"to forget her is to first cut my heart out"

a formal analysis of ponniyin selvan part 1's pre-interval stretch

I think for me (and so many others), the scenes with Aditha Karikalan in the pre-interval stretch of PS-1 are the pinnacle of what Mani Ratnam does best: elegantly constructed emotional filmmaking. On the surface, this stretch is an unraveling of Aditha Karikalan’s past and psychology via an intercutting of flashbacks with an impassioned monologue and the Chola Chola song. It is a moment of dramatic and emotional emphasis in a film largely dictated by plot and story. Ratnam is no stranger to explosive subjective access, however I am interested in the specifics of how he constructs the viewer experience during the pre-interval stretch, and ultimately why this part of the film is its most striking and impactful (and maybe the strongest filmmaking from Ratnam in the past decade).

I want to start with the scene before the big monologue, Aditha is shown washing his face with water and turns to Parthibendran after he says to “forget her [Nandini].” We get this MCU (medium closeup):

The most immediately salient aspect of the composition is the intense backlight/near silhouetting of Aditha, shrouding his face in nearly complete darkness as he screams at Parthibendran. Aside from being a formal translation of Aditha’s attempt to conceal his anger, the viewer is initially closed off to any expressive/facial expressions of Aditha, we are only meant to read his interiority via the dialogue. Ratnam wants to build a sense of anticipation in the viewer, it’s that calm before the storm, before the explosion. What further underlines this blocking of interiority is the Rahman musical cue, which recalls the very first non-expository shot of the film, a cloud of smoke that Ratnam stays on until Aditha emerges from it, what can only be interpreted in retrospect as a “clouding” of interiority via a very literal implementation of smoke in the mise-en-scene. More importantly, the score and similar blocking of access paint that first image in a totally different light. It isn’t a heroic “mass” entry shot. It’s a frame fundamentally haunted by Aditha’s demons, the ghost of Nandini and his pain associated with her is unescapable, all consuming.

In fact, Aditha washing his face before facing Parthibendran is such an integral beat that informs the subtext of the scene: he can’t wash away the rage and the pain. The denial of interiority here reminded me of how Ratnam blocks character access for Meghana/Moina in Dil Se until right before the interval, when she opens up to SRK’s Amar. Then we get to Aditha’s monologue. Ratnam brings us into the scene with a wide establishing shot, which is imperative for the viewer’s spatial perception given what’s about to come next. Perhaps the typical “prestige costume drama” way or the “90s Ratnam way” to cover Aditha’s monologue would be a slow dolly-in, to bolster the melodrama by focusing on Aditha’s expressions. However, Ratnam is too smart a filmmaker to do what’s already been done, it’s about pushing the language always. Instead, Ravi Varman’s camera zooms in and out, going in and out of focus, moving back and forth, as if the unpredictabilities of the wind is what dictates the ebbs and flows of the camera. It’s clear we are entering a deeply subjective experience, Ratnam fusing Aditha’s subjectivity into the formal/directorial/camera subjectivity. In other words, the disorienting camerawork is a direct mirror of Aditha’s interiority, the emotional immediacy so palpable for the viewer, the viewer meant to feel the nostalgia, love, pain, anger, and madness of Aditha’s story. Ratnam initially intercuts the monologue with flashes of Aditha and Nandini as young lovers. These flashes are continuous with Ratnam’s interest in coordinating Aditha’s interiority with the specific formal choices. For instance, images of young Nandini are abstracted in some way, either through focus or slow-motion, followed by an image of Aditha gazing or looking. The images of Aditha feel distinctly plain. We are seeing her through his eyes, memories clouded with Aditha’s romanticization of his past.

Even Nandini’s “disappearance” is represented as an out-of-focus shot of her running away from Aditha, backlit by the setting sun, fittingly the first time that Aditha Karikalan died. This is not “bad technique” as many have tried to say it is, it is deliberate stylization, meant to elaborate on not just Aditha’s pain but the way he perceives his own memories.

Young Karikalan screams “Nandini!” right after, which functions as a sound bridge back to the present. And now, the second time that Aditha Karikalan died, the moment that made him a walking corpse. Initially, we only get two flashes as he’s describing the incident at the hut, both are images of him opening a door and looking at something or someone that the viewer doesn’t have access to, almost as if Aditha himself in the “present day” is unable to confront the memory. As he does say after, “everything is to forget.” This initial denial is frustrating for the viewer, but that’s exactly Ratnam’s intention, we want to know more and Ratnam soon delivers that information to us. From there, the film goes into an abridged version of Chola Chola, more than the truncating of the song, what’s interesting is its placement. On the surface, the song is one of victory after battle, but Ratnam’s placement is a pointed subversion of the warrior masculinity fantasy that a song like this would usually be. Rather than seeing a man of mythical strength and valor, we see a deeply broken and troubled man, a shell of a human being, drowning his sorrows in alcohol and bloodshed. Towards the end of the song, Varman’s handheld camera brings us into a closeup that goes in and out of focus (once again paired with the intense backlight, a Ratnam staple) - the viewer is attuned to the language already, we are about to enter his headspace:

Here, Ratnam smartly differentiates the visual language of the flashback and the language of the “present day.” The language of the flashback/Aditha’s memory is crystal clear, Varman opting for still shots and steadicam, whereas the “present day” language is once again a reflection of Aditha’s emotional response, Varman going for the “unpolished” handheld and optical abstractions of depth of field and focus, paired with camera movement that is almost struggling to keep him within the confines of the frame. For instance, we get steadicam shots of the forest, meant to mimic Aditha’s direct point-of-view, trying to find the Veera Pandiyan king, which are cut against Aditha in the “present day” screaming, as if he’s trying to push the memory away. And finally, we are at the door of the hut with the haunting “Kodi Parakka” reprise. It’s inescapable:

The most fascinating part of this shot is not just that the focus of the shot is on the door, it’s that Ratnam brings in an added element of further crystallizing the image: time manipulation. It’s sobering clarity now. As the door opens, Varman’s camera zooms in to not just reveal but punctuate the image of betrayal, the information that was initially denied to the viewer: Nandini tending to an injured Veera Pandiyan king. Aditha seems to notice the king first, as indicated by his eyeline. The door closes and he opens it again, noticing Nandini specifically, Ratnam communicates this by cutting to a closeup of Nandini. Perhaps Aditha was hoping Nandini would not actually be there after opening the door again:

This closeup of Nandini lasts longer than one would expect. Ratnam’s use of the super slow-mo makes her seem like a still image by the time the door is fully open - again, a haunting crystallization that Aditha will never be able to forget, accented by Rahman’s operatic score. As Aditha enters the hut, Varman executes a steadicam shot that tracks Nandini as she lands at Aditha’s feet, begging him to spare the king. Her emphatic emotional expression contrasts heavily from her “present-day” stoicism. This is where the viewer starts to sense that this flashback reveal is not just insight into Aditha’s motivations and subjectivity but also into the motivations of Nandini, her actions in the “present day” presented before this sequence without explanation or elaboration. Despite this complication, the perspective of this sequence still largely feels one-sided, a subsequent Aditha POV steadicam shot of him approaching the king after he calls out to Nandini bolstering this. The act of violence is covered in two very brief shots - one wide of the act and then a MCU of Nandini in the foreground as the king’s blood splatters on a towel hanging in the background, which both importantly occur in real time. Afterwards, we get a puzzling shot at first glance:

Ratnam brings back the time manipulation to emphasize not the act of violence, but the aftermath of the violence. Initial impression might bring one to think that the low-angle is meant to denote the power of Aditha or indicate the point-of-view of the Veera Pandiyan king, which is strange as he is seemingly dead by this point or losing life. Yet, the positioning of this shot in the context of Ratnam bringing in Nandini’s emotions and the general formal structuring of the pre-interval stretch suggest something more complex. While, yes, the time manipulation sensationalizes the moment, the low-angle shot seems to be doing the opposite of its often textbook implementation: communicating Aditha’s powerlessness. The choice to use the Pandiyan King’s “point-of-view” makes this particularly chilling to both the viewer and to Nandini. Maybe he has physical power over the king in the moment, but the psychic cost is too large. The viewer sees the beginnings of a deeply broken warrior, the slow-motion highlighting the expressions on Vikram’s face that seem to recognize the act of atrocity he’s committed. Yet he can’t help himself. Aditha does not have any control anymore, he is at the mercy of his rage and sadness, this is the inflection point for the rest of his life. Finally, Ratnam cuts back to the “present day” Aditha who continues to scream and closes his eyes, as the camera catches the light and the film goes into intermission. The viewer, finally, has the full picture of why Aditha is the way he is, and just enough insight into what drives Nandini.

I’ll have to admit, the first time I watched this sequence, I was floored with my jaw on the floor. I did not know initially what made this stretch in the film sing for me, though I definitely knew it was layered. Some reflection and thought brought forward some theories. Ultimately, it is the way Ratnam takes the viewer through what could have been an inexpressive and dryly expository chunk of the film in the hands of a lesser filmmaker. The coordination of camera/directorial subjectivity with character subjectivity along with pointed stylistic variations between chronologies in the story are the major structural building blocks. Even more broadly, Ratnam’s interest in creating anticipation by initially holding back information and then just giving it to the viewer in the most expressive way possible further motivates the style and underscores the reveal of information with a sensation of shock in the viewer. It is incredible that we have a master of the craft that continues to surprise us with forward-thinking filmmaking, imagemaking that will continue to inspire me and countless others. We are truly blessed!