Pulavar Movie Review:
Since time immemorial, tales of crime have consciously or unconsciously reiterated that one’s own guilt is perhaps the most punishing of sentences. Six decades and a century ago, Fyodor Dostoevsky penned Crime and Punishment, which explores the lamentations and dread wrought by one’s own conscience in a poetically poignant manner. While generations have passed, the cause and effect of remorse have remained much the same over the years. Perhaps, therefore, director Ravi Murukaiya decided to revisit the themes the novel explored aeons ago through Pulavar. Although philosophically profound and pertinent in the message it conveys, the film, headlined by the late Bharathiraja, is guilty of a sluggish screenplay and an underwhelming payoff.
Four suspects in a murder case are brought to Pulavar’s (Bharathiraja) home after the police fail to get the truth out of them. Pulavar, whose real name is Maiyandavar, is a retired police officer said to have his own ways of making an accused confess to a crime. Set within the confines of a thatched-roof, old-style house, the film keeps the suspects out of prison until the culprit is identified, but manages to keep us imprisoned in curiosity.
Cast: Bharathiraja, Raichal Rebecca, Hello Kandasamy, Ravichandran, Vetrivel Raja, Poobalam Sandhil, Chaplin Sundar, and Jintha
Director: Ravi Murukaiya
From the get-go, we understand that nothing in the house is a coincidence. Pulavar and his guardian and helper, Gopal, carefully construct a narrative that keeps not just the accused but also the audience guessing. The film builds its world at a snail’s pace, so much so that the plot barely thickens even by the interval. Yet, we remain patient, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Maiyandavar’s methods of investigation are unconventional, to say the least. He has a life-size doll watching over his interrogation, serves the accused sumptuous meals, and asks them to take their time before owning up to their crimes. At other times, he bores them with lengthy discourses on Tamil history. With humour on the one side and an absolute lack of clarity on where the film is headed on the other, the director keeps us invested, only to let the narrative off the hook when it comes to delivering on its potential.
When the machinations of the first half give way to montages and songs in the second, we cannot help but wonder if the case will ever be cracked. It is established early on that Pulavar has his own methods, but when these turn out to be little more than letting the suspects stew in their own guilt, the image we have built of this retired cop comes crashing down. After all, there is only so much one can expect from a man whose primary weapon of interrogation is patience. Yet, the film’s eventual resolution is not entirely devoid of redemption.
The guilty being innocent is perhaps the most compelling dichotomy explored in Pulavar. To be clear, those who confess to the crime in the end are in no way innocent in the eyes of the law. But the director wants us to ruminate over who is truly culpable: the obvious perpetrator or the society that drives them to commit the crime. The film neither justifies the offence nor shies away from questioning the unaccountable transgressions of the privileged, which often come at the expense of the impoverished. In doing so, it shifts the question of guilt from the accused to a society that conveniently evades the dock.
The film’s primary cast comprises just six actors, with Bharathiraja proving his suitability for the role and the sincerity of his craft shining through even after his demise. Raichal Rabecca portrays Vatsala, whose character undergoes a particularly interesting trajectory. From the beginning, we see her sitting on the ground while her three male counterparts sit on a bench, constantly reminded that she is their equal and asked to sit with them. But when her moment arrives, she walks with a newfound confidence and sits cross-legged on the bench without waiting for permission. Similarly, a character who appears to be the most notorious of the lot throughout the film surprises us with his naivety in the climax. Such parallels are scattered throughout the narrative, and they register all the more strongly because the camera rarely ventures beyond the confines of the house. Within this claustrophobic space, even the smallest shifts in posture and behaviour speak volumes.
When the film ends as a conversation-heavy drama, we are left sitting in disbelief, wondering, “What did I just see?” as the credits roll. Initially, there is a sense of frustration over the lack of intrigue and a payoff that feels disproportionate to the wait. However, as we take time to process the film’s content, much like a cow chewing its cud, we begin to realise that it is an attempt to deliver a message on human psychology that is both profound and innate. Yet, for all its thought-provoking observations, Pulavar is caught red-handed for tedium. Its meditative approach to crime and conscience may leave some pondering long after the credits roll, while others might find themselves serving time in the theatre. Ultimately, Pulavar is a matter of conscience, but not everybody will find it worth the sentence.