaping with his girlfriend and is trapped inside Shanmugham’s home by the spirit of the little girl at the end. Logically, Michael’s attraction to return to his boss’s home cannot be explained except for the fact that he is already under the spell of the paranormal forces. The specter of the young girl that Pizza carefully constructs only to disavow it thereafter, however, comes back to haunt at the end. The stories you tell come back to haunt you: The rhetorical screenplays and dialogues written by the preeminent Dravidian ideologue during the 1950s, Karunanidhi, came back to haunt the Tamil people as he was, after 57 years, the chief minister of Tamil Nadu when Tamil people were ethnically cleansed in Sri Lanka, particularly during April/ May 2009. The narrative of Naduvula Konjam Pakkatha Kaanom revolves around the short-term memory loss of its protagonist Prem Kumar (Vijay Sethupathi) who sustains a head injury by falling on the 284


ground while trying to catch a cricket ball just two days prior to his marriage. Based on the true story of Prem Kumar (the cinematographer of the film), the rest of the plot is about how the three friends, Bagavathi (Bagavathi Perumal), Balaji (Rajkumar), andother Saras (Vigneswaran), who were playing with him, try to convince, and ultimately get him married to his lover Dhanalakshmi (Gaayathrie Shankar) as they come to know from the doctor that his memory lapse is temporary. Prem Kumar recollects the moment when he fell down trying to catch the ball and remembers his friends but looses track of crucial events like his oncoming marriage or the fact that he lost his motorcycle 10 days earlier. (See Photo 41 in the photo group section.) This loss of memory as a direct result of the game of cricket recalls Ira Madiyama (August Sun, 2003), Sri Lanka’s most famous contemporary director Prasanna Vithanage’s critically acclaimed film on the civil war in the island. Ira Madiyama’s narrative “revolves around the influence of a destructive civil war on the lives of simple and ordinary people” (see Fernando, 2003). The film weaves three different stories to poignantly depict the impact of a two-decade-old war, but what is of significance is the cricket match that forms the backdrop: “a woman whose husband is missing in action, a child separated from his dog, and a soldier who finds his sister in a brothel—during a two-day period when Sri Lanka is playing a cricket match against Australia” (Subramaniam, 2006). According to the director, “The cricket match is a metaphor for the way of life in Sri Lanka. It is almost as if Sri Lankans use the joys of cricket as a compensation for the losses in their own lives” (as quoted in Subramaniam, 2006). Unlike in Vithanage’s profound interrogation of the consequences of war, using cricket as a metaphor for the amnesia surrounding the inhumanity of war, Naduvula Konjam Pakkatha Kaanom juxtaposes amnesia with the eagerly awaited moment of marriage between lovers to showcase its situational humor. The short-term memory loss provides the space for dramatic conflict due to its indefiniteness. Even more important, it is the amnesia that provides us a glimpse into the film’s unconscious: When Prem Kumar’s 285

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friends are coming to terms with his temporary loss of memory, one of the friends, Balaji, to ease the situation turns on an A.R. Rahman song, Athiradee Karathat Machane, desktop ofcomputer, and reminds Prem Kumar it is fromon thethe soundtrack the film Sivaji (dir. Shankar, 2007), one that they were listening prior to playing the game. On listening to the song, the amnesiac Prem Kumar wonders if Sivaji (Ganesan) is acting in a film whose music is composed by A.R. Rahman. A surprised Balaji reveals that Sivaji Ganesan had already passed away, when a jolted Prem Kumar expresses his disbelief: “Is Sivaji dead?” Sivaji Ganesan passed away on July 21, 2001, and Naduvula Konjam Pakkatha Kaanom was released on November 2012. The very fact that, even after more than a decade of his passing away, Sivaji Ganesan’s death/specter haunts the hero/film foregrounds the significance of coming to terms with his—Dravidian rhetoric–inflected Tamil cinema’s—death/past to move on. Of all the events, the choice of Sivaji Ganesan’s death as a marker to indicate the distinct time period of Prem Kumar’s short-term memory loss is insightful and illuminating: Sivaji’s persona/specter keeps haunting the Tamil cinema of the present and the Tamil people, as exemplified by its ability to mark the moment of loss in the temporary amnesia of Prem Kumar and that of hope and despair in the Tamil unconscious. Soodhu Kavvum, the biggest hit of 2013, stretches the incoherence in subjectivity even further: In this case, it is not because of a paranormal force or memory-related disorder, but due to schizophrenia/hallucination. Soodhu Kavvum blurs the area of the conscious/unconscious of the protagonist. Its protagonist Dass (Vijay Sethupathi) is a small-time kidnapper who is joined by three broke friends, Kesavan (Ashok Selvan), Sekar (Ramesh Thilak), and Pagalavan (Bobby Simha). Dass’s quirky but successful kidnapping of a young boy fetches through his unscrupulous father an offer to kidnap a minister’s son, Arumai Pragasam (Karunakaran) who unlike his honest father Gnanodayam (M.S. Bhaskar) is shrewd and a conman in his own right. The plot then centers on how Arumai Pragasam outwits not only Dass and his gang but also his father to earn the trust of the chief minister (Radha Ravi) who, impressed by his criminal skills, chooses him as the candidate to contest the 286


oncoming elections instead of his father. The street-smart Arumai wins the election in the end. Soodhu Kavvum, thus, directly implicates the chief minister of Tamil aslike heading a who gangcan of ministers/criminals, exemplified by a Nadu conman Arumai, enrich his coffers by holding the people to ransom: Tamil Nadu has the unique distinction of having had its last five chief ministers, from 1967 onward, from the film industry, Anna Durai, M. Karunanidhi, MGR, V.N. Janaki, and J. Jayalalitha, all of them belonging to the DMK or its offshoot, the AIADMK. The film ends with Kesavan and Sekar working for the prosperous minister Arumai; Dass still pursuing his kidnapping activities with a new set of interns, and Pagalavan, his dreams to be an actor, their pursuits made possible by the ransom that Arumai swindled from his father and shared with them. While the portrayal of the chief minister as ultimately the driving force behind the nexus of criminals and conmen, controlling a world where honest people do not have a place, is compelling in the context of contemporary politics, even more significant for our purposes is the character of Shalu (Sanchita Shetty), the girlfriend of Dass. Seductively clad Shalu is unique in the history of Tamil cinema since she exists only in the (male/vulgar) fantasy of Dass, but still is the center of his schizophrenic self as she is the voice of his unconscious, often loudly announcing his absurd ideas/thoughts. Shalu is present through most of the first half of the film till she dies in a car crash, though she is visible only to Dass. Through her presence, she is a witness to the defining moments of his life, like his getting involved with Arumai Pragasam, which leads him inescapably into the complex web of politicians and cops—collaborations/coalitions that deprive Dass of his freedom. Later, during the final moments of the film, Shalu reappears at the entrance of a mall; Dass and his gang abduct her as she is coming out. The film ends with a television newsreader informing us of the abduction of Shalini Gupta, a minister’s daughter. From the Tamil Thaai or the Tamil Mother whose absent presence haunting the narratives of Manthiri Kumari, Parasakthi, and Thirumbippaar, to Shalu as Shalini Gupta from North India haunting the contemporary Tamil unconscious, the seed of the consensual 287

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politics of the DMK, which was responsible for its bifurcation from Periyar’s DK, has bloomed fully. Now “Tamil” does not signify the mother, noraccepted the rhetoric Dravidian has become an label is forabout artfulthe people to fool land, othersbut to it attain power, as exemplified by the crook Arumai Pragasam who takes his oath as a member of the legislative assembly in the name of “Tamil” in the penultimate scene. As we can see from my above analysis, how the persistence of narratives, and “Sivaji” and “Tamil” as specters are still haunting the incoherent subjectivity of these protagonists, belonging to a new and irreverent cinema, whose unpredictable behavior on the one hand roomreflects for narratives with twists and humor/surprises, while provides on the other the melancholy surrounding the emptiness of the Dravidian rhetoric and its betrayal of the Tamil people. The reading of these films of the new millennium both the ones before May 2009, with their extremity of violence and darkness, and the ones made after the Sri Lankan Tamil genocide, with unstable subjects who refuse to face their present through recourse to paranormal forces or lapse in memory or fantasy/schizophrenia, thus, makes sense only in the context of the history of Tamil cinema, particularly of the 1950s, with focus on the rhetoric of the plenitude of the Dravidian land anditsthe apprehensions surrounding the hegemony of the North. The inversion of the utopia of an egalitarian Dravidian Land to the dystopia of the genocide of the Tamils within six decades is difficult if not impossible to come to terms with: Undermining of the subjectivity in recent Tamil cinema, therefore, is unsurprising.

Notes 1. See for the detailed report: “Report of the Secretary-General’s Panel of Experts on Accountability in Sri Lanka,” March 31, 2011, The United Nations. 2. Tamil film directors like Mahendran had visited Jaffna on the invitation of Prabhakaran, the leader of the LTTE, and have recorded the cinephilia

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Dravidian Utopia and Dystopia among the Tigers for Tamil and Hollywood films; see Director (2006, pp. 19–20, 22). 3. The AIADMK, though it is an offshoot of the DMK, is far removed in its provenance. It has less to do with Periyar or even Annadurai’s ideological underpinnings, as it was a party floated by MGR to garner the rewards of his star capital that he had built painstakingly and meticulously over the years when he was a member of the DMK party. As Pandian foregrounds, though MGR plays a subaltern in vast majority of his films, “he appropriates several signs or symbols of authority” from the ruling class or higher caste. This is far removed from the angst of Gunasekaran in Parasakthi; see Pandian (1992, pp. 30–94). 4. Kindan Kathakalatchepam parodies Gopalakrishna Bharathi’s famous nineteenth-century musical play on Nandanar: Nandan Charithiram. 5. Manohara wasthe produced Jupiter Pictures’ Somasundaram, icon of secularism, under banner by of Manohar Pictures, without his regular partner Mohideen. 6. See for the details of Sivaji Ganesan’s first film Parasakthi (released October 17, 1952) to his 175th film Uyarndha Manithan (released November 29, 1968): Film News Anandan, 2004, pp. 28(62)–28(137). 7. Gangs of Wasseypur I and II (dir. Anurag Kashyap, 2012). 8. See for details on Karaikkal Ammaiyar: Craddock, 2011. 9. For Subramaniyapuram’s script in English and detailed and insightful discussions on the film, see Sashikumar (2014).

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309

Filmography Robin Hood (dir. Allan Dwan, 1922) Butterflies in the Rain (dir. Edward Sloman, 1926) Her Big Night (dir. Melville W. Brown, 1926) Poker Faces (dir. Harry A. Pollard, 1926) The Flaming Frontier (dir. Edward Sedgwick, 1926) Perch of the Devil (dir. King Baggot, 1927) Taxi Taxi (dir. Melville W. Brown, 1927) The Lodger (dir. Alfred Hitchcock, 1927) Vigathakumaran (dir. J.C. Daniel, 1928) Blackmail (dir. Hitchcock, 1929) The Iron Mask (dir. Allan Dwan, 1929) The Taming of the Shrew (dir. Sam Taylor, 1929) Nandanar or the Elevation of the Downtrodden (dir. Raja Sandow, 1930) Alam Ara (dir. Ardeshir Irani, 1931) Ali Shah (dir. Kamar-Al-Zaman, 1931) Bhakta Prahalada (dir. H.M. Reddy and C.S.R. Anjaneyulu, 1931) Frankenstein (dir. James Whale, 1931) Kalidas (dir. H.M. Reddy, 1931) The Mummy (dir. Karl Freund, 1932) The Old Dark House (dir. James Whale, 1932) Shree Krishnaleela (dir. P.V. Rao, 1933) The Invisible Man (dir. James Whale, 1933) Chandidas (dir. Nitin Bose, 1934) Draupadi Vastrapaharanam (dir. R. Padmanaban, 1934) It Happened One Night (dir. Frank Capra, 1934) Srinivasa Kalyanam (dir. A. Narayanan, 1934) The Black Cat (dir. Edgar G. Ulmer, 1934) Alli Arjuna (dir. A.V. Meiyappan, 1935) Bhakta Dhruva (dir. R. Padmanabhan, 1935) Manmoyee Girl’s School (dir. Jyotish Bannerjee, 1935)

310

Filmography Nalla Thangal (dir. R. Padmanabhan, 1935) Nandanar (dir. Manik Lal Tandon, 1935) Nigah-e-Nafrat (dir. Master Vinayak, 1935) The Raven (dir. Lew Landers, 1935) The Walking Dead (dir. Michael Curtiz, 1935) Chandrakantha (dir. Raja Sandow, 1936) Leelavathi Sulochana (dir. P.V. Rao, 1936) Mr. Deeds Goes to Town (dir. Frank Capra, 1936) Ratanavali (dir. Sundarrao Nadkarni, 1936) Sati Leelavathi (dir. Ellis R. Dungan, 1936) Ambikapathy (dir. Ellis R. Dungan, 1937) Chinthamani (dir. Y.V. Rao, 1937) Krishna Thulabaram (dir. A. Narayanan, 1937) Lost Horizon (dir. Frank 1937)1937) Purandaradasa (dir. T.R.Capra, Sundaram, Rajasekaran (dir. T. Prakash, 1937) Sati Ahalya (dir. T.R. Sundaram, 1937) Balan (dir. S. Nottani, 1938) Grihalakshmi (dir. H.M. Reddy, 1938) Mayamayavan (dir. S. Nottani, 1938) Nandakumar (dir. Keshav Rao Dhaibar, 1938) Punjab Kesari (dir. Fram Sethna, 1938) Sevasadanam (dir. K. Subrahmanyam, 1938) Thayumanavar (dir. T.R. Sundaram, 1938) Vanaraja Carzan (dir. Nari Ghadiali, 1938) Vipra Narayana (dir. A. Narayanan, 1938) Chandanathevan (dir. T.R. Sundaram, 1939) Jungle King (dir. Nari Ghadiali, 1939) Mathrubhoomi (dir. H.M. Reddy, 1939) The Hunchback of Notre Dame (dir. William Dieterle, 1939) The Man in the Iron Mask (dir. James Whale, 1939) Thyagabhoomi (dir. K. Subrahmanyam, 1939) Veeramani (dir. K. Amarnath, 1939) Ashok Kumar (dir. Raja Chandrasekhar, 1940 ) Harihara Maya (dir. C.V. Raman, 1940) Mahatma Gandhi (dir. A.K. Chettiar, 1940) Poli Panchali (dir. A.T. Krishnaswamy, 1940) Sakuntalai (dir. Ellis R. Dungan, 1940) Uthama Puthiran (dir. T.R. Sundaram, 1940) Vaayaadi (dir. Kannan, 1940) Yes Yes (dir. A.T. Krishnaswamy, 1940)

311

Madras Studios Boo Kailash (dir. Sundar Rao Nadkarni, 1941) Dharmapathni (dir. P. Pulliah, 1941) Gharana Donga (dir. H.M. Reddy, 1941) Madanakamarajan (dir. B.N. Rao, 1941) Tenali Ramakrishna (dir. H.M. Reddy, 1941) The Corsican Brothers (dir. Gregory Ratoff, 1941) Vikrama Urvashi (dir. C.V. Raman, 1941) Anantha Sayanam (dir. K. Subrahmanyam, 1942) Baala Nagamma (dir. Pullayya, 1942) Baktha Naradar (dir. S. Soundararajan, 1942) Jeevan Mukti (dir. T.V. Neelakanthan, 1942) Kannagi (dir. R.S. Mani, 1942) Manonmani (dir. T.R. Sundaram, 1942) Nandanar (dir. Murugadasa, 1942)1942) Prabhavathi (dir. T.R. Raghunath, Prahaladha (C. Narayana Murthy, 1942) Sabapathy (dir. A.V. Meiyappan and A.T. Krishnaswamy, 1942) Sivalinga Satchi (dir. S. Nottani, 1942) Diwan Bahadur (dir. T.R. Sundaram, 1943) Mangamma Sabatham (dir. Acharya, 1943) Ram Rajya (dir. Vijay Bhatt, 1943) Dasi (dir. Hiren Bose, 1944) Dasi Apparanji (dir. B.N. Rao, 1944) Gaslight (dir. George Cukor, 1944) Haridas (dir. Sundar Rao Nadkarni, 1944) Harishchandra (dir. A.T. Krishnaswamy and A.V. Meiyappan, 1944) Rajarajeshwari (dir. T.R. Sundaram, 1944) Brief Encounter (dir. David Lean, 1945) Burma Rani (dir. T.R. Sundaram, 1945) En Magan (dir. A.S.A. Swamy, 1945) Kannamma En Kadhali (dir. Kothamangalam Subbu, 1945) Manasamrakshanam (dir. K. Subrahmanyam and C.S.V. Iyer, 1945) Meera (dir. E.S. Tunda and Ellis R. Dungan, 1945) Sri Valli (dir. A.T. Krishnaswamy and A.V. Meiyappan, 1945) Swargaseema (dir. B.N. Reddy, 1945) Aaravalli Sooravalli (dir. C.V. Raman, 1946) Chitra (dir. Raja Wahab Kashmiri, 1946) Grihapravesam (dir. L.V. Prasad, 1946) Mangayarkarasi (dir. Nagoor, 1946) Aayiram Thalai Vangiya Aboorva Chintamani (dir. T.R.S. Sundaram, 1947) Miss Malini (dir. Kothamangalam Subbu, 1947)

312

Filmography Naam Iruvar (dir. A.V. Meiyappan, 1947) Rama Rajyam (dir. Vijay Bhatt, 1947) Bicycle Thieves (dir. Vittorio De Sica, 1948) Bilhanan (dir. A.S.A. Sami, 1948) Chandralekha (dir. S.S. Vasan, 1948) Gnana Soundari (dir. F. Nagoor, 1948) Kalpana (dir. Uday Shankar, 1948) Khidki (dir. P.L. Santoshi, 1948) Mariamman (dir. L.S. Ramachandran, 1948) Sri Andal (dir. S. Velsamy Kavi, 1948) Vethaala Ulagam (dir. A.V. Meiyappan, 1948) Aboorva Saghodarargal (dir. Acharya, 1949) Mahal (dir. Kamal Amrohi, 1949) Mana Desam(dir. (dir.Krishnan-Panju, L.V. Prasad, 1949) Nallathambi 1949) Nishaan (dir. S.S. Vasan, 1949) Sunehre Din (dir. Satish Nigam, 1949) Vazhkai (dir. A.V. Meiyappan, 1949) Velaikkari (dir. A.S.A. Sami, 1949) Babul (dir. S.U. Sunny, 1950) Jeevitham (dir. M.V. Raman, 1950) Manthiri Kumari (dir. Ellis R. Dungan and T.R. Sundaram, 1950) No Man of Her Own (dir. Michell Leisen, 1950) Ponmudi (dir. Ellis R. Dungan, 1950) Rashomon (dir. Akira Kurosawa, 1950) Samsaram (dir. L.V. Prasad, 1950) Shavukaru (dir. L.V. Prasad, 1950) Afsana (dir. B.R. Chopra, 1951) Akeli (dir. M.M. Mehra, 1951) Awaara (dir. Rajkapoor, 1951) Bahar (dir. M.V. Raman, 1951) Devaki (dir. R.S. Mani, 1951) Ore Iravu (dir. P. Neelakantan, 1951) Patala Bhairavi (dir. K.V. Reddy, 1951) Pathala Bhairavi (dir. K.V. Reddy, 1951) Sarvadhikari (dir. T.R. Sundaram, 1951) Dupatta (dir. S. Faszli, 1952) Kalyanam Panni Paar (dir. L.V. Prasad, 1952) Mr. Sampath (dir. S.S. Vasan, 1952) Parasakthi (dir. Krishnan-Panju, 1952) Pelli Chesi Choodu (dir. L.V. Prasad, 1952)

313

Madras Studios Penn (dir. M.V. Raman, 1952) Avvaiyar (dir. Kothamangalam Subbu, 1953) Ladki (dir. M.V. Raman, 1953) Poongothai (dir. L.V. Prasad, 1953) Thirumbippaar (dir. T.R. Sundaram, 1953) Andha Naal (dir. S. Balachandar, 1954) Chandraharam (dir. K. Kameswara Rao, 1954) Mallaikkallan (dir. S.M. Sriramulu Naidu, 1954) Manam Pol Mangalyam (dir. P. Pullaiah, 1954) Manohara (dir. L.V. Prasad, 1954) Sangham (dir. M.V. Raman, 1954) Do Dulhe (dir. K.J. Mahadevan, 1955) Donga Ramudu (dir. K.V. Reddy, 1955) Gunasundari Kameshwara Insaniyat (dir.(dir. S.S. K. Vasan, 1955) Rao, 1955) Missiamma/Missamma (dir. L.V. Prasad, 1955) Shiv Bhakta (dir. H.L.M. Sinha, 1955) Shri 420 (dir. Raj Kapoor, 1955) Ali Babavum Naarpathu Thirudargalum (dir. T.R. Sundaram, 1956) Bhai-Bhai (dir. M.V. Raman, 1956) Chori-Chori (dir. Anant Thakur, 1956) Rangoon Radha (dir. A. Kasilingam, 1956) The Man Who Knew Too Much (dir. Alfred Hitchcock, 1956) Aaravalli (dir. S.V. Krishna Rao, 1957) Hum Panchhi Ek Daal Ke (dir. P.L. Santoshi, 1957) Jhakli Mooth (dir. Anant Mane, 1957) Kitna Badal Gaya Insan (dir. I.S. Johar, 1957) Maya Bazaar (dir. K.V. Reddy, 1957) Miss Mary (dir. L.V. Prasad, 1957) Mother India (dir. Mehboob Khan, 1957) Naya Daur (dir. Yash Chopra, 1957) Pyaasa (dir. Guru Dutt, 1957) Sharada (dir. L.V. Prasad, 1957) Appu Chesi Pappu Koodu (dir. L.V. Prasad, 1958) Kadan Vangi Kalyanam (dir. L.V. Prasad, 1958) Nadodi Mannan (dir. M.G.R., 1958) Pattaliyin Sabatham (dir. B.R. Chopra, 1958) Uthama Puthiran (dir. T. Prakash Rao, 1958) Baagappirivinai (dir. A. Bhimsingh, 1959) Chhoti Bahen (dir. L.V. Prasad, 1959) Jayaveeran (dir. B. Vittalacharya, 1959)

314

Filmography Kalyana Parisu (dir. C.V. Sridhar, 1959) Kalathur Kannamma (dir. A. Bhimsingh, 1960) Mughal-E-Azam (dir. K. Asif, 1960) Padikkadha Medhai (dir. A. Bhimsingh, 1960) Paasamalar (dir. A. Bhimsingh, 1961) Paava Mannippu (dir. A. Bhimsingh, 1961) Aalayamani (dir. K. Shankar, 1962) Kavitha (dir. T.R. Raghunath, 1962) Main Chup Rahungi (dir. A. Bhimsingh, 1962) Raakhi (dir. A. Bhimsingh, 1962) Iruvar Ullam (dir. L.V. Prasad, 1963) Lava Kusha (dir. C. Pulliah and C.S. Rao, 1963) Arunagirinathar (dir. Ramanna, 1964) Beti Bete (dir. L.V.(dir. Prasad, Muradan Muthu B.R. 1964) Panthulu, 1964) Navarathiri (dir. A.P. Nagarajan, 1964) Ramudu Bheemudu (dir. Chanakya, 1964) Enga Veettu Pillai (dir. Chanakya, 1965) Idhaya Kamalam (dir. Srikanth, 1965) Khandaan (dir. A. Bhimsingh, 1965) Panchavarna Kili (dir. K. Shankar, 1965) Shanthi (dir. A. Bhimsingh, 1965) Thiruvilayadal (dir. A.P. Nagarajan, 1965) Vallavanuku Vallavan (dir. R. Sundaram, 1965) Daadi Maa (dir. L.V. Prasad, 1966) Iru Vallavargal (dir. K.V. Srinivasan, 1966) Monagallaku Monagadu (dir. L.D. Lal, 1966) Saadhu Mirandaal (dir. Thirumalai-Mahalingam, 1966) Saraswathi Sabatham (dir. A.P. Nagarajan, 1966) Suraj (dir. T. Prakash Rao, 1966) Vallavan Oruvan (dir. R. Sundaram, 1966) Kandan Karunai (dir. A.P. Nagarajan, 1967) Ram Aur Shyam (dir. Chanakya, 1967) Thiruvarutchelvar (dir. A.P. Nagarajan, 1967) Aadmi (dir. A. Bhimsingh, 1968) CID Shankar (dir. R. Sundaram, 1968) Gauri (dir. A. Bhimsingh, 1968) Oli Vilakku (dir. Chanakya, 1968) Sadhu Aur Shaitaan (dir. A. Bhimsingh, 1968) Thirumal Perumai (dir. A.P. Nagarajan, 1968) Uyarndha Manithan (dir. Krishnan-Panju, 1968)

315

Madras Studios Aaradhana (dir. Shakti Samantha, 1969) Deiva Magan (dir. A.C. Tirulokchandar, 1969) Jeene Ki Raah (dir. L.V. Prasad, 1969) Nam Naadu (dir. Jambu, 1969) Gopi (dir. A. Bhimsingh, 1970) Ponmagal Vanthaal (dir. Ramanna, 1970) Sacha Jhoota (dir. Manmohan Desai, 1970) Agathiyar (dir. A.P. Nagarajan, 1972) Seeta Aur Geeta (dir. Ramesh Sippy, 1972) Shaadi Ke Baad (dir. L.V. Prasad, 1972) The Godfather (dir. Francis Ford Coppola, 1972) Vasantha Maligai (dir. K.S. Prakash Rao, 1972) Karaikkal Ammaiyaar (dir. A.P. Nagarajan, 1973) Yaadon Ki Baaraat (dir. Nasir Hussain, 1973) Ankur (dir. Shyam Benegal, 1974) Bidaai (dir. L.V. Prasad, 1974) Naya Din Nayee Raat (dir. A. Bhimsingh, 1974) Sivakamiyin Selvan (dir. C.V. Rajendran, 1974) Vani Rani (dir. C.V. Rajendran, 1974) Ellorum Nallavare (dir. Balan, 1975) Naalai Namathe (dir. K.S. Sethumadhavan, 1975) Ninaithathai Mudippavan (dir. P. Neelakantan, 1975) Nishant (dir. Shyam Benegal, 1975) Piriya Vidai (dir. Srikanth, 1975) Sholay (dir. Ramesh Sippy, 1975) Manamatha Leelai (dir. K. Balachandar, 1976) Manthan (dir. Shyam Benegal, 1976) 16 Vayathiniley (dir. Bharathiraja, 1977) Bhumika (dir. Shyam Benegal, 1977) Jay Vijay (dir. L.V. Prasad, 1977) Yehi Hai Zindagi (dir. K.S. Sethumadhavan, 1977) Aval Appadiththan (dir. Arumugam Rudraiah, 1978) Punniya Bhoomi (dir. K. Vijayan, 1978) Thirisoolam (dir. K. Vijayan, 1979) Uthirippookkal (dir. Mahendran, 1979) Aakrosh (dir. Govind Nihalani, 1980) Shriman Shrimati (dir. Vijay Reddy, 1982) Ardh Satya (dir. Govind Nihalani, 1983) Mahaan (dir. S. Ramanathan, 1983) Nayakan (dir. Mani Ratnam, 1987) Anjali (dir. Mani Ratnam, 1990)

316

Filmography Michael Madana Kama Rajan (dir. Singeetam Srinivisa Rao, 1990) Brundavanam (dir. Singeetham Srinivasa Rao, 1992) Roja (dir. Mani Ratnam, 1992) Mrs. Doubtfire (dir. Chris Columbus, 1993) Bhairava Dweepam (dir. Singeetam Srinivasa Rao, 1994) Kathalan (dir. Shankar, 1994) Bombay (dir. Mani Ratnam, 1995) Dilwale Dulhaniyan Le Jayenge (dir. Aditya Chopra, 1995) Avvai Shanmughi (dir. K.S. Ravikumar, 1996) Indian (dir. Shankar, 1996) Sri Krishnarjuna Vijayam (dir. Singeetham Srinivasa Rao, 1996) Iruvar (dir. Mani Ratnam, 1997) Pardes (dir. Subhash Ghai, 1997) Jeans (dir. Shankar, Padayappa (dir. K.S.1998) Ravikumar, 1999) Sethu (dir. Bala, 1999) Taal (dir. Subhash Ghai, 1999) Kaho Naa Pyaar Hai (dir. Rakesh Roshan, 2000) Paalayathu Amman (dir. Rama Narayanan, 2000) Pottu Amman (dir. K. Rajarathinam, 2000) Rajakali Amman (dir. Rama Narayanan, 2000) Nageshwari (dir. Rama Narayanan, 2001) Thaalikaatha Kaaliamman (dir. R. Somasundar, 2001) Kannathil Muththamittal (dir. Mani Ratnam, 2002) Padai Veettu Amman (dir. Pugazhmani, 2002) Sri Bannari Amman (dir. Bharathi Kannan, 2002) Ira Madiyama (dir. Prasanna Vithanage, 2003) Missamma (dir. Neelakanta, 2003) Pithamagan (dir. Bala, 2003) House of Flying Daggers (dir. Zhang Yimou, 2004) Anniyan (dir. S. Shankar, 2005) Mangal Pandey (dir. Ketan Mehta, 2005) Mercury Pookkal (dir. S.S. Stanley, 2006) Pudhupettai (dir. Selvaraghavan, 2006) Kattrathu Tamil (dir. Ram, 2007) Paruthi Veeran (dir. Ameer Sultan, 2007) Periyar (dir. Gnana Rajasekharan, 2007) Polladhavan (dir. Vetrimaaran, 2007) Sivaji (dir. Shankar, 2007) Thamirabarani (dir. Hari, 2007) Dasavathaaram (dir. K.S. Ravikumar, 2008)

317

Madras Studios Subramaniyapuram (dir. M. Sasikumar, 2008) Arundhati (dir. Kodi Ramakrishna, 2009) Naan Kadavul (dir. Bala, 2009) Enthiran (dir. Shankar, 2010) Missamma NRI (dir. K. Sharat Chandra, 2010) Mudhal Idam (dir. R. Kumaran, 2011) Gangs of Wasseypur I and II (dir. Anurag Kashyap, 2012) Naduvula Konjam Pakkatha Kaanom (dir. Balaji Tharaneetharan, 2012) Pizza (dir. Karthik Subbaraj, 2012) An American in Madras (dir. Karan Bali, 2013) Soodhu Kavvum (dir. Nalan Kumarasamy, 2013) Avatharam (dir. Kodi Ramakrishna, 2014) Veeram (dir. Siva, 2014)

318

Index Aadal Paadal (magazine) article on make-up, 30–31 predictability and boredom in cinema, 41 Aadmi (1968), 253 Aalayamani (1962), 253 Aaravalli (1957), 80–84 melodramatic climax, 83 songs in, 83 story, 81–83 Aayiram Thalai Vangiya Aboorva Chintamani (story), 67–69, 73, 82 Agathiyar (1972), 246

Angel Films Bhakta Dhruva (1935), 23 Draupadi Vastrapaharanam (1934), 23 Nalla Thangal (1935), 23 Shree Krishnaleela (1933), 23 Anjali Devi, 194 Annadurai, C.N., 17, 70, 76, 125, 148 AP International (Chennai), 2 Arunachalam, M., 81 Arundhati (2009), 248 Arurdoss, 198, 232n17 Asif, K., 61

AIADMK, 260 Ajith, 254 Alam Ara (1931), 103, 219 Ali Shah (1931), 220 Ambuli Mama (magazine), 10 Ambulimama (magazine), 192 Ammal, Vai. Mu. Kothainayaki, 40, 44 Ananda Vikatan (magazine), 67, 151, 172, 228 Anandan (Film News), 1, 21 Sadhanaigal Padaitha Thamizh Thiraipada Varalaru, 15 Andha Naal (1954), 2, 263–266, 268, 270 Andhra Jyothi (magazine), 192 Andhra State, formation of, 191–192 Angamuthu, K.S., 120

Aval Appadiththan (1978), 282 AVM Studios, 3–4, 7–8, 16, 21, 48, 74, 99, 243, 252–253. See also Meiyappan, A.V. Andha Naal (1954), 264–266, 268 Bharathiyar’s songs, 110–111, 124 collaboration with Perumal, 117–118 DMK movement and, 117–129 land, 116 minimal production design, 131–132 Naam Iruvar (1947), 111, 124 Nandakumar (1938), 105–106, 112 on-screen and off-screen information, 139 Ore Iravu (1950), 117, 136

319

Madras Studios Parasakthi (1952), 17, 119–124 preeminence of songs, 113–116 preview theater and black and white laboratory, 116 production promises, 146 studio space, 129–142 Tamil Rama Rajyam, 115 Vazhkai (1949), 116 Vethaala Ulagam (1948), 115 Avvai Shanmughi (1996), 247 Avvaiyar (1953), 7, 99, 149–150, 156– 174, 246 canonical works of poetess Avvaiyar, 158of, 172 climactic ascent narrative of, 156–174 Bachchan, Amitabh, 241 Baez, 50 Bagavathi, T.S., 114 Baghavathar, M.K. Thyagaraja (MKT), 42, 102, 157 Ambikapathy (1937), 44 Chinthamani (1937), 44 Haridas (1944), 43 issue of Pesum Padam, 44 singing ability, 42–43 Bai, Pandari, 121, 265 Balachandar, S., 266–267 Balaiyya, T.S., 63, 70 Balakrishnan, R., 18 Balasaraswathi, 194 Balu, R.K., 32 Banerjee, Jiten, 240 Banerjee, Jyotish, 213 Bartley, Marcus, 193, 205 lighting techniques, 234n34 Basheer, G.M., 35 Baskaran, Theodore S., 1, 3, 19, 22, 35, 60, 103

Message Bearers: The Nationalist Politics and the Entertainment Media in South India 1880– 1945, The, 14 Serpent’s Eye: An Introduction to Tamil Cinema, The, 14 Bhaagappirivinai (1959), 253 Bhanumathi, P., 194, 216, 220 Bhanupriya, 247 Bharathi, B., 191 Bharathi, Subramaniya, 55 Bharathiyar, 140 Bharatidasan (poet), 71–73, 117, 126, 128 Bhimsingh, A., 12, 253 Bhojpuri cinema, 273 Bicycle Thieves (1948), 279 Bilhanan (1948), 110 Blackburn, Stuart H., 196 Bombay (1995), 252 Bombay Gramophone Company, 106 Book of One Thousand and One Nights/ Arabian Nights, The, 209–210 Bray studio, 4 British Movietone News, 58 British studios, 4 Burma Rani (1945), 6, 57–68 ban on, 60, 64, 66 Bhajjinama, 61 cinematography, 63 criticism, 63 element of Buddhist compassion in, 64 plot, 61–63 portrayal of the evil Japanese emperor, 66 representation of Uso, 65 set, 61 Burman, S.D., 116

320

Index cameras for creating double-roles, 51 for superimpositions and in-camera special effects, 113 Mitchell, 51, 240 canonical Tamil films Naan Kadavul (2009), 13 Naduvula Konjam Pakkatha Kaanom (2012), 13 Pizza (2012), 13 Pudhupettai (2006), 13 Shakespeare’s canonical Hamlet, 269

Chettiar, Somanathan, 115 Chettiyar, A.V. Meiyappa, 9 Chinnappa, P.U., 32, 36, 39–40, 42, 49, 53, 108, 240 Chandrakantha (1936), 40 Mathrubhoomi (1939), 40 Punjab Kesari (1938), 40 Chozha dynasty, 199, 232n18 Cinecitta studio, 4 Cinema Ulagam (magazine), 25 Civil Disobedience Movement, 47–48 Cohn, Harry, 24 Cokkho, S.S., 37

Soodhu Kavvum (2013), 13 13 Subramaniyapuram (2008), Central Studios, 3, 60 Chakarapani, M.G., 10–11, 73, 190, 229 Chakravarthy, Venkatesh, 3, 15, 118 essay on AVM’s Naam Iruvar (1947), 16 essays on Ratnam’s Roja (1992) and Iruvar (1997), 15–16 Chandamama (magazine), 192, 201,

Columbia Films (Kuala Lumpur), 2 comedy, in Tamil films, 18 Company Dramas, 22, 85n1, 181n57 Creekmur, Corey, x

205 Chandamarutham (magazine), 67–70 content, 67 editors of, 69–70 serialization of Aayiram Thalai Vangiya Aboorva Chintamani, 67 Chandanathevan (1939), 33–57 adaptation of Robin Hood, 35 hero and villain, 35 opening of, 35 songbook of, 35 Chandra, Haripadha, 31 Chandran, K.P., 115 Chattopadhyay, Sarat Chandra, 212 Chettiar, A.K., 112 Chettiar, Avichi, 101

Dickey, Sarah, 16 11 digital technology, Dilwale Dulhaniyan Le Jayenge (1995), 273 Diwan Bahadur (1943), 69 DMK (Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam/ Dravidian Progressive Federation), 67, 70, 76, 125, 250, 258–260 double-roles/multiple roles, 39, 49–50, 241 Anniyan (2005), 243 Ashok Kumar in Afsana (1951), 48 cameras for creating, 51 Dasavatharam (2008), 242 Indian (1996), 243 Jeans (1998), 243 Mahaan (1983), 241

Das, Aroor, 253 deep-focus photography, 52 Denham Studio, 4 Devanarayanan, K., 115 Dharilal, 219

321

Madras Studios Michael Madana Kama Rajan (1990), 242 Naalai Namathe (1975), 242 Navarathiri (1964), 242 Ninaithathai Mudippavan (1975), 242 remakes of, 241–242 Seeta Aur Geeta (1972), 242 Sivaji (2007), 243 Sivakamiyin Selvan (1974), 242 Vani Rani (1974), 242 Yaadon Ki Baaraat (1973), 242 Dravidian ideology, 6–7, 17, 27, 33,

role of a woman avenging an evil and tormented spirit, 248 film reviews, 17–18

39, 70, 72, 85, 119, 124, 146, 195, 244, 252, 260–263 Dravidian movement, 15, 27, 70, 85, 100, 117–128, 132, 141, 195, 217, 227, 244, 246, 251, 258, 263–272 dubbed film, 108 Dumas, Alexander, 32 Dungan, Ellis R., 34, 70, 72, 80 Durai, Anna, 5 Dutt, Geeta, 81

Parasakthi (1952), 17 Thirisoolam (1970), 241 Ganesh, R. (Gemini Ganesan), 228–229 Garbo, Greta, 24–25 Gaslight (1944), 261 Geetha, V., 259 Gemini Pictures Circuit, 152 Gemini Studios, 3–4, 7, 21, 60, 99, 246. See also Vasan, S.S.

Gaiety Cinema, 153 Gainsborough studio, 4 Gajalakshmi Power Press, 67 Gandhi, Mahatma, 41–42, 46–47 Ganesan, Sivaji (V.C. Ganesan), 17, 118–119, 132, 136–137, 139, 179n41, 241, 263, 279, 286 Deiva Magan (1969), 241 Navarathiri (1964), 242

DVD/VCD market, 2–3 Reginald, 47 Dyer, Brigadier-General Ealing studio, 4 Elstree studio, 4 En Magan, 60 Enga Veettu Pillai (1965), 241 Enthiran (2010), 243, 245 Ethir Paaratha Muththam (poem), 70 Fairbanks, Douglas, 34, 36, 195 Famous Talkie Distributors, 106 female stardom, 246–247 between 1930s and 1950s, 39 contribution of actresses from other states, 193–194 mythological characters, 246–247

322

Aboorva Saghodarargal (1949), 154–155 Ananda Vikatan (magazine), 67 Avvaiyar (1953), 7, 99, 149–150, 156–174 Chandralekha (1948), 154–155, 158, 170, 248 Dasi Aparanji (1944), 155 early films, 153–156 folkloric-mythical films, 155 Gnana Soundari (1948), 155 Madanakamarajan (1941), 153, 155 Mangamma Sabatham (1943), 155 Nandanar (1942), 154–155 Oli Vilakku (1968), 17 srcins of, 150

Index German Odeon Recording Company, 101 Gharana Dhonga (1941), 220 global audience, 273 Gokhale, M., 206 Golden Studios, 4 Gopalan, Lalitha, 16 Gopi (1972), 253 Gouri (1968), 253 Government of India Act (1935), 57, 215 gramophone market of South India, 101–102

Indus Commission, 215 Inter-State Water Disputes Act (1956), 215 Ira Madiyama (2003), 285 Iruvar (1997), 250–252, 259 Isai Velalla communities, 193–194 Iyengar, A.T. Krishnaswamy, 106 Iyer, C.S.V., 60 Iyer, P.L. Narayana, 106 Iyer, P.V. Krishna, 50, 52, 106, 151

Drama Record epics, 102 Set of mythological Odeon Records, 102 shellac records, 101 Grihalakshmi (1938), 220 Guntoosi, 3, 157, 176n22, 178n34, 184n81, 186n90, 194 Gutschwager, Bodo, 50, 56 Guy, Randor, 23, 29, 34, 52

Janaki, V.N., Jaya, A.S., 12069 Jayamma, 194 Jayawant, Ajit, 81 Jayawant, Nalini, 81 Jeevarathinam, U.R., 69 Jungle King (1939), 33

Haasan, Kamal, 242, 247, 253 Dasavatharam (2008), 12, 242 Indian (1996), 243 Hardgrave, Robert L., 16, 136 Hariharan, K., 17, 282–283 Harlow, Jean, 25 Harvey, G.D.B., 58, 60 Hema Malini, 242 Hollywood films, 18 popularity of, 30 Hollywood studios, 4 Hughes, Stephen, 17, 102 Imperial Film Company Kalidas (1931), 32 Imperial Movietone Company, 103 Indian Movietone News, 58 Indian News Parade, 58

Jallianwala Bagh massacre, 47 Janaki, K.V., 114

Kalathur Kannamma (1960), 253 Kalidas (1931), 1, 103 Kalyana Parisu (1959), 252 Kamala, Baby, 111 Kambaramayanam, 114 Kandan Karunai (1967), 246 Kannamba, P., 108, 194 Kannamma, 120 Kannamma En Kadhali, 60 Kapoor, Prithviraj, 220 Kapoor, Raj, 220, 224 Karaikkal Ammaiyaar (1973), 246, 277 Karunanidhi, A., 83 Karunanidhi, M., 5, 27–28, 73, 76, 125–126, 194, 249 Kattrathu Tamil/Learned Tamil (2007), 245–246 Kaveri Water Dispute, 215 Kavi, Udumalai Narayana, 145 Khandaan (1965), 253

323

Madras Studios Khanna, Rajesh, 242 Kokilam, N.C. Vasantha, 44 Krishna–Godavari Water Dispute, 215 Krishnan, M.N., 122 Krishnan, N.S., 55, 70, 117 Krishnan, Ramya, 247 Krishnaswamy, A.T., 107 Krishnaveni, G. (Gikki), 79, 194 Kumar, Hemant, 81 Kumudam (magazine), 17, 171, 189n103, 228 Kurosawa, Akira, 265

Manian, Aranthai, 28, 50 Manmoyee Girl’s School (1935), 213 Manohar, R.S., 27 Manohara (1954), 5, 263, 268–270 Manthiri Kumari (1950), 2, 6, 27, 31, 74, 118, 128, 250 Mariamman (1948), 207 Maruthanayagam, 246 Masthan, 193 Mathuram, T.A., 194 Mayer, Louis B., 23 Meena, 247 Meiyappan, A.V., 50. See also AVM

Lakshimipathy, Lang, Fritz, 29 Rukmini, 42 Lava Kusha (1963), 114 Linlithgow, Viceroy Lord, 48, 58 Louis XIV, King, 36 Lutgendorf, Philip, xi Madhuri Devi, 75–76, 194, 248–251 Madras film industry, 193 Madras studios, xi, 1 uniqueness of, 4

studio Alli Arjuna (1935), 105 beginning of AVM Productions, 109–112 Boo Kailash (1941), 107, 109 experiments with sound, 105–109 Harishchandra (1944), 108 idea of recording Tamil dialogues, 108 interest in Bharathiyar’s songs, 110–111

Mahal (1949), 69 Mahalingam, T.R., 105, 108 Mahamagam ritual, 214 Mahatma Gandhi (1940), 112 Main Chup Rahungi (1962), 253 Majumdar, Neepa, 39, 48, 138–139 make-up artists, 31 Malathi, 194 Malayalam movies Balan (1938), 32 Vigathakumaran/The Lost Child (dir. J.C. Daniel, 1928), 32 Modern Theatres Studios in India, ix–x Manasamrakshanam, 60 Mangal Pandey (2005), 246 Mani, R.S., 249

interest in K.R. Ramasami, 136 mythological film, 108 Naam Iruvar (1947), 111 Nandakumar (1938), 105–106 nationalistic and Dravidian ideologies, 157 on Sivaji Ganesan’s casting, 137 production of Tamil gramophone records, 101–103 Sabapathy (1942), 107, 109 Saraswathi Stores, 102, 106 Sarawathi Sound Productions (later Saraswathi Talkie Producing Company), 105 superimpositions and in-camera special effects, use of, 113 team of technicians, 106

324

Index use of playback technology, 105 Vethaala Ulagam, 110 Missiamma/Missamma (1955), 5, 10, 190, 193, 198, 211–230, 253–254 characters, 218, 221–223 Harikatha performance, 211 introductory scene, 218 Maasi Magam festival, 213 Mahamagam ritual, theme of, 214–216 narrative of, 213–217, 221–228 water dispute surrounding Godavari, 215

equipments, 51–52 Harihara Maya (1940), 32 heroes as singer-actors, 35–36, 44–45 James Bond style of films, 27 Jayaveeran (1959), 31 library, 23 Manonmani (1942), 31 Manthiri Kumari (1950), 27, 31, 74, 118, 128, 250 mini theater within, 24 Mitchell cameras, 51 srcins of, 22–24

Modern 2 16, 21, Modern Cinema Theatres(Madurai), Studios, 3–5, 239, 241, 263. See also Sundaram, Thiruchengodu Ramalingam Aaravalli (1957), 26, 80–84 adaptation of western tales, 33–57 Ali Babavum Naarpathu Thirudargalum (1956), 16 Balan (1938), 32 Burma Rani (1945), 57–67 Chandamarutham (magazine),

own productions, Parasakthi (1952),31 74, 118 Ponmudi, 70–73 productions between 1935 and 1982, 24 Purandaradasa (1937), 31 R.K. Balu’s collaborative production with, 32 Sarvadhikari (1951), 16 Sati Ahalya (1936), 42 Sivalinga Satchi (1942), 32

67–70 Chandanathevan (1939), 33–35 Chitra (1946), 31 collaborative productions, 31–32 construction of preproduction, shooting, and postproduction facilities, 24 deep-focus photography, application of, 52 Devaki (1951), 34 distribution network of, 25–27 distribution representatives of films, 25–26 Dravidian movement and, 70–80 duplicating of shots, 34 early films of, 31–33 employees, 26

Sri Andal (1948), 79 stunt film Mayamayavan (1938), 33 Sundaram’s leadership style and the “factory” model of, 24–31 theme of nationalism in films, 40–42 Uthama Puthiran (1940), 2, 6, 12, 26, 30–32, 36 Vikrama Urvashi (1941), 32 Moserbaer, 2 Mosfilm studio, 4 Mother India (1957), 262 Motion Pictures Producers Combine (MPPC), 152 Movie Land (Chennai), 2 Mudaliar, Pammal Sambandha, 269

325

Madras Studios Mudaliyar, Sambandha, 110 Mughal-E-Azam (1960), 61 Muradan Muthu (1964), 253 Muthulakshmi, T.P., 121 Naam Iruvar (mid-1946), 110 Naan Kadavul (2009), 13, 273–274, 280–283 Naduvula Konjam Pakkatha Kaanom (2012), 281–285 Nagarajan, A.P., 246 Nageshwari (2001), 247 Nagoor, F., 240

Padikkadha Medhai (1960), 253 Padmini, 193 Paguththarivu, 217 Pakshiraja Studios, 4, 19n3 Pandari Bai, 193 Pandian, M.S.S., 15 essay on Parasakthi (1952), 15 Image Trap: MGR in Film and Politics, The, 15 Paradesi (2013), 274 Paragon Talkies, 116 Parasakthi (1952), 2, 17, 99, 119–124, 157, 173–174, 243, 259, 262–264,

Nallathambi (1949), 261–262 Nambiar, M.N., 74, 250 Narayanan, Aranthai, 15 Narayanaswami, Moola, 116 narratives family-oriented melodramas, 12 Uthama Puthiran (1940), 37–38 Natarajan, S.A., 80 Nathan, G.O.R., 83 Navarathiri (1964), 253 Naya Daur (1957), 262

267 aesthetics in, 137–138 Arya Koothu performance in, 135, 138 Bharatidasan’s poems and music direction, 126–128 centrality of songs in, 142–149 cinematography of, 119 comedy track, 134 Dravidian Land, theme of, 126–128 economy of space in, 129–132

Naya Din Nayee Raat (1974), 253 Nayakan (1987), 252 Neelakantan, P., 110 Newtone Studios, 3–4, 253 Non-cooperation Movement (1920), 47 Nottani, S., 34 O’Dwyer, Michael, 47 oral-aural traditions, 211 Ore Iravu (1951), 262 Paalayathu Amman (2000), 247 Paasamalar (1961), 253 Paava Mannippu (1961), 253 Padai Veettu Amman (2002), 247 Padayappa (1999), 247

framing and sequences in, 138, 141–142, 144 M.S.S. Pandian’s analysis, 123 narrative of, 119–123 Periyar’s ideology of rationality, theme of, 142 popularity of, 125–126 protagonist Gunasekaran, 127, 129–135, 139 protagonist of, 118 rationalistic discourse of Dravidian Ideology in, 142–149 theatrical kind of setting, 140 theme of social equality, 136 Parasakthi (AVM, 1952), 7 Parimala Pictures, 32 Parineeta, 212

326

Index Paruthi Veeran (2007), 278 Pathala Bhairavi (1951), 10, 190, 193, 195 analogy with Ramayana, 203–204 Bartley’s signature-shots, 206 climactic sequence, 205–206 creative collaboration between production designers and cinematographer, 206 dialogues and songs, 198 elements of folklore and fantasy in, 208–211 folklore dynamics in, 198–199

Prakash, Elavarthi Satya, 195 Prasad EFX, 240 Prasad Laboratories, 240 Prasad studio, 4, 21 Idhaya Kamalam (1965), 10 laboratories, closure of, 11 management, 11 Piriya Vidai (1975), 10 Prasad, L.V., 5, 12, 18, 191, 193–194, 268–269. See also Missiamma (1955) biography, 218–220 Iruvar Ullam (1963), 10

generic 204 elements of folk tradition, inaugural line of song Itihasam Kettira?, 199–200 major characters, 198 narratives of, 196–197 protagonist Thotta Raman, 199–202 sequence of Anji in, 204–205 songs, 206–207 Vikramadityan’s reference in song,

Kalyanam Prasanth, 243 Panni Paar (1952), 10 Premier studio, 3 Prithvi Theaters, 220 Pudhupettai (2006), 279–280 Pushkara Mela, 214 Pushpavalli, 194 Pyaasa (1957), 137

200–201 Pattaliyin Sabatham (1958), 84 songs, 84 Pattammal, D.K., 111–112, 114, 153, 157 Periyanayaki, P.A., 108 Periyar (2007), 246 Pesum Padam (magazine), 3, 149 reviews, 31, 63–64 Pillai, Vazhuvoor K.N. Dhandayuthapani, 194 Pinewood studio, 4 Pithamagan (2003), 274–278 Pizza (2012), 281–282 Polladhavan (2007), 279 popular films in Tamil language, 1 Pragathi studios, 3, 50, 59, 106

Raakhi (1962), 253 Radha, M.K., 156 Radha, M.R., 35 Ragahavan, V.S., 106, 107–108 Rahman, A.R., 244, 286 Raj Video Vision (Chennai), 2 Rajadurai, S.V., 259 Rajagopalachari, C., 58, 140, 173 Rajakali Amman (2000), 247 Rajakantham, C.T., 54, 62 Rajakumari, T.R., 44, 193–194, 269 Rajalakshmi, T.P., 103 Rajamma, 194 Rajedran, S.S., 119 Rajeshwari, M.S., 119 Rajeshwari, S., 114 Rajinikanth, 245, 282 Enthiran (2010), 12 Sivaji (2007), 243

327

Madras Studios Ram Aur Shyam (1967), 242 Ram Rajya (1943), 113 Ramachandran, D.B., 115 Ramachandran, M.G. (MGR), 11, 70, 75, 151, 250 Madurai Veeran (1956), 195 Naalai Namathe (1975), 242 Nadodi Mannan (1958), 241 Ramachandran, T.K., 121 Ramachandran, T.R., 116 Ramaiah, B.S., 154 Raman, M.V., 106 Ramanathan, G., 72 Ramanujan, A.K.,125 196 Ramasami, E.V., Ramasami, K.R., 117, 136 Ramasami, Sumathi, 125 Ramasami, V.K., 111 Ramasamy, Periyar E.V., 246 Ramasamy, V., 25 Ramasundaram, Kalaivani, x, 23 Ramiahdass, Thanjai, 198 Ramnoth, K., 22 Rangoon Radha (1956), 261 Rao, B.N., 154 Rao, G. Venkateshwara, 197 Rao, K. Kameswara, 197 Rao, Maruti, 133, 147 Rao, N.T. Rama (NTR), 114, 213 Mana Desam (Our Country, 1949), 194 Rao, P. Nagendra, 107, 197 Rao, Vittal, 60, 63, 253 Rao, W.R. Subba, 34, 50, 52, 61, 63, 68 Rashomon (1950), 265 Rathinam, Kali N., 53–54, 62, 118 Ratnam, Mani, 250–252 Bombay (1995), 12 Nayakan (1987), 12 recitative music, 45 Reddiyar, Ommandhur, 110

Reddy, B. Nagi, 10–11, 116, 190, 192, 224, 229, 241 Reddy, B. Venkatarami, 191 Reddy, Bharathi, 254 Reddy, Bommireddi Narasimha, 212, 236n46 Reddy, H.M. (Talkie Tiger), 40, 103 Reddy, K.V., 197 releases, with English subtitles, 2 remakes, 241–242, 253 Renee, Gladys, 23 Roja (1992), 244 Rowlatt Act, 47 Rukmini, B.N., 108, 150 Rukmini, K.T., 33 Saadhu Mirandaal (1966), 253 Sadhu Aur Shaitaan (1968), 253 Sahasranamam, S.V., 119 Sakunthala, G., 75 Salt Satyagraha, 41–42, 46, 48 Samarth, Shobana, 113, 177n28 Sanskrit in films, 208–209 Sarangapani, 111 Saraswathi Film Laboratories, 106 Saraswathi Sabatham (1966), 246 Saroja, B.S., 194 Saroja, M., 250 Sarpotdar, Narayanrao D., 105 Sastry, K.N.T., 218 Satagopan, V.V., 154 Sati Leelavathi (1936), 151–152 Savithri, 193, 216, 227–229 science-fiction, 245 Seetharaman, Javert, 266 Sekar, S.C., 122 Self-Respect League, 125 Sengupta, N.C., 205 Sethu (1999), 274 Shankar, S. (director), 12, 243 Indian (1996), 12 Jeans (1998), 12

328

Index Shanmugam, A., 50 Shanmugam, M., 44 Shanmugham, T.K., 110 Shanthakumari, 194 Shanthi (1965), 253 Sharada (1957), 220 Sharma, Thuraiyur Rajagopala, 102, 108 Shearer, Norma, 25 Shepperton studio, 4 Shirdi studio, 3 Shobana studio, 3 Shri Raja Rajeshwari (2001), 247

Subrahmanyam, K., 60, 66, 152 Thyagabhoomi (1939), 58 Subramanian, K.V., 45 Subramaniyapuram (2008), 278–279 Sudharsanam, R., 108, 114, 119, 126 Suguna Vilasa Sabha, 269 Sujatha, 245 Sundaram, P.N., 4 Sundaram, Thiruchengodu Ramalingam, ix, 22. See also Modern Theatres budgeting of films, 29 choice of costumes and make-up,

Silappathikaram, 102, 178n38 Silver Screen (magazine), 18, 24–25, 155 centrality of songs in films, 44 Singh, Udham, 47 Sivathamby, Karthigesu, 53, 258 16 Vayathiniley (1977), 282 Solaimalai, M.S., 253 Somasundaram, M., 269 Soodhu Kavvum (2013), 281, 286–287

31 supervision on activities, 28 direct disciplinarian attitude, 27–29 early British films, influence of, 22–23 education, 22 establishment of black and white film processing laboratory, 26 folklore and Buddhist tales, influence of, 85 leadership style, 27

sound-recording facilities, in Madras, 104 Sri Bannari Amman (2002), 247 Sri Lankan–Tamil conflict, 257–258, 260 Srinivasa Cinetone, 104 Srinivasa Kalyanam (1981), 104 Srinivasan, A.L., 11 Sriramulu, Potti, 192 Sriranjani, 119 Star Combines studio, 3 studio space, 129–142, 245 studio system, in Tamil cinema, 2 Madras (1945), 3 South India (1949), 3 Subbu, Kothamangalam, 60 Subbulakshmi, M.S., 70, 104, 152

love for English films and novels, 24, 29, 34 as a partner in Angel Films, 23 Ramalinga Vilas, 25 sense of punctuality and shooting schedule, 27 Sundarambal, K.B., 169 Sundararajan, Pe. Ko., 18 Suraj (1966), 252 Suryakumari, 194 Suryaprabha, 194 Swamy, A.S.A., 60 Swamy, Durai, 119 Tamil films, 32 from 1931 to 2003, 1, 21 aesthetics, 50, 54

329

Madras Studios Anandan’s account, 21 big-budget movies, 243, 245 contribution of actresses from other states, 193–194 digital technology, 240 Dravidian ideology and, 260–263 dystopia and, 272–288 early film production facilities, 23 history of, ix Kalidas (1931), 40 mythological films, 89n29, 246–247 new millennium, 282–286 obsession with Hindi film tunes,

as Desiya/Nationalist film, 41–42 characterizations, 36 Chokkanathan’s heroics, 45–46 cinematography, 49 contemporary political issues, use of, 38–39, 46–47 credit titles, 56–57 deep-focus photography, application of, 52 folk tradition in, 53–54 historical and sociocultural factors, 37, 47, 56 mythic nature of narrative, 37–38

103 method, 69, 105 playback role of songs in, 35–36, 44 secular nature of the Madras film industry, 90n36 singing criterion for heroes, 42–43 Telugu identity in, 195 theme of nationalism, 40 war efforts of government through films, 58 Tenali Ramakrishna (1941), 220

pagal vesham/masquerade of Koothu/folk theater, 54aspect patriotic aspirations in, 56 plot, 36–37, 49–50 preproduction work of, 41 screenplay of, 43 set, 37–38, 46 songs and dances, 43, 53–54 special effects in, 50, 52–53 technical finesse of, 41 use of double-role format, 39, 49

Thaalikaatha Kaaliamman (2001), 247 Thambi, A.V.P. Asai, 250 Thirumal Perumai (1968), 246 Thirumbippaar (1953), 263 Thiruvalluvar, 55 Thiruvarutchelvar (1967), 246 Thiruvilaiyadal (1965), 246 Thyagabhoomi (1939), 152 traces/legacy of studio system, 12 Universal Pictures Corporation, 34 Uthama Puthiran (1940), 239, 241, 243, 252 acts of protest against unjust taxes, 42 adaptation of Dumas’s The Man in the Iron Mask, 36

Uthirippookkal (1979), 282 Uttarakanda (Ramayana) 114 Uyarndha Manithan (1968), 270–272 Vaayaadi (1940), 135, 251 Vairamuthu, 244 Vanaraja Carzan (Tamil, 1938), 33 Varalakshmi, G., 81, 194, 248 Vasan, S.S., 9, 112, 116, 157. See also Gemini Studios as a distributor, 152 as editor of Ananda Vikatan, 151 Avvaiyar project, 158–174 early career of, 150–153 folkloric-mythical films, 155 Miss Malini (1947), 173 serialization of novels, 151

330

Index Vasantha, K.L.V., 154 Vasundhara, 194 Vauhini studio, 3 Veera Pandiya Kattabomman (dir. B.R. Panthulu, 1959), 195 Veeram (2014), 254 Velaikkari (1949), 261–262 Velayutham, Selvaraj, 16 Velayuthasamy, T.P., 35 Velez, Lupe, 25 Velsamy, S., 53, 67 Venkatarama, Garlapati Tenali, 202 Venkataswami, Ra., 28, 31, 34, 50 Venkatesan, P.G., 114 105 Venkatraman, Lalitha, Venus Film Company, 219 Vijaya Productions, 254 Vijaya-Vauhini Studios, 4–5, 16, 21 Bhairava Dweepam (1994), 190 Brundavanam (1992), 190 Chandamama/Ambulimama (magazine), 67 Dharmapathni (1941), 212 Enga Veettu Pillai (1965), 16

Maya Bazaar (1957), 195, 198, 211 Missiamma (1955), 10, 190, 193, 198, 211–230 Nam Naadu (1969), 16 Pathala Bhairavi (1951), 10, 190, 193, 195 productions, 190–191 Samsaram (1950), 211–212 Shaukaru (1950), 205 Shavukaru (1950), 191, 211–213 sound equipments, 205 Sri Krishnarjuna Vijayam (1996), 190 Swargaseema (1945), 212 205 Yehi Hai Zindagi (1977), Vijayam, J.G., 72, 193 Vijayashanthi, 247 Vikatan Media Services, 17 Vikram, 243 Vyjayantimala, 116 Wadia, J.B.H., 58 war films, 58–59 war newsreels, 58

Grihalakshmi (1938), 193 Gunasundari (1955), 198 Kadan Vangi Kalyanam (1958), 198 Kalyanam Panni Paar (1952), 198 major title-cards of production company, 197 Mariamman (1948), 207

Warner, Jack, 24 Whale, James, 36 Wong, Anna May, 25 World War II, impact on film production, 59 Zanuck, Darryl F., 29 Zvelebil, Kamil V., 154, 158–159, 208

331

About the Author Swarnavel Eswaran Pillai, PhD, is assistant professor in the English, and Media and Information Departments at Michigan State

University. He is a graduate of the premier film school in Asia, The Film and Television Institute of India, and is an accomplished documentarian whose films include Thangam, The Indian National Army , and Villu (The Bow). His recent documentaries are Unfinished Journey (2012) and Migrations of Islam (2014), and he is currently working on Hmong Memories at the Crossroads. He earned his doctoral degree in film studies from the prestigious University of Iowa, and his research areas include the history, theory, production of documentaries andcomplex experimental films, and theand specificity of Tamil cinema and its relationship with Hollywood as well as popular Hindi cinema. His recent publications include the book Cinema: Sattagamum Saalaramum (Cinema: Frame and a Window) (2012), an anthology of scholarly essays in Tamil on documentaries and experimental films, and the essays “1970s Tamil Cinema and the Post-Classical Turn” (2014), and “Mirugavidusagam: Theatre of the Body, Ritual, and Land” (2013).

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Madras Studios Narrative Genre and Ideology in Tamil Cinema by Swarnavel Eswaran Pillai.pdf

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