There is a distinct similarity between music and cinema. There are seven musical notes set to a pattern depending on the genre just like there are only so many stories you can tell about human behaviour or relationships. The interpretation depends on the skill of the artiste or the director. Like Ilaiyaraja once said that you cannot create a new note. “It already exists. I play the same ‘Kalyani’. Carnatic musicians sulked when Raja set ‘Mari Mari Ninne’ to Saramathi rather than Thyagaraja’s version in Kambhoji but now T.M. Krishna sings Mangalam in Harikambodhi!The beauty of carnatic music is that it is open to interpretation depending on the imagination of the artiste. Carnatic music is no longer meditative because musicians are allotted slots and keep glancing furtively at the clock. Again you cannot expect everyone who loves ‘Petta’ to appreciate ‘Merku Thdarchi Malai’. The beauty lies in the diversity. It’s only because of contradictions that we confer and converse. Cinema, like music, reflects the sensibility of the creator as much as the consumer.
There have been films about musicians but ‘Sarvam Thala Mayam’ is brave because it talks about an instrument which when played alone or in tandem with other percussion in a concert is like the interval in cinema, when people file out to grab a smoke or a cuppa. The metaphor lies in the marginalisation like caste demarcation overwhelmingly influencing the choice of vocation. A mridangist might be a genius but the fact that he’s still just an accompanist is beautifully established in a conversation between Nedumudi Venu and Sikkil Gurucharan after a concert. The plot is predictable and meanders momentarily but it’s all about the screenplay that flows unhurriedly and nuggets like these that makes ‘STM’ engaging. The characters are fleshed out and carefully written. Rajiv himself a huge fan of carnatic music doesn’t take sides. The stance is not rabid like a Pa Ranjith film nor is it ambivalent. It’s not amusical in the sense that scenes are not written as interlude to songs. The story unfolds gently, sans hysterics and hyperbole, like the heroine imparting advice that fans of film stars should get a more meaningful life. Rajiv also touches upon mridangists reluctance to accompany female vocalists. Palghat Mani Iyer’s excuse was that they were a distraction!
Rajiv Menon’s emergence from cinematic hibernation is not path breaking, but pleasant. He doesn’t attempt to thrust his opinions. In fact, it’s as if he’s questioning his own rigidity in taste and an attempt to unshackle it. Rajiv is a carnatic aficionado and a good singer too. ‘Varalama’ in the film is his composition if I’m not mistaken. It sounds like a romantic number but is more an urging to break caste barriers in spheres of art, in fact in life. The best of talents need inspiration and Rajiv manages to coax a couple of pleasant tunes from A.R. Rahman.
The characterisation of Vembu Iyer and the casting of Nedumudi Venu is a masterstroke. He’s a bit like Bilahari Marthanda Pillai in KB’s ‘Unnal Mudiyum Thambi’ but more tolerant and broad minded. He recognises talent and doesn’t mind the absence of a so-called sacred thread. He’s also unlike the Guru in ‘Hamsa Geethe’ who quietly slips out and is found floating in a pond when his ‘sishya’ sets and sings ‘Himadri suthe’ to a different rhythmic pattern and wows ‘rasikas’. There is a maturity in his reaction to key situations that’s heartening. The rest of the characters are neatly fleshed out, even the stock one like the jealous disciple. It’s the romantic interludes that appear placid. Rajiv seems to hurry through them to show that’s not the crux. The big question is whether Rajiv is saying that tradition is to be passed to those with passion and is not the legacy of a particular caste or that music should not be fettered by form. It’s a bit of both. In the end the hero travelling through the country and learning various percussion instruments seems to help him win a reality show more than the training under his Guru. I loved the end where we see the hero accompanying Bombay Jayashree rendering ‘Makelara Vicharamu’. It’s like the rhythm of life. You adhere even as you seek to create your own.
S.Shiva Kumar
sshivu@yahoo.com
