Vanaprastham, the pilgrimage , a master piece like no other. Visoned with mastery, etched with perfection, this is not a movie but an experience like no other.
The plot essentially focuses on Kunhikuttan (Mohanlal), a Kathakali artist who becomes the object of desire and seeming delusion of Subhadra (Suhasini), the Maharaja’s niece. Subhadra is a playwright who earnestly wishes to write a play portaying Arjuna’s ardour in the mythological story of the kidnapping of Subhadra, one of her favorite pieces. When she sees Kunhikuttan portay Arjuna during a Kathakali performance for the King, she is mesmerized. As the story goes on, we see that she is clearly confusing Kunhikuttan playing Arjuna with the real Arjuna. A romantic liason between the two produces a child that Subhadra withholds from Kunhikuttan, cruely adding insult to injury of a man who was denied legitimate recognition by his landlord father and now is being denied access to his only son.
It is these practical aspects that Vanaprastham touched on which beckoned me to remove my rose-colored glasses. In the film, the group of Kathakali artists live in such poverty that the tearing of a Chenda (traditional drum) is a catastrophic event. They receive a pittance in compensation for their immense efforts at performing the art form. Despite being the only ones carrying forth an ancient traditional dance form that could easily be lost to history and is considered a source of pride to its people, the artists are not provided the support they need. When Kunhikuttan and the group give a performance for the Maharaja in his estate, the Maharaja remarks jubilantly that the performance has "elevated his mind and made him content." When Kunhikuttan honestly reveals that the group lives in dire poverty, all the king can do is look down and say... "what a pity." Pity, indeed.
The plot essentially focuses on Kunhikuttan (Mohanlal), a Kathakali artist who becomes the object of desire and seeming delusion of Subhadra (Suhasini), the Maharaja’s niece. Subhadra is a playwright who earnestly wishes to write a play portaying Arjuna’s ardour in the mythological story of the kidnapping of Subhadra, one of her favorite pieces. When she sees Kunhikuttan portay Arjuna during a Kathakali performance for the King, she is mesmerized. As the story goes on, we see that she is clearly confusing Kunhikuttan playing Arjuna with the real Arjuna. A romantic liason between the two produces a child that Subhadra withholds from Kunhikuttan, cruely adding insult to injury of a man who was denied legitimate recognition by his landlord father and now is being denied access to his only son.
It is these practical aspects that Vanaprastham touched on which beckoned me to remove my rose-colored glasses. In the film, the group of Kathakali artists live in such poverty that the tearing of a Chenda (traditional drum) is a catastrophic event. They receive a pittance in compensation for their immense efforts at performing the art form. Despite being the only ones carrying forth an ancient traditional dance form that could easily be lost to history and is considered a source of pride to its people, the artists are not provided the support they need. When Kunhikuttan and the group give a performance for the Maharaja in his estate, the Maharaja remarks jubilantly that the performance has "elevated his mind and made him content." When Kunhikuttan honestly reveals that the group lives in dire poverty, all the king can do is look down and say... "what a pity." Pity, indeed.
The form also serves as an outlet for its performers to express those emotions and feelings they keep hidden by channeling them through the characters they enact. Kunhikuttan tries to drink away his relationship and personal problems through alcohol, and the only time he seems to be able to express his emotions publicly is during his Kathakali performances. This is most brilliantly and stunningly demonstrated when we see the crash and burn of his relationship with Subhadra cause him to decide to play negative roles on the stage. In the very next shot, the camera focuses on a close-up of his meticulously-madeup face as he screams in anger. Anger of the mythological character he is representing but most important, his own seething, unreleting anger. This scene in the film completely took my breath away.
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