In Viduthalai Part 2, a film that leans more on thought than emotion, more on words than feelings, my favourite portion is a brief, tender exchange between Perumal (Vijay Sethupathi) and Mahalakshmi (Manju Warrier). They are united by their disillusionment with life and society. Mahalakshmi has almost adopted the appearance of a man (and we later learn why), while Perumal, when tentatively reaching out to her about the prospect of a relationship, stammers and stutters, unsure of himself. Vetrimaran beautifully allows Mahalakshmi time to respond to Perumal’s proposal, time to think, time in which to give us a beautiful Ilaiyaraaja song. And when you hear his melody, love, expectedly, blooms.
Director: Vetrimaaran
Cast: Vijay Sethupathi, Manju Warrier, Kishore, Gautham Menon, Rajiv Menon
Rating: 3/5
Vijay Sethupathi is uniquely gifted in such spaces—shedding any baggage of masculinity and embracing tenderness with ease (think 96). Watch him in a scene after the interval, when Mahalakshmi, now growing her hair again, blossoms under his gaze. Sethupathi flashes a smile so tender it could melt stone. This fleeting love story is the emotional heartbeat of Viduthalai Part 2, and for me, its most compelling stretch.
This love story, however, is but a side quest in a film that occupies itself with loftier political goals. Director Vetrimaaran makes brave choices, including the decision to switch protagonists between the two parts. In Viduthalai Part 1, Soori’s Kumaresan led the story, while Vijay Sethupathi’s Vaathiyaar was in the background. Here, the roles reverse. This means that the film must now draw us into Vaathiyaar’s world—a man far more verbose, far more eager to rebellion. Where Kumaresan was quietly conscientious, Vaathiyaar is full of speech and action, which the film is sometimes guilty of overusing, especially the former. Even when in action, he’s full of words—which, of course, is his preferred choice of weapon, it seems.
This second part is rich in ideas about resistance and rebellion, about the cyclical dance of oppression and retaliation, about the power of ideology to inspire and divide. Yet, the film often spells out these themes in dialogue rather than trusting us to introspect and feel. Vaathiyaar’s frequent lectures—somewhere between academic arguments and revolutionary slogans—dull the emotional weight as well. There’s a lot of spelling things out. For instance, the idea of Mahalakshmi growing her hair is a beautiful symbol of her willingness to trust again. It is abundantly clear when we see this happen, yet the film insists on spelling it out in a conversation—it’s almost as though it doesn’t want to trust us with just the visual detail.
That’s a strange choice for Vetrimaaran, a filmmaker capable of creating riveting drama even in bureaucratic, almost boring, spaces. Consider the opening scene: a minister enters a room full of educated officers. What could have been, and in most cases, would be mundane becomes rousing, as the scene grows into a critique of the difference between superficial qualification and true understanding. The minister’s defensive response to a perceived slight over his lack of education is layered with unspoken truths that invite introspection. What’s real education? A degree? A certificate of academic qualification? Or being able to see commonalities where only differences seem obvious? It’s a great scene because there is enough that is unsaid, enough for us to observe and introspect.
Yet, this is not a film in which Vaathiyaar leaves much unsaid. Perhaps taking cue from his role as a teacher, he seems almost over-eager to impart instruction, to share wisdom. When accused of conveniently falling in love with the daughter of a rich man, he closes his repartee with a single word: “Pesalaam” (Let’s talk). This implies dialogue, of course. Yet, his dialogues often feel less like conversations and more like sermons. People around him comply too easily—whether it’s picking up weapons at his command or abandoning them when he changes his mind. Vaathiyaar, it seems, is rarely tested by the narrative in the way Kumaresan was in the first film. The events are there; the film just doesn’t seem to be able to translate them into emotions.
The result is a film that feels fragmented, constantly shifting focus. Vaathiyaar’s journey takes him from delivering Marxist lectures to building bombs, from questioning policemen’s worldviews to narrating details of past events like the train track explosion. He is almost Vedha-esque, in his composure under stress, in his eagerness to share stories to confused policemen. He is referred to as a ‘ghost’. Curiously, it is Kumaresan, reduced to a narrator reading a long letter to his mother, who feels like a ghost from the first film. His vulnerability and confusion, it must be said, felt far more relatable, more affecting, than Vaathiyaar’s rhetorical certainty in this film. Perhaps that’s why even though Perumal executes many people—and at one point, viciously hacks away at a dead man—it’s the slightest sign of protest from Kumaresan that invoked more joy within me. At the end of Viduthalai Part 2, it’s hard not to wish that it had done more with this conscientious constable.
Ilaiyaraaja’s music, though, is on song, regardless of whether the scenes stand for power or poetry. You want an anthem for resistance? He’s there. You want a tender love song? He gives you ‘Manasula’. You want him to back you up as you stand up, ready to kill in self-defence. He’s there again. You want to capture Perumal’s hesitation in expressing love? He brings in quiet strains of the song as his wing-man. His music, in its seeming simplicity, in its refusal to vie for superiority with the other elements of the film, is such a sensitive addition to a film about many sensitive topics.
And yet, for all its value, if it feels like I’m disappointed with Viduthalai Part 2, it’s simply because a film with as much political utility, as much understanding about oppression and rebellion, needed to be armed with more compelling drama and emotion, and perhaps a clearer road towards its goals. As for Perumal, apart from those tender portions he gets with Mahalakshmi, he remains a man whose words we hear, but whose heart we don’t consistently see.
And yet, this is Vetrimaaran, one of our finest filmmakers. Even in a film that keeps us at a distance, there are undeniable moments of glory. Watch how he captures the slight addition of colour to a moonlit, gray night to capture a brutal transformation scene of Perumal. Watch Kishore thunder, “DEI nu kooptaa, ennaDA nu kelunga.” Watch Mahalakshmi and Perumal, at different times, say, “Sollanumnu thonichu.” Observe a battle choreographed in the chaos of a sugarcane field. Notice the trolley problem variations that bring light into dark minds. See the poetic end which has Kumaresan, in his own way, providing an answer to the seemingly unanswerable question posed by Perumal.
It’s a film by a master, full of craft and ideas, but it would be fair to say that even if he is among our best, this film isn’t quite among his best—far from it, I think. For, this is a film that has much much fodder for thought, not as much for feeling. And with cinema, I do seek the latter more. Any healthy transformation, I think, is likely to happen more from a place of emotion than from a place of cold thought. Perhaps that explains why Kumaresan takes as long to make the inevitable transformation in this film—and even then, he, like us, doesn’t seem entirely convinced.
(This review was originally written for and published on Cinemaexpress.com.)
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