Marshall McLuhan, considered the man behind media studies, coined the prophetic phrase “The medium is the message” in 1964. What he meant was the structure of a medium shapes the message and the way it is consumed. For a long time the format and structure of Tamil cinema was dominated by theatrics of drama and stage-plays. If you watch early films made in the sixties and seventies, there is nothing much to distinguish them from stage-plays: single sets, lengthy dialogues often in baroque language, minimal movements, and the absence of visual fluidity and feel of the natural habitat. More often than not popular books, epics and plays were translated into movies. The moving camera had not yet learned to think beyond the grammar of theater. And then the breakthrough happened, when a few directors took the camera to locations, explored regional nuances, and toned down histrionics and packaged stories realistically yet entertainingly. Bharathiraja was one of the pioneers of this movement.
Bharathiraja’s entry into Tamil cinema marked a decisive break from the prevailing cinematic grammar of his time. Rather than confining his lens to studio sets he ventured deep into the villages, allowing the camera to linger on the everyday realities of rural life. He immersed his audience in the full spectrum of village experience, the visual richness of the landscape, the ambient sounds of daily labor, the distinctive aromas of local cuisine, and the tactile textures of village life. His film “Mann Vasanai” stands as a prime illustration of this approach. Crafting a work of that nature demanded a finely tuned sensitivity to the possibilities of the medium. Bharathiraja abandoned conventions and reshaped the cinematic dialect to reflect authentic speech patterns, and constructed narratives rooted firmly in the soil of South India’s countryside. He evolved his own brand of cinema that bridged the gap between raw, unvarnished rural authenticity and the expectations of a broader cinematic audience.
I haven’t seen all his movies. A quick search reveals that Bharathiraja directed around four dozen movies. There is common consensus that his best work happened in the 80s and 90s. My favorite films through his rural lens are “Vedham Puthithu” and “Mudhal Mariyathai” in that order, and “Sivappu Rojakkal” and “Tic Tic Tic” from his urban dramas. He was at the height of his craft in these movies. Mudhal Mariyathai, for instance, completely transformed the legendary Shivaji Ganesan into somebody everybody could relate to. The movie had an undertone of romance, hopelessness, angst, grief, ache, all of it mixed in such a manner that the viewer was left profoundly satisfied and yet couldn't leave the movie hall without craving for more. And in Vedham Puthithu, another beautiful rural drama that not just captured the traditional caste divide in a village but also brought forth the contradictions in the way Brahmanism was practiced. It came under a lot of criticism when the movie was released. Hindu societies rose against it, saying Bharathiraja had violated the sentiments of Brahmins and crossed the rubicon. It is true, the movie did raise some uncomfortable questions: whether outdated modes of thinking and rituals can supersede the social needs of human beings, what is religion after all? There are no easy answers to these questions but it was worth talking about and debating in a healthy manner. Vedham Puthithu did just that.
Bharathiraja also introduced new faces to cinema. The heroes and heroines, the villains and comedians, the music and musicians of yesteryear had done their work and the time was ripe for a change. And he precipitated that change through his distinct tone, feel, stories and casting. He brought in fresh talent, faces that nobody had seen or heard, and got them to perform the way he would like them to perform. That initial training under Bharathiraja helped transform the careers of many of these young and unknown artists into mainstream legends. A generation of artists owe their cinematic career to Bharathiraja. They still consider him THE MASTER.
Sivappu Rojakkal marked a departure for Bharathiraja. He undertook Sivappu Rojakkal deliberately, seeking to demonstrate to himself and to his audience that his artistic range was not confined to rural narratives. He wanted to show that he could navigate urban settings with equal skill. The choice of theme for Sivappu Rojakkal was unusual and strikingly bold. It centered on a deeply troubled premise: a man whose childhood was marred by abuse, who witnessed his father murder his mother in a brutal act of adultery. The trauma of that night shapes the boy into a charismatic young adult, yet his psyche is riddled with psychotic tendencies. He evolves into a sociopathic predator who preys on women. The role was a stark departure for Kamal from a heroic archetype to a “negative” role. Bharathiraja was known for tailoring his protagonists to the demands of the story, refusing to compromise his vision to accommodate the actors’ personal preferences or popular expectations.
It mustn’t be forgotten that women played a central role in Bharathiraja’s movies. He gave them ample space, gave them distinct character, and endowed them with strong personalities. They were not the stereotypical heroines who simply danced to music or ran around trees. Occasionally they did dance, but what truly stood out in his films was their own agency and purpose. Sridevi’s role in 16 Vayathinile, Revathi’s role in Mann Vasanai and Radha’s in Mudhal Mariyathai stand out as unsurpassed female characters in Indian cinema. Bharathiraja did not turn these women into superhuman figures. His women characters display the quiet, personal courage that erupts into a steely resolve when needed. An inner flame that showed the way forward. His pioneered a model of women empowerment that resonated with audiences, reminding them that strength often lies in the simple act of standing up for one’s own dignity.
What can one say about the music in Bharathiraja’s movies? His association with Ilaiyaraaja, which began with his first film in 1977, “Padinaru Vayathinile”, continued for a series of films. Their combination was electric, it mesmerized audiences. Ilaiyaraaja brought a new flavor into South Indian film music. His symphonic approach to songs and background scores, while never sacrificing the rigor of Indian classical or folk pathways, merged beautifully with Bharathiraja’s visual paradigms and narrative flow. While Bharathiraja’s roving eye captured the myriad beauties of the village and the lifestyle there, Ilaiyaraaja’s music amplified those images with a lyrical and musical richness that felt both deep and intimate. While their collaboration lasted, each artist had a symbiotic effect on the other, and the end result was that their movies turned into true audio‑visual treats for generations to come.
One of the most challenging things, even for a gifted artist like Bharathiraja, was to keep up the momentum of the creative genius alive for long stretches of time. The 90s saw Bharathiraja’s movies losing that creative spark that had defined his earlier work. This shift was understandable and it didn’t matter much because he had already poured his heart and soul into two decades of relentless and pathbreaking filmmaking. He had ushered in a transition in South Indian cinema and that by itself was a remarkable achievement. In addition to his directorial skills, Bharathiraja was also a talented actor. Actors who worked with him unanimously attest that no one could act out a scene better than him. In his later years he returned to the screen as an actor. The crowning achievement of Bharathiraja was that he moved South Indian cinema from its melodramatic and studio-confined narratives toward more realistic visual imagery. His work is a testament to Marshall McLuhan's message that the medium is the message. Liberating cameras from studio sets, Bharathiraja took them to the fields, to the hills, to the rivers, to huts, and his stories rooted there became the message of his cinema.
T. K. Bhagyaraj was another vibrant and maverick filmmaker. His early career was shaped under the tutelage of Bharathiraja. While Bharathiraja earned his reputation as a master of depth and visual aesthetics, Bhagyaraj branched out of his master’s school and distinguished himself as a master of screenplay, possessing the rare ability to transform a profound theme into a narrative that is at once comic, tragic, and emotionally satisfying. His movies never failed to entertain.
If Bharathiraja confronted the issues of caste and Brahmanism in “Vedham Puthithu”, Bhagyaraj responded with “Idhu Namma Aalu”, a commercial film that followed a similar thematic line. Where Bharathiraja infused “Vedham Puthithu” with serious undertones and layered meanings, Bhagyaraj walked the same path with a lighter touch and a commercially entertaining approach. Both movies were about caste differences, and the need to reimagine hereditary statuses for a modern age. While one had a serious ending, the other had a more commercial fulfilling climax.
Bhagyaraj was also a good actor. His innocent look on screen instantly endeared him to his audiences. He used his unpretentious charm to slip jokes that brushed the edges of vulgarity or tackle sensitive subjects that in others’ hands would have offended the moral fiber of conservative viewers. He possessed a unique knack for making such material palatable, and even commercially viable, by wrapping it in humor and wit. Take, for example, the film “Chinnaveedu”. Its very title hints at the colloquial taboo of maintaining a mistress, and the story explored the pros and cons of that hidden relationship. When the movie first appeared, the theme was considered scandalous, a subject buried beneath layers of morality and decorum. Decades later, however, “Chinnaveedu” has become a cult classic, celebrated for its daring to bring such buried conversations into the open. Throughout his career, Bhagyaraj peppered his dialogues with double meanings, constantly testing the limits of what was deemed acceptable. Sometimes he escaped censure; other times he did not, but it is rare to find a Bhagyaraj film that failed to entertain and occasionally educate.
Visually, Bhagyaraj may not have possessed the visual-framing mastery of his mentor Bharathiraja, but he compensated with a wonderfully flowing screenplay, precise editing, engaging dialogue and a storytelling rhythm that carried the audience along. For many of Bharathiraja’s movies, Bhagyaraj wrote the dialogues and story. Filmmaking is not solely about the visual component; writing is critical. Writing for movies has its own idiom, its own grammar, and it is easy to underestimate their importance. Bhagyaraj’s facile pen consistently struck the right nerve; it resonated with audiences and grew on them like vintage wine. Even today, one can watch a Bhagyaraj film without losing interest. The crispness of his screenplays makes them evergreen.
During my formative years and even now the evergreen scene in K. Bhagyaraj's 1981 movie “Indru Poi Naalai Vaa”, where a teacher attempts to teach a student Hindi and the student twists and distorts the words and repeats them with a Tamil slant, leaves viewers holding their stomach tight with laughter and at the same time creates an empathy for the person attempting to learn an alien language. That scene is one of the classics of Indian cinema. That episode also carried a broader political implication. At the time this movie came out, the Hindi‑Tamil debate was raging across Tamil Nadu. Bhagyaraj, in his inimitable style, managed to present this controversy in a format that made people laugh while simultaneously prompting them to think. That blend of humor and social commentary, delivered through a beautifully crafted screenplay, is something we rarely see today in Tamil cinema.
There is often a comparison between Hollywood films and Indian films and the conclusion usually drawn is that Indian films don't match up to the style and quality of Hollywood films. In my opinion that comparison is wrong. Movies, like art, are very local, very regional. Directors like Bharathiraja and Bhagyaraj and several others capture the soul of the land they belong to. Movies are and should be a reflection of the society in which they are watched and absorbed. This idea of pan‑India or pan‑world, whatever it is, is a myth. Both Bharathiraja and Bhagyaraj shaped the sensibilities of a whole generation of moviegoers in South India and have left behind a work substantial enough for others to study and if possible adapt their style to modern times. That is how art progresses: every new movement begins with what exists as the base. It is not surprising that in many contemporary films you will see shades of Bharathiraja or shades of Bhagyaraj creeping through. It is inevitable: great masters have that effect, that they'll end up educating future generations, consciously or unconsciously.