The Curse Of Remaking The Epics - Part 2

The problem with our cinema does not end with the endless retelling of epics. It goes much deeper than that. It sits in the way our audience reacts when a filmmaker chooses to speak about caste, religion, oppression or anything, that shows the uncomfortable truths of our society. The same people who are willing to watch the Ramayana and Mahabharata a thousand times suddenly become restless when a film talks about the lives of the marginalised. They say it is overdone. They say it is boring. They say it is unnecessary. They ask why these directors cannot make something else.

This contradiction shows the strange mindset that Indian cinema has grown under. People are absolutely fine with a hero fighting a hundred men in a market street. They are fine with item songs that have no meaning. They are fine with intimate scenes that exist only to sell tickets. They are fine with punch dialogues and exaggerated masculinity. They are fine with commercial cinema that repeats the same formula year after year, because it does not question anything inside them. It does not make them uncomfortable. It does not ask them to think.

But the moment a film talks about caste discrimination or suffering of marginalized or the religious issues on someone’s life, suddenly the audience becomes impatient. They say it is forced. They say it is too political. They say it is propaganda. They say it is unnecessary negativity. The same audience that can tolerate the same mythological story for centuries cannot tolerate a social truth for two and a half hours.

This discomfort comes from years of conditioning. Indian commercial cinema has taught its audience that films exist only for entertainment. Films exist to escape reality not face it. Films exist to glorify the hero. We have grown up watching movies that supported fantasy and suppressed reality. So naturally when a filmmaker finally chooses to speak the truth the audience rejects it. Not because the truth is wrong but because the truth threatens their comfort zone.

Who is responsible for this. Is it the directors who kept feeding the audience the same commercial formula until they forgot what meaningful cinema looks like. Or is it the audience that demanded the same kind of films again and again until the industry surrendered completely. It is impossible to separate the two. One shaped the other. One encouraged the other. One lowered the bar and the other accepted it.

In this cycle there is very little space for films that challenge society. When a director talks about caste he is accused of provoking. When he shows religious manipulation he is accused of disrespect. When he portrays oppression he is accused of exaggeration. People are ready to worship epics but not ready to watch their own reflection. They are ready to celebrate gods but not ready to acknowledge humans.

The tragedy is that cinema could have been the strongest tool for change. It could have been the mirror this country desperately needs. It could have been a place where people confront the truth they ignore every day. But that cannot happen in a culture where epics are considered entertainment and social issues are considered burden. That cannot happen when commercial films define the imagination of a whole generation. That cannot happen when comfort is valued more than awareness.

We keep asking why our films do not evolve. The answer is simple. We do not evolve. The industry is only a reflection of its audience. And as long as we reject realism and worship repetition we will continue to live inside the same cycle.

There is a cost to choosing comfort over truth. And someday that cost will be brutal than any epic we put on a screen.

The Curse of Remaking the Epics

Indian cinema is changing on the surface but not in its soul. Every few years we are handed another Ramayana and another Mahabharata dressed in new colours with new faces, filming the same story we have heard a thousand times and somehow this keeps happening without anyone asking the most basic question. Why.

Why are we still stuck in this endless loop of retelling epics, when we live in a world where stories can travel to galaxies and back. Why are directors so comfortable repeating the same narrative and calling it a vision. Why do we as an audience accept it without a single frown simply because it is backed by a belief system.

The answer is not spiritual and it is definitely not cinematic. It is business. Directors know that if they pick an epic they get a cushion automatically. They get the audience of believers. They get the attention of the religious crowd. They get a ticket to immunity because no one in this country wants to criticise anything that sits under the shadow of faith. So they keep doing the easiest thing possible. They take a story that already has an emotional audience and then they pour money on it and call it a magnum opus. They sell the same script in a new wrapper and call it innovation.

Where is the creativity in this. Where is the courage. Where is the risk taking that defines real cinema. This is not brilliance. This is laziness. This is playing safe with a minimum guarantee mindset. If they pick Ramayana or Mahabharata they know they will not fail completely. So why bother writing something new. Why imagine a world in the future. Why build a cinema that challenges the audience or expands their taste. Just pick an epic and sell it. Simple.

Look at the biggest blockbusters in the past six or seven years. You will hardly find a contemporary idea that became a phenomenon. Everything massive is rooted in some epic. The hero is always someone from an ancient story. The villain is always borrowed from mythology. The conflict is always decorated with the language of old glory. There is nothing wrong with epics. But there is something very wrong with repeating them endlessly while the rest of the world is pushing the boundaries of science, fiction, imagination and futuristic storytelling.

We are living in a time of artificial intelligence, space exploration, new technology and cinematic revolutions across the globe. Other industries are creating worlds that do not exist yet. They are experimenting with ideas that challenge humanity. They are asking questions that make viewers think. Meanwhile here we are still sinking money into the same tales that were already told with more soul centuries ago.

This habit is not just about the mindset of directors. It is also mindset of the audience too. People are willing to watch the same epic again and again because belief systems give comfort. They give a sense of safety and a sense of proudness. They give a shield where no one has to think too hard because everything is familiar. It is easier to applaud something when it already has an emotional foundation. And when something is wrapped in religion no one dares to criticise it even if the film is mediocre.

So we stay stuck. The audience keeps accepting. The directors keep recycling. The money keeps flowing. And cinema as an art form stands where it was. While the world builds the future, we keep digging into the past with the same old shovel hoping we will find something new in the same soil.

There is something even more serious beneath all this. A problem that goes beyond cinema and touches the way we think as a society.

Will discuss that in the next blog.

To be continued. 

The Man Who Called Me “Aiyya”

Sometimes kindness does not come in big acts or poetic timing. It sometimes appear on an empty road past midnight, in the voice of a stranger who calls you "Aiyya".

It was around 1am in the morning when I landed in Chennai. The SpiceJet flight had been delayed by three long hours, and what was supposed to be a 10pm arrival had dragged deep into the night. The airport was half asleep, but the world outside still felt alive in fragments, autos lined up, drivers waiting for tired passengers, and a few murmurs of negotiation floating in the air. I had to travel about 30 kilometers from the airport, and what followed showed that even in a world driven by paper bills, there are still moments that feel human.

I had first booked an Uber, but the driver could not come inside the airport premises. He called and asked if I could walk outside, As I had luggage with me, I gave a No. The autos inside were quoting absurd prices like fifteen hundred for thirty kilometers. The cabs were worse, quoting two thousand or more just because I had arrived by flight. The way they priced you was not based on distance but on the assumption that anyone coming out of an airport must have money to spare. Frustrated, I dragged my luggage out to the main road, refusing to give in to that unfair bargain.

Once I reached the main road, I checked Uber again and to my surprise, the same ride I had booked earlier was still active. I called the driver, and he said he could come. He said "Oru 100 ruba potu kudunga aiyya", and I agreed. Soon he arrived, and I felt a sense of relief that after all the chaos inside the airport, I finally had a ride that felt right.

He arrived in an old auto, smiled, and addressed me respectfully as "Aiyya". It was a word I had not heard in a while, simple, humble and deeply rooted in village warmth. It instantly shifted the mood. The road was empty, and for the next thirty kilometers, our conversation filled the night. He must have been in his sixties, maybe a little older. He spoke of politics and the bad roads first, but gradually it became personal. He told me about his heart attack a few months ago and how, despite that, he had to keep working because his family depended on him. When he spoke about his grandchildren, his voice softened. He said their laughter was the only medicine that truly worked.

I could see his reflection in the mirror, his tired eyes lighting up every time he mentioned his grandchildren. Somewhere between the turns and speed breakers, he said Everyone has their own set of problems and We all live in the same pond. It was simple yet wise, an understanding that suffering does not discriminate and everyone is trying to stay afloat in their own way.

Then halfway through the journey, his phone rang. It was his granddaughter. Her little voice crackled through the speaker asking, “Thaatha, enga irukkinga? Eppo varuveenga?” His face glowed with joy as he gently replied, “Thaatha indha vandhiren ma, oru mani nerathula vandhuduren, nee thoongu ma". It was such an ordinary conversation, yet it had the kind of affection that makes you forget how cruel the world can be.

A few minutes later, he hit a speed breaker he had not seen and immediately apologised. “Aiyya, manichukonga, iravu aana naala kann sariya theriyala. Ungaluku edhum aagalaye aiyya?” I told him it was fine. He explained how reflective lines were missing and how, at night, things get harder to see. It was one of those small, honest moments that make you realise how everyone just wants to do their job with dignity.

When we reached my stop, it was around 2am in the morning. I asked him how much Uber showed. He said it was ₹450. I told him, “Anna unga nalla manasuku neenga solunga evlo venumnu". He smiled and said, “Neenga enna kuduthalum manasara ethupen aiyya. Ungalala mudinjadha kudunga.” I transferred him the money, he shook my hand firmly and blessed me, that smile of his stayed with me long after he drove away into the night.

It was not just a ride. It showed that even when everything feels mechanical, apps, fares, ratings, there are still people who move through life with heart. His kindness was not just in words but in how he carried himself, how he spoke, and how he lived despite the odds.

Moments like these stay. They make you believe that goodness has not vanished, it is just hidden in ordinary people, in the little things they do without expecting a recognition. It is in the way a tired old man still smiles at strangers, still believes in honesty, still lights up when his granddaughter calls.

Maybe that is what humanity really is. Not something to be found in revolutions or speeches, but in the conversations that happen between two people on a lonely road at 2am in the morning.

Because sometimes, all it takes to remind you of goodness is a man who calls you "Aiyya"

Before You Compare Mollywood and Kollywood…

There has been a debate on social media claiming that Malayalam cinema or Mollywood is far superior to Tamil cinema. People often say that Kollywood does not make movies like the Malayalam industry, or that they have a lot to learn from them. Some even argue that if a few Tamil films had been released in Malayalam, they would have been celebrated as masterpieces. But before romanticising this comparison, it is important to ask a simple question. On what basis are you comparing two massive industries that function under completely different systems and audience mindsets.

Let us start with the numbers. In 2024, the Malayalam film industry released around 200 films. The Tamil industry released slightly over 250. Out of those 200 Malayalam films, only about 25 to 30 were considered successful either commercially or critically. And out of that list, most people can name only a handful that went viral on social media for example films like Manjummel Boys, Guruvayoor Ambalanadayil or Kishkinda Kaandam. So how fair is it to generalise that Malayalam cinema is always better. For every Bramayugam there are ten others that no one even talks about. The same applies to Tamil cinema. Both industries make good films, average films and bad films.

Now coming to the next question, if Tamil cinema has so much talent and resources, why do we still make so many forgettable films. The answer lies not just with the creators but also with the audience. What kind of films do Tamil audiences celebrate the most. Mass commercial entertainers. The kind of films where logic takes a back seat but whistles fill the theatre. So what do filmmakers make next. Another film that caters to that same mindset. Because in the end cinema is business, not charity.

Even Director Sundar C once said in an interview that if Tamil audiences had supported Anbe Sivam he would have made more such meaningful films. But when those films fail and the same audience celebrates his Aranmanai series what message does it send. Directors simply follow demand. If the crowd only rewards commercial formulas, then art will naturally become formulaic. The audience has as much responsibility as the filmmaker.

Now let us talk about the argument that “if this Tamil film had released in Malayalam it would have been celebrated as a cult". That line has been repeated so many times that it has lost meaning. Great cinema is not about where it releases but about how it is written. Writing is the backbone. This is one area where Kollywood has truly fallen behind. Directors here want to take credit for everything like story, screenplay, direction and somewhere in this process, the film loses its depth. Malayalam cinema on the other hand, treats writing as a separate discipline. There is a writer who lives and breathes the script, and a director who interprets it. That distinction matters.

Kollywood also suffers from another illusion that casting an actor with a fan base can guarantee success. It does not work like that. Compare the choices of top stars in both industries. Rajinikanth’s last four films were Coolie, Jailer, Vettaiyan, Annathey. Mammootty’s last four were Turbo, Bramayugam, Kaathal, Kannur squad. The difference is evident. One relies on the image, the other experiments with roles. You might say the actors make their own choices, but in truth they mirror what the audience demands.

The issue is not that Tamil cinema lacks talent or that Malayalam cinema is flawless. The issue is that you as viewers, have created a culture where mediocrity sells and craft struggles. When we cheer for repetitive stories, we tell filmmakers that this is enough. When we mock films that try something new, we push the industry a step back.

So before making another sweeping statement that Malayalam cinema is better, ask yourself who is really responsible for what Tamil cinema has become. The problem is not with the filmmakers alone. It starts with the audience that decides what deserves to be celebrated.

Kantara Chapter 1 Review

Kantara Chapter 1 released in 2025 under the direction of Rishab Shetty who also plays the lead role. The film features Rishab Shetty, Rukmini Vasanth and Jayaram in prominent roles. Music is composed by B. Ajaneesh Loknath, while the cinematography is handled by Arvind S. Kashyap. Together they build a strong technical foundation for a film that attempts to go deeper into the roots of faith, power and people.

The story works as a prequel to Chapter 2. While the earlier film explored the clash between the landlord and the tribal community, this chapter moves further back to show the king, his rule and the oppressed tribes around him. On paper it connects well with the themes of oppression and survival. In execution though the first half lacks clarity. It swings between strength and weakness, moving in and out without a steady grip.

The acting however is a major strength. Rishab Shetty once again proves his command over the screen. Rukmini Vasanth delivers her role perfectly and Jayaram does with conviction. Even the supporting cast shines, especially the comic roles. The humour flows naturally and creates moments where the entire theatre bursts into laughter. At the same time the film shifts into serious spaces with equal impact. Each actor delivers their part very well.

The cinematography is the real standout. Arvind S. Kashyap brings visual mastery to the film. The colour palette, the lighting and the detailing of each frame lift the story beyond its flaws. Certain shots look breathtaking. Especially the visuals of the tiger. It is proof that with proper investment and vision, a film can look truly cinematic.

Music and sound work land in a mixed space. Ajaneesh Loknath’s songs are strong and blend well with the mood. The background score works at times but in certain theatres the sound mixing created an imbalance where the bgm was louder than the dialogues. This reduced the clarity of some important scenes. Screenplay too feels uneven. At places it is engaging but often loses its direction. The film stretches unnecessarily and even feels like it has two endings. What should have been wrapped neatly is dragged out, which weakens the impact.

That said Kantara Chapter 1 still has several goosebump moments. The way godly elements are portrayed hits with raw power. Even someone who does not believe in divine forces can feel those sequences. The difference from Chapter 2 is that this one leans more into fantasy, which at times feels out of place compared to the raw realism of the earlier film.

There is also an interesting look into history, especially the barter system and the dynamics of power between oppressor and oppressed. These small touches ground the film in reality and add depth to the story.

Overall Kantara Chapter 1 is a decent watch. It has flaws in writing and pacing but it also delivers memorable visuals, strong acting and powerful moments. This is a film that deserves to be experienced on the big screen.

Rating: 6.5/10 ⭐️

The Price Of Idolizing - Part 2

In the previous part we saw how idolizing politicians and actors blinds citizens and turns tragedies into stages for their politics. The cycle of glorifying leaders while ignoring accountability has been repeating for decades. The same culture of idolizing exists in another space that touches millions, cricket.

Let’s talk stars. Sachin Tendulkar and Virat Kohli are revered as god and King of cricket. Their records are celebrated and their influence is unquestioned. But this adoration shields them from accountability. When matches are lost due to their repeated errors or strategic failures, criticism is muted. The team suffers, the nation suffers, yet the individual continues to be idolized. 

India has won only two ODI World Cups in all these years despite being a country obsessed with cricket. This nation has produced extraordinary players, stars who are celebrated as gods, yet the results do not match the worship. This gap is not due to a lack of talent or resources but due to the effect of idolizing.

When a player underperforms in nine matches and shines in one, the nation celebrates that single success while ignoring the failures. Stars are protected with phrases such as “form is temporary, class is permanent” even when those temporary failures cost the country crucial tournaments. Idolizing shields them from accountability, and in the process the team and the nation suffer.

Countries with multiple World Cups follow a different approach. Players are treated as professionals. If performance dips over time they are benched, regardless of their past reputation. Decisions are made for the team, not for preserving an image. In India, once a player is idolized, endless chances follow. Youngsters with talent and hunger are often seen carrying water while established stars continue despite repeated underperformance.

This is the price of idolizing. Tournaments slip away, trophies remain elusive, and yet the focus stays on individuals and personal milestones. The cricket board earns, broadcasters earn, players earn, but fans and citizens lose. Time, money, and collective pride are spent, yet the return is meagre because accountability is sacrificed at the process of worship.

Cricket in India has shifted into a business where fans are no longer participants in a sport but consumers in an industry. Cheering is directed more at individuals than at results. The culture has moved from respect to blind faith, and the fact is blind faith never builds champions.

Until players are seen as professionals first and not as gods, victories will remain a dream and cycles of disappointment will continue. Personal records may rise and endorsements may multiply, but the nation will always fall short of its true potential.

This is what idolizing costs. It is not restricted to cricket alone, but shows a deeper national pattern of worshipping individuals instead of demanding results. And in that blindness of idolizing the people themselves are the ones who suffer.