My introduction to Malayalam cinema came in the form of a group dance performed at the annual day of my school in Madurai. Dressed like fishermen and fisherwomen, a few of my juniors danced to the song Kadalinakkare Poonore. I later learnt that it was from the critically acclaimed film Chemmeen—the first South Indian movie to win the President’s Medal for Best Film, in 1965. In those days, each South Indian state had its own acting icon—we Tamils had Sivaji Ganesan, Telugus flaunted Nageswara Rao, Kannadigas had Rajkumar and for Malayalis, Prem Nazir was “simbly the best”. Otherwise, for a Tamilian engrossed in Tamil movies, with a monthly dose of Hindi cinema (credit: R.D. Burman) during the ’70s, the brush with Malayalam cinema was only an annual affair—when some film from Kerala would win national honours, finding honourable mention in The Hindu.
For the average Tamil film goer, Avalude Ravukal (Her Nights) briefly became the template of Malayalam cinema—a tell-all movie about a young prostitute. Though it sensitively depicted the pure love between the woman and the hero, the bathroom scenes of Seema emerged as its sole selling point. Soon, I got introduced to two beefy heroes from the other side—Mammooty and Mohanlal. As the CBI officer unraveling a murder mystery in Oru CBI Diary Kurippu, Mammooty was so convincing that I could actually understand the film when it was dubbed in Tamil. Mammooty acted in half-a-dozen Tamil movies, including the political blockbuster Makkal Aatchi (People’s Rule) and as Rajinikanth’s best buddy in Thalapathy. Mohan Lal waltzed into my vision through the DVD route via Madras Mail, a murder mystery where he shared screen space with Mammooty. As an actor, he walked into my heart in Dasaratham, playing the rich bachelor who wants to be a father through the surrogate route. His unobtrusive body language and dialogue delivery often accompanied by that impish smile was brilliant. Mohan Lal also impressed with the musical Bharatham, and had emerged as Malayalam cinema’s most accomplished hero. Mani Ratnam introduced him to Tamil audiences through his classic Iruvar (The Duo).
Even as M and M were ruling Malayalam cinema, a plump, buxom lady with hazel eyes enticed a generation of young males. Within a few years, Shakeela emerged as the BO superstar of Malayalam, notching nearly 100 films till the early 2000s. Shakeela’s movies had many scenes that escaped the censor’s scissors. Even when they got snipped off, producers resorted to another shortcut—they shot more explicit scenes featuring her unseen by the censors. These would be interpolated before the movie hit the screen. A Shakeela movie became hot property across the South, as local distributors would print posters with salacious pictures and bewitching titles. It ensured such a deluge of young movie goers that even films of the big ‘M’s started to suffer. The Malayalam producers’ council even passed a resolution demanding that movies featuring Shakeela should not be released with such feverish frequency. In Chennai, they would be released at select theatres in the suburbs; ticket prices would be hiked for the morning shows—as a small clip of a foreign porn film would be shown briefly with them. This “bit film” as they were called became the icing on the Shakeela cake.
The arrival of Bangalore Days with English subtitles freed audiences like me from the tyranny of language. The young cast—Dulquer, Nivin Pauly, Fahadh Faasil and Nazriya—was a breath of fresh air. That movie set the ball rolling for a wave of great Malayalam cinema (many subtitled) including Premam (which ran for over a year in a Chennai screen), Drishyam and Kumbalangi Nights. During the lockdown, when OTT became a staple diet, Malayalam films opened my eyes to even more great stories, brilliantly told and shorn of artificial additives. But for OTT and subtitles I would have missed the humour in Janamaitri. Suddenly we were getting blown away by the performances of our new discoveries—Soubin in Ambili, Biju Menon in Ayyappanum Koshiyum, Joju George in Joseph and Nayattu, Kunchacko Boban in Lawpoint and Anjam Pathira, Suraj Venjaramoodu in Vikruthi, Anna Ben in Helen and Nimisha Sajayan in The Great Indian Kitchen. In just over a year, Malayalam cinema had taken over our lives. I am not complaining.
(This appeared in the print edition as "Malayalam Film Diary")
