I was in my teens when I saw Uthiripookkal (Scattered Flowers; 1979) on TV. I was impressed by what I later realised was the neo-realism of the film. But at first viewing, the movie remained in its allure most elusive.
What did director Mahendran get right that others before and since go so wrong? How was he different from Bharathiraja? Why was Uthirpookal relegated to being 16 Vayathinile’s poorer cousin? The questions came from all sides with every viewing of Mahendran’s classic.
Uthiripookkal had an urgency that emanated from the director, who populated the film with characters you can’t easily root for. The engine is its main character’s villainy. Actor Vijayan’s Sundaravadivelu is the embodiment of evil itself. His lust for his sister-in-law affects all the other characters in the film.
When justice catches up with Sundaravadivelu in the climax, it doesn’t come from a hero but from the barber, who is only a minor character. It is the village that pronounces the final verdict. It’s the village that sees no redemption for the villain.
Though Vijayan’s oeuvre is varied, this is his most memorable performance. When his wife Lakshmi (Ashwini) borrows money from the health inspector (Sarath Babu), Sundaravadivelu’s outrage is aptly captured by Vijayan. He doesn’t scream or yell, but his anger is piercing and goes to the heart of who this man is.
For all its seriousness, the movie makes a humorous start as the health inspector’s arrival in town is chronicled. On the same day, Prakash (little-known actor Sundar) too comes to the village as the local schoolteacher. Prakash, who appears in a flamboyant black shirt and trousers, is told off by Sundaravadivelu and asked to wear traditional clothes. More than Prakash’s wardrobe disorder, what seems more relevant is that this is India of the 1970s; the film was made a mere 32 years after Independence.
The village school is run by Sundaravadivelu, who is really not dependent on it for his income. It is hinted that he has enough and more land, but is not interested in developing it.
Much of the movie is based on Pudumaipithan’s Chittrannai (Stepmother). Sundaravadivelu torments his wife and treats her with scant respect. Pudumaipithan’s favourite themes of feminism and male chauvinism are underlined in every other scene.
The barber, Karuppiah, appears as a slightly comic character, who treats Lakshmi and her children with great reverence. When the barber is introduced, he is surrounded by villagers, whose weathered faces are captured simply but effectively by Ashok Kumar’s camera.
The barber character gets ample space in the screenplay. The director, famous for his skills as a screenwriter, elevates the low-caste barber into a superior person. I won’t tell you all about the head-shaving scene; enough to say that it is artfully contrived.
Lakshmi’s younger sister Shenbagam, played by Madhu Malini, is a mischievous, free-spirited young woman. Her elder sister watches over her with alert, worried eyes, taking care of even her torn blouse. Lakshmi is prone to various illnesses, prompting Sundaravadivelu to ask for Shenbagam’s hand in marriage. He wants his two wives, who are sisters, to live with him together. It’s this idea, vulgar in its essence, that causes Lakshmi’s father Thambuswamy (Charu Haasan) to detest his son-in-law.
In a smartly done flashback, we also understand that the health inspector had at one time wanted to marry Lakshmi when she was living in another village.
When their son falls ill with chickenpox, Sundaravadivelu asks Lakshmi to approach the health inspector’s office for money despite the fact that he is filthy rich. In many of these scenes, Mahendran’s uncanny ability to get the best out of his actors is on sharp display.
It is not hard to notice the reformation in the dialogues in Tamil cinema. From an era in which theatrical dialogues dominated to one in which everyday conversation takes precedence, the movies had seen a rapid transformation at the hands of Mahendran, Balu Mahendra, Bharathiraja and their ilk.
Mahendran ensures that the story revolves around the children, who are the ‘Uthiripookkal’ of the climax. The song, ‘Azhagiya Kanne’, which won S Janaki the Tamil Nadu State Award for Best Female Playback Singer, is picturised on the children. Upon release, Uthiripookkal, in addition to being critically acclaimed, was also a massive hit.
Ilaiyaraaja’s background score for this film never ceases to amaze me. It’s a pity that the score was not released as a theme the way it is done these days.
The film is a shining example of the art form that collectively came to be called the parallel movement in Tamil cinema. The art movie – famous for its laborious slowness – had just met crispness, vibrancy, verve and style. In Uthiripookkal, the women are not reduced to the song sequences; they inhabit the movie as much as the men.
When Sundaravadivelu tells Lakshmi about his intention to marry her sister, she, in a scene that has Puthumaipithan written all over it, asks him if he would be OK with her marrying another man.
Some of the movie’s brilliance is startling. The fact that the health inspector and his understanding wife can’t have children ties up neatly with the rest of the story. Also, Sarath Babu’s character’s exit halfway through the movie is unexpected. For the rest of the way, the movie doesn’t have its main star. Also, unexpectedly, Ashwini’s turn as Lakshmi is really the standout performance in the movie and the way she holds up against Sarath Babu is exceptional.
The scene set at the village panchayat, one of the set pieces of the movie, is a stellar example of Mahendran’s imagination and Vijayan’s excellence.
Refrains of feminism are strong all through the movie. Thambuswamy’s faith in the panchayat is belied when it ends in large-scale violence. The subsequent police investigation is stalled when the village elders decide not to proceed with the case and to pass verdicts on such matters themselves.
The best scene – and the most impressive – is the one in which Sundaravadivelu attacks the health inspector. The whole of the violence happens offscreen, but Mahendran’s direction is at its best here. He cuts to a naked child rolling on the sand, a river’s hallowed sound and grass whipping in the wind to indicate what transpired. The scene demonstrates debutant B Lenin’s excellent editing skills.
Later, Lakshmi asks Sundaravadivelu for a separation and his permission to take the children with her. When Sundaravadivelu denies permission, she falls ill and dies. In some of these scenes, Sundaravadivelu’s propensity to do evil is much more than the evil he is already doing.
The two children – played by Baby Anju and Master Raja – don’t have many lines. However, the children are captured beautifully in some scenes. In a scene, Bhavani (Anju) is seen giving her brother a soapy bath. After Lakshmi passes away, the children begin a new life by accompanying their ‘chittrannai’ as she mocks their father’s second marriage in a song sequence.
Even with just half-an-hour to end, there is no easy resolution to the movie. A convenient end doesn’t seem to be a part of Puthumaipithan’s sensibilities or Mahendran’s.
Soon enough Sundaravadivelu pretends to have a change of heart, creeping everybody out in the audience. The question of the children comes up and Shenbagam turns down Prakash’s proposal even though she loves him. The song ‘Poda Poda’ would later find a distant cousin in ‘Rukkumani Rukkumani’ in Roja (Rose; 1992). This kuthu pattu comes with barely minutes for the film to end.
Many lines of this song, sung by an elderly woman, has the town howling, yes, howling, with laughter as she says that if her husband had lived, every second person in the town would be her child.
It’s evident at this point that Mahendran is buying time so that he can end the movie in an absolute shocker, which comes in the form of a scene in which Sundaravadivelu insists that he has to give his “blessings” to Shenbagam.
Mahendran does some powerful editing at this point, displaying some of the most innovative work ever done in Tamil cinema. Even as Sundaravadivelu undresses Shenbagam, he cuts to shots of Prakash, the man destined to marry her, plucking leaves from a plant. In the end, Sundaravadivelu doesn’t rape Shenbagam but lays claim as the first man ever to see her naked. This scene makes you wonder if Sundaravadivelu can ever be charged by law in a manner befitting his crime. And so, the village takes matter into its own hands.
There is a lot of narrative verve to the finishing lap: in what seems like a village tradition, Sundaravadivelu is asked to drown himself in the river. His last words are worth mentioning. He says that his biggest crime was to turn all the villagers into something like him.
In the end, the children are left to fend for themselves even though they get kind words from their father before he dies.
We viewers are left to ponder on some weighty questions. Can one man’s lust destroy an entire family? Can a village decide its own ultimate fate? Deeper questions are at work beneath the rough-hewn edges of this particular story.
Views expressed are the author’s own.
Nandhu Sundaram is a film critic and freelance journalist who lives in a village situated in the back of beyond in Kanyakumari district. He loves cricket and is trying his hand at short stories. He has a seven-year-old daughter.