Pari Elavazhagan’s ‘Jama’ is an ambitious, solidly narrated drama about a street-theatre troupe

The budget limitation is sometimes a spoilsport, but at every point, you can see the effort of trying something new. Despite the over-emphasis at times, the film works.

Pari Elavazhagan’s debut film is inspired by true events, and its title is Jama, which means theatre troupe. Knowing our Tamil cinema, there is the fear that this will turn out to be a lament about vanishing forms of traditional entertainment like the koothu, but instead, the writer-director has made a dignified presentation of the art form and its cultural impact without a message in sight. Whatever needs to be said is said through the story. For instance, when a woman says that she was attracted to her husband because of the way he used to play female roles, you see a world where traditional ideas of what’s masculine and what’s feminine do not apply. The point about how much research has (clearly) been done is not thrust in our face. It is shown casually, through the props and the traditional songs and the harsh lighting and the expressions of the viewers in the audience.

The story centres on Kalyanam (Pari Elavazhagan). He plays female roles like Draupadi and Kunti, while the male roles – and the “rajapart-s” – go to performers like Thandavam. This character is played by Chetan with the naked hunger of an actor who has often been given minor supporting roles in the movies. Chetan realises that a rare opportunity has been offered to him, and he tears into it: it is a ferocious performance. Thandavam is the head of this jama and he lords over his actors like a dictator. For instance, he decides who plays which part. An actor leaves this troupe because he was tired of playing female roles and a rival troupe gave him the chance to play Arjuna. Thandavam is furious. Like all powerful and corrupt men, he knows the value of fear. Once his actors stop obeying him, it can be dangerous.

We see this in a superb single shot that lasts almost eight minutes, going inside and outside Thandavam’s house. (Gopal Krishna is the cinematographer.) This is more than just a technical achievement. Within a confined space (Thandavam’s house) and within a confined time period (those eight minutes), we get to see the terrifying relationship between Thandavam and Kalyanam, master and slave, manipulator and puppet. The finish to this scene appears to be a happy one: what begins as an argument ends in peace. But only on the surface. What we really see is the beginning of war. The seeds have been sown for Kalyanam’s rebellion. Soon, this “Chinna Thambi”-like character will realise that he is a psychological hostage, and he will do everything to take leadership of the troupe that Thandavam runs now but which really belonged to Kalyanam’s father.

This is not a spoiler, for two reasons. One, the opening scenes have already given us this information. And two, Jama follows a narrative route that is fairly familiar. In the broadest terms, you could call it a reworking of your standard masala-movie story: “You betrayed my father. Now, I will have my revenge.” (Like in the older masala movies, the heroine even happens to be the villain’s daughter, and the interval point gives us clear indication of where the second half is headed.) But the subversion comes from the koothu milieu, and the brilliant subtext that – for these people – art is above all. Whether we are talking about Kalyanam, his father, or Thandavam – their personal agendas arise from the art that they worship. The ending is truly touching, because even the hero’s revenge, so to speak, happens through art.

The flashback in the second half is a wonderful stretch of writing. At first, you may wonder why it is needed. After all, we have already been told that the jama, the troupe, belonged to Kalyanam’s father. Why do we need to see the same thing visually, as a series of scenes? Because this is where we get to see the establishment of the troupe, and the passion for this art form that led to this troupe being formed. This is where we see minor characters from the first half being fleshed out, and we understand their histories. This is where we see the black-and-white bits of mini-flashbacks in the first half assume full context, so that we see where and when exactly in the larger storyline these smaller events occurred. And this is where we see the humanity of Kalyanam’s father. When Kalyanam continues to associate with the man who has ruined his father, the father tells Kalyanam’s mother: “Why should our enemies be his enemies as well? Let him lead his own life.” This aspect of the man’s character just killed me, and made me feel all the more for his death. He was not just a good artist. He was a good man.

But the woman of the story, Jaga (Ammu Abhirami), is not written with as much love and care. She loves Kalyanam, and considers him a “real man” despite his feminine traits – but the love angle is both generic and underdeveloped. Kalyanam does something in his self-interest that’s very insulting to her. He has a bigger goal in mind, sure, but a man as sensitive as him should have included her in his plans instead of leaving her offscreen. (Her comings and goings are somewhat random.) It’s also not clear why someone as strong as she is does not question her father about the way he treats Kalyanam. This is the major issue in Jama. Some of the actors in key roles could have been better. Some of the key revelations (like why a man suddenly begins to support Kalyanam) could have been less rushed.

The budget limitation is sometimes a spoilsport, but at every point, you can see the effort of trying something new. The emphatic storytelling style may not be “new”: but it is linear, clean, filled with juicy drama and sometimes juicy melodrama. And despite the over-emphasis at times, it works. I was hooked right from the opening shot, with Kalyanam’s painted face framed at the extreme right of the screen, as he removes his makeup, to the accompaniment of Ilayaraja’s lovely, eerie score. There is a genuine sense of choreography and composition in the frames – like the one where two men are having a heated conversation in a wide-angle shot where – instead of seeing their faces — we register just their outlines against a giant sky. When Kalyanam’s mother says he should stop doing koothu, the background gives us a koothu song that slowly fades out, as if obeying the mother.

And the character of Kalyanam is just beautiful. There are a few off moments in Pari’s performance (mainly, a tendency towards over-emphasis, like in parts of Ilayaraja’s score), but as a whole, Kalyanam is a completely fascinating mix of male and female. This is not a “woke” character, who is going to choose to be addressed as “they/them”. He is simply a man whose immersion in his art over the years (i.e. his female roles) has brought out his inner feminine side, and he is utterly comfortable with who he is. There is zero self-pity. There is no “Why has God made me this way!” even when macho men tease him. Kalyanam is so absorbed in his art that he can be no other way, and the closing stretch is thrilling proof of this absorption. He doesn’t just play the part. He becomes the part, as the art and the artist merge into one. A conflict that started through art is resolved through that very art. Whatever its rough edges, Jama has more heart and ambition than most Tamil movies we have seen this year.