Rene of Natchathiram Nagargiradhu: PA Ranjith getting the women written by men right.

Natchathiram Nagargiradu, written and directed by PA Ranjith, streaming on Netflix, is a universe in itself. It is a street play inside a film. It is about love that breaks all boundaries. It is about caste that pervades everything from what we eat to who we can love. It is about the fragile male ego. But at the centre of this universe is Rene (a brilliant Dushara Vijayan), a Natchathiram that storms just as gracefully as she glides.

Dushara Vijayan in Natchathiram Nagargiradu

Women on screen especially written by men are often criticized, and rightfully so for being so painfully one dimensional. They conveniently fit into one-word adjectives suffixing a relationship with the male protagonist. Caring mother, bubbly lover, scheming vamp, tomboy friend etc. have been the classics. With all the hullabaloo about this glaring lack of real women on screen, there has been a new trope added to the list. The modern women. She cuts away all the conservatism of her small-town upbringing and is open to sex before marriage, wears short clothes, enjoy drinks and cigarettes mostly with open hair waving in a moving car with sunroof. This woman although seems empowered on paper, is sadly just another trope. I, a 21st century Indian woman, am at best a concoction of all these women on screen. And men around me listen, NO this is not an in between confused state. And Rene gloriously embodies these “contradictions”.

In the first shot of film, we see Rene in post coital bliss pausing a “I am feeling good” aptly playing on the phone and lovingly ask a drowsy Iniyan (Kalidas Jayram) “Can we get married?”. Iniyan casually agrees. Rene thinks for a second and goes on to question the validity of the institution of marriage and declares “No, I won’t get married.” Iniyan easily agrees to this too like he is used to her wavering mind and drowses off into a slumber while Rene gets into a philosophical musing about love and death.

The scene starts with Rene wanting to hug Iniyan for ever and ends with her hitting his head with a steel vessel and moving out of his life forever, all just for an in the heat of the moment comment he blurts out. She sings, she seethes with rage, she laughs boisterously, she taunts him, she hugs him, she hits him, all in the span of 7 minutes. She cares enough to correct the pronunciation of “Tamizh”, a name and identity she no longer associates with herself. How can she be so contradictory? Why are women so complex? Was the love real or the rage? I see all these questions on Iniyan’s face. And Iniyan, all of those are real. This brilliantly staged and written 7-minute scene establishes the seemingly insane contradictions that make up a real woman.

Rene laughs off in the face of male double standards of expecting the women to be “not have been with someone” while it never applies to them. She throws a haughty “I know” whenever someone compliments her looks. She calls out pretentious woke statements. She hits back when attacked. She sees the blood behind the beautiful tea estates. She stands up for someone who abused her when she believes his apology is genuine but doesn’t forgive her lover for casual casteism. Her political correctness isn’t the hollow internet call out culture. She has a very strong rights and wrongs in her rule book. But the rulebook is hers and hers alone.

But Rene isn’t perfect. She feels jealous when the boyfriend she rejects kisses another woman. She boldly orders beef that was once what alienated her, but she hides behind a name and identity she gave herself, like her namesake Renetta who hides her true nature. Rene is a broken mirror that is carefully stuck back together but when looked closely under proper lighting, the vestiges of the cracks still show. And what makes her beautiful is she knows this better than anyone else. Her boldness is a painfully conscious choice. She doesn’t let her victimhood be her story but forges her own. One where she sets the background score to Ilayaraja music and aims for stars. And just like that she relates to every woman who is fighting their own dichotomy of vulnerability and strength.

Natchathiram Nagargiradu

This review got published on Film companion!

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