Lubber Pandhu Movie Review: This sports-drama bowls you over with all-round excellence

There are many unexpectedly refreshing moments in Lubber Pandhu that combine to elevate the film. After circumstances cause the separation of Anbu (Harish Kalyan) from his girlfriend (Sanjana Krishnamoorthy), he pines for her, but where our heroes would appeal with generic pleas (“Please come back to me!”), he says, “I’m scared to death that you could get used to life without me.” It’s a searing line, so full of emotional insight—and such lines are scattered throughout the film, reminding you of the pleasure of powerful dialogue-writing. In another scene, actor Kaali Venkat is asked why he likes cricket so much. He quips, “Like dhaan reason-ay. Like-ku edhukku reason.” In a way, the love that Gethu (Dinesh) and Anbu have for cricket can be explained by this line.

Director: Tamizharasan Pachamuthu

Cast: Harish Kalyan, Attakathi Dinesh, Sanjana Krishnamoorthy, Swaswika Vijay

This affection for cricket is a feeling their families don’t necessarily understand (and can you blame them, given what they put up with from these two). For Gethu, it’s on the cricket ground where he is truly in his element. Watch him at home or when he’s interacting at work (he’s a painter)—and you’ll never see the side of him that emerges on a cricket ground. It’s where he can truly channel the Vijayakanth fan in him—through songs and leg-side slogs. Where our films might utilise this idea of a grown man taking cricket so seriously for comedic effect, Lubber Pandhu doesn’t. It has the soul of a sports film and the mind of a well-crafted drama. It approaches these cricket portions like it were a romance. A Dravid-like defence Gethu opens with before he shows everyone why he’s likened to Sehwag. I particularly enjoyed all the cricket flourishes and how director Thamizharasan Pachamuthu weaves cricket nuances into the story. The dynamics of the Anbu-Gethu rivalry make the cricket portions explosive, and even otherwise, Thamizharasan keeps springing surprises, like when Anbu gets run out in a knock-out match and a woman—an unexpected batter among all the men—comes to save the day.

Which brings me to how well-written the women in this film are—particularly Gethu’s wife, Yashoda (Swaswika Vijay, whose performance I really liked). Her personality is defined by righteous anger, and yet, the film never caricaturises her for this. In fact, it humanises her through vulnerable moments, revealing the great love that lies within her (like when she gets irritated by her daughter for not standing up for Gethu). She’s more a mother to him than a wife (hence her name, Yashoda), and again, where most films could end up romanticising her for, you know, being a ‘mother’ to her husband, the film walks a tight-rope between capturing her reality and canonising her for it. It also doesn’t try to ‘cure’ her of the anger to make her a more ‘tolerant’ wife. And yet, there’s no doubt that the film sides with her. Look no further than the title credit and the interval block to see who the film supports: the title card comes just after Yashoda has ploughed a cricket pitch in anger. The film breaks for an interval just after Yashoda has thrown a death stare at Anbu.

It’s a film of great balance really, never allowing itself to get carried away by a singular emotion. Gethu’s daughter is in love with Anbu and tells him as much, but notice that she’s practical enough to tell him that love alone isn’t enough. A successful partnership demands much more. If Lubber Pandhu got carried away with this, it could have easily vilified Gethu or turned his story into one of reformation—but again, it doesn’t. In fact, by showing a gentler side to him (even on the cricket pitch where he enjoys getting out at the end), the film proudly embraces its tenderness. In such good ways, the film often toys with you, and is all the better for its refusal to provide perfect solutions or resolutions.

This means that we are constantly waiting in anxious attachment with the film—and that’s exactly what every filmmaker seeks. We wait for Anbu to get his team. We wait for Anbu’s apology. We wait for Gethu to become useful to his family. We wait, of course, for their eventual reconciliation. Some of our waiting is rewarded, while some of it isn’t. The script is a bowler like Anbu, and we are the batter. Sometimes, we get a fairly quick resolution (a fast delivery?) like with Yashoda’s return home. Some other times, like with that eventual win we expect for Gethu and Anbu, we don’t (a bit like when Anbu goes through a long run-up only to walk back without bowling). We don’t even get the Anbu reformation, and that’s quite all right, the film says. It’s not a film trying to be politically correct (else, it wouldn’t have Yashoda continue to tolerate Gethu, a man-child). Instead, it's trying to capture these complex life spaces, where people aren’t good or evil. They are flawed, even if they mean well, and their ego often stands in the way of a better life.

If I’ve made it seem like a really solemn film, it isn’t. There are unexpected flourishes of humour, mostly through the dialogue. Gethu slaps someone and they clarify that they were, in fact, talking about Kohli—a joke you will appreciate when you see the film. Lubber Pandhu may have been conceived as an entertainer meant to appeal to everyone, but its understanding of everyday life is unusually sharp. See how director Tamizharasan builds up tension with just a simple scene of Anbu and his friend gossipping about Gethu, unaware that he’s nearby. The tension escalates and results in Gethu addressing Anbu with a seemingly innocuous phrase, “chinna paya”. In this battle of egos, the film is aware that a passing word, an innocent greeting, can light a fuse. That’s why a ‘hello’ from Anbu triggers Gethu as much as it does.

Like a sine curve running through the whole film, caste oppression is a constant, even if in varying degrees. Right from the beginning, Anbu’s identity is held against him, and eventually, it’s his sacrifice (somewhat akin to reservation, I thought) that results in things becoming better. Now and then, Tamizharasan shows us the Ambedkar Memorial building. Now and then, the film registers the idea that Anbu is a ‘virundhaali player’, rejected by his environment and left to play for those he feels no attachment for. And yet, the film is quite careful not to make this issue the centrepiece, not to make an activist out of Anbu. It tries to quietly get its message across, keen not to vilify or alienate anyone. That’s why even that cricketer Venkatesh, who might be perceived as a villain figure, gets away with an easy handshake. Director Tamizharasan seems to be saying that sometimes, for profound problems, the solutions needn’t be so complex. Sometimes, all it takes is for an affectionate person to put their ego aside and say, “Sorry.” Sometimes, all it takes for a healthy society is for Anbu to prevail over Gethu.