[First part: A Letter to Lijo Jose Pellissery]
A second viewing of Lijo Jose Pellissery’s Nanpakal Nerathu Mayakkam confirms it as one of the highest achievements of Indian filmmaking and among the great spiritual works of cinema. More than a film that respects its audience, it is one that intimates us of the mysteries beyond the everyday. I still cannot wrap my head around its existence and believe/hope that its innermost secrets will continue to elude me.
Nanpakal is certainly an exploration of religious hypocrisy, but not with the derision and anger that it usually goes with. In my first viewing, I was moved to think of Luis Buñuel because of the peripatetic nature of the story, the absurd humour and the focus on group dynamic. But a more pertinent point of reference is the cinema of Roberto Rossellini, in which “there’s but one step from scandal to miracle” (Alain Bergala).
Set ostensibly around the month of Margazhi/Christmas time, Nanpakal is playing with both Hindu and Christian mythology, specifically the notions of reincarnation and resurrection, complete with a “noli me tangere” moment. James-as-Sundaram is a revenant whose return only occasions disbelief and suspicion among the devout. (The soundtrack plays “Paartha Nyabagam Illayo” from Puthiya Paravai (1964), another tale of a revenant.) Like Rossellini’s The Miracle (1948), in which a simple shepherdess takes a passing vagabond for St. Joseph and becomes pregnant, inviting the ridicule of her upright Catholic community, Nanpakal reflects on the impossibility of true belief. Or rather, on the tragedy that miracles can appear only in the form of heresy or delusion.
Part of why it may be hard to see that a miracle does indeed occur in Nanpakal is that the film doesn’t signal its shift into a meta-fictional mode as openly as, say, Certified Copy (2010) or Fauna (2020). We are introduced to James in the first act of the film as a control freak, and his transformation into Sundaram, a man who is capable of letting go, is not supported by rational explanation. And cinematic structures don’t allow for viewer identification over such radical discontinuities of consciousness (which is the reason films about multiverses like Everything Everywhere All at Once (2022) cannot transcend fundamental emotional limitations). As a result, it is not James, but his unchanging co-passengers who offer us a stable if sceptical guiding perspective through the remainder of the film. (I wonder how the film would have played had James and Sundaram been portrayed by two different actors.)
Yet I think a more rewarding if demanding way to watch Nanpakal is remain with James/Sundaram, to believe. That is the only way to get a sense of the Christ-like tragedy he is put through. What does it mean for James to walk away from his wife Sally (Ramya Suvi) and enter the bedroom of another woman, to be placed in a situation of infidelity? A chastening punishment? Purification through sin? To be turned into everything you hate sounds less like a miracle than a curse, but it is also a calling, a Damascene conversion through unlikely grace.
But there is another marital triangle in Nanpakal. We are told that the original Sundaram, whom we glimpse out of focus at the end of the film, disappeared in the holy town of Pazhani two years ago, creating a breach in the fabric of his community. In James-Sundaram’s familiarity with the place and its people, we see how closely the man was integrated into the life of the village. It is hinted vaguely that Sundaram’s wife Poovally (an excellent Ramya Pandian) has now been ‘promised’ to his brother (Namo Narayana) and that she is/was suspected of infidelity—an accusation refuted by the faithful dog that guards her and the household. Even though she speaks little, Poovally gets the most moving moments of the film. In Sundaram’s magical reappearance lies both a hope and a vindication for her, a closure for a grieving community.
Sundaram’s visually-impaired mother is the only one who has the power of recognizing the miracle, of believing in Sundaram’s return; rather, she seems to have never had a doubt. She serves as the film’s Greek chorus, laughing when others are distressed, crying when others are relieved. If her privileged perspective mimics that of the impossible, ideal viewer of the film, Poovally and Sally offer more intriguing, transitional points of view, between mother’s iron-clad faith and the disbelieving crowd, receptive to doubt and amenable to revision. Suspended in confusion, they accept their altered circumstances wordlessly, letting those around them decide the course of action on their behalf.
It is however through the patience and willing passivity of the two women that the miracle is consummated, that everyone manages to find a way out of their situation. Little happens, in contrast, when men take things into their own hands. The pilgrims and villagers eventually get out of the crisis just as they got into it, that is to say, through the arbitrary workings of transcendent will. “The Rossellinian character is touched by grace when he is least expecting it,” notes Bergala. “The real miracle for Rossellini,” he continues “is that which happens necessarily outside of deliberate choice, conscious thought and even faith.” This is true of Nanpakal too.
Unlike Jallikattu (2019) and Churuli (2021), the two earlier works that Pellissery developed with writer S. Hareesh, Nanpakal is sparse on dramatic incident, which means that there are fewer literary themes and moral lessons to be drawn. Instead, the film harks back persistently to cinematic spectatorship even as it draws on painterly and theatrical traditions. Nanpakal is the cinephile movie par excellence, and watching it as an irate viewer sandwiched between noisy, distracted people, as I did the second time, was an uncanny experience. Rejecting his real community (which happens to be that of theatre), James yearns to belong to another that won’t have him. And what is cinephilia if not the illicit thrill of being in places, seeing and listening to things that weren’t intended for you?
I don’t think any other film has ever quite captured the violently destabilizing feeling of stepping out of the dark of the movie theatre as Nanpakal does in its final moments, when Sundaram dissociates from his role to become James again and the entire pilgrim group trickles out of the village in ruminative silence like a stunned audience. The penultimate shot where James is alone in the bus, solemnly looking out to the village—and at us—so startlingly captures (and in Nanpakal’s case foreshadows) the experience of a perceptive spectator returning home after a particularly overwhelming viewing experience.
I did not have trouble with the film’s pervasive audio citation the second time around, and I think the film’s soundtrack is beautifully mixed in the way it drifts in and out of our conscious attention. All the syrupy scores, the cynical soundbites from M.R. Radha and the advertisements of the 90s combine to hold us in a state of fugue, and Nanpakal deploys them for sudden swings in mood, tone and texture. At several points, Pellissery’s film flits wildly from sad to funny, from absurd to touching, accessing emotional terrains I have rarely experienced in Indian cinema. A supremely spiritual work will stand the test of time.
February 27, 2023 at 9:43 am
A brief explainer on the film’s unique soundtrack:
Contrary to what is said on Twitter, Nanpakal does have some original score (in the climactic slumber and a little before). But for the most part, it uses a mix of old Tamil film music and dialogue (and a bit from Malayalam cinema in the bus) in uncanny ways. It is a soundscape that should have a strange resonance for Tamil audiences (or at least for a certain generation of Tamil audience), not because these songs and dialogues are intimately familiar to everyone, but because they are slightly beyond the ordinary: they are scarcely played on television and radio anymore and may be entirely alien to someone below 30. That’s my guess, in any case.
These sound bites comment on the film’s action in oblique ways, but seeking their significance only ruins the fun. I would think the best way to watch the film is to not pay attention to the songs and dialogue and just let their specific sound quality wash over you. Just as it is futile to “explain” the film in rational terms; indeed, the film gently mocks that very instinct.
It seems to me that Pellissery is playing very consciously with the form of the Mythological in Tamil cinema, i.e. films such as Thiruvilayadal (1965) that anthologize divine games through miracle stories set on Earth. Nanpakal doesn’t frame it explicitly, but the sense of a divine puppet master pulling the strings is palpable throughout, not least in James’s final reverie with rolling clouds and percussive music that forms part of the conventional mise en scène of the Mythological. The irony here is that bookending the film with a scene of Gods completing their narration may have made the film more logical for Tamil audiences than the open ending it now has.
Nanpakal orchestrates a play between divine and secular impulses on the its soundtrack, which uses a combination of devotional music and cynical dialogue by the rationalist, tough-as-nails atheist that M.R. Radha famously played on screen. Nanpakal draws liberally from Radha’s tragedy Ratha Kanneer (1954), a cautionary tale about a man named (Mohana)Sundaram who leaves his wife for a seductress, only to return to her in the form of a contrite leper. In Nanpakal, we hear Radha mock superstition, religious symbols and fake piety. Counterbalancing it are hymns (Skantha Sashti Kavasam, Thiruppavai), excerpts from Mythological serials (one set on Mount Kailash, the abode of Shiva and Parvati) and an exegesis about the meaning of the Supreme Being. The latter is a particularly inspired reference for those familiar with such early morning shows on cable television.
I made a playlist of the songs used in the film here.
Fortunately, not all have thematic relevance. Here are some additional comments on the ones that do.
– Irukkum Idathai Vittu (from the Mythological Thiruvarutchelvar, 1967): a “philosophical” song about man’s eternal wanderings. The opening lines go something like “The poor men wander, shunning the place where [He] is, seeking the place where [He] isn’t.” The next paragraph has lines to the effect of “He thinks only of You, he speaks the truth, he becomes the enemy of the people.”
– Iraivan Irukkindrana? (from the movie Avan Pithana, 1966): Opening line translates to “Is there a God? asks Man”
– Arodum Mannil (from the movie Pazhani, 1965): Nanpakal is set near the holy town of Pazhani, also the name of Sundaram’s father.
– Ariyathu Ketkin (from the Mythological Kanthan Karunai, 1967): The song features an exchange between Lord Muruga, one of whose abodes is Pazhani, and the saint-poetess Avvaiyar. The line referenced in Nanpakal pertains to a question by Muruga about what is sweet in the world. Avvaiyar begins by describing what a sweet thing solitude is, before enumerating even sweeter things.
– Partha Nyabagam Illayo? (from the movie Puthiya Paravai, 1964): The translation goes “Don’t you remember?” and is sung by the hero’s dead fiancée who returns to life!
– Mayakkama Kalakkama? (from the movie Sumai Thangi, 1962): “Are you dazed, are you confused?” The song features the protagonist’s double as a shadow on a wall, a similar shot appears in Nanpakal.
– Veedu Varai Uravu (from the movie Paadha Kaanikkai): Hilarious reference. Another “philosophical” song about the essential loneliness of man that begins with the lines “How mighty you were! The words you spoke! The wealth you amassed!” It’s a number set at a funeral whose main lyrics go “Your kin stop at your doorstep/your wife at the street/your son at the graveyard/who would accompany you till the end?” Apt, given the funereal quality of Nanpakal‘s final scene. Here is a better translation.
The eerie high-pitched sounds in Nanpakal come from Kalai Arasi (1963), the unique Tamil sci-fi movie that already featured in Saani Kaayidham (2022). There are also TV and radio ads from the 90s that play on the soundtrack, for Boost, Aasai Chocolate, Nirma Washing Powder and so on — brilliantly bizarre choices which makes it harder to determine the time period of the film.
LikeLike
March 2, 2023 at 1:39 am
I think the comparisons to Rossellini through Bergala are very pertinent here, and I found your observations on the film’s spirituality quite illuminating (in both parts). You drew attention to LJP’s inclusion of both the material and spiritual at the church, and I think he makes it clear before the film begins through his acknowledgement of God, an ad and filmmakers. It is reflected in his free-floating sound collage, which intermingles ads, devotional songs and movie dialogues. As you rightly pointed out in your comment, I don’t think this requires any explanation or direct thematic linkage as these freely intermingle with each other, just like the performances in the film. I have read enough articles on how LJP’s static images recall the theatre, but his penchant for perching his camera on doorways and porches allows for a radical exchange of film and theatre, spirituality and secularism, language and state borders and identity and performativity. I believe the Tamil word “vasapadi” (doorway) is better suited than doorway, as it speaks of a transitional state, which is particularly apt for LJP’s style in his tranquil acceptance of events. The mostly diegetic sound collage ( which you wonderfully called found footage of sound) does indeed put us in a fugue state, but it also offers the emotional ruptures that the tranquil camera doesn’t. The impossibility of true belief, as you rightly put it, is subtly explored through this stylistic choice, where all the disbelief seems to come from the characters in the story while the director calmly observes the proceedings. Also, I loved your take on the ending. The quick dispersal of the Malayali theatre troupe from the village was indeed quite jarring. I did think of the felicitous usage of “Veedu varai uravu”, tying the film’s themes of birth and death together, but the end of the film is like a rebirth itself. Great couple of reviews, it inspired so many thoughts in me as the best critics do. (P.S., are Bergala’s writings available in English? I have only read him secondhand through other critics).
LikeLike
March 2, 2023 at 8:54 am
Hi Anand,
Thank you so much for your close reading, kind words and your perceptive appreciation of the film.
I am not aware of Bergala’s writing in translation. The quotes above come from a remarkable essay on modernity in cinema that introduces a collection of Rossellini interviews and texts he edited titled Le cinéma révélé. It’s a very long essay, but I hope I can translate it some day.
Cheers!
LikeLike
March 2, 2023 at 3:34 pm
I look forward to the translation. Reading Deleuze’s Time Image, I realized there were a lot of French critics who seemed interesting, and the only people I have read in English are Daney, the Cahiers Du Cinema filmmakers and Moullet (on your site), and even their translated works are few. So it will be nice to read others. Also, I thought Deleuze’s reading of Ozu through Leibnitz seemed pertinent to this film. To be clear, I don’t think LJP is similar to Ozu, but to Deleuze’s reading of Ozu, where he points to how much the universe is in order and follows a particular sequence but humans cannot perceive it as it doesn’t reveal itself as a whole, but fragments, so the order seems jumbled. The tranquil camera style reminded me of that in some places.
LikeLike
March 2, 2023 at 6:43 pm
I was reminded of Ozu too in the shots of the overhead wires against bright skies!
LikeLike