It was 23rd December, 1993. The melodious voice of K. S Chithra sang the now iconic words “Oru Murai Vanthu Paarthaya”, and a legend of unparalleled excellence and longevity was born as the audience beheld the magic of Nagavalli as the movie Manichithrathazhu (The Ornate Lock) opened in theatres. It is hard to believe that this year marks the 25th anniversary of that monumental event in Malayalam cinema and culture, but even harder is to believe that the tale of Nagavalli hasn’t been part of a Malayali legend before that, seeing how close Malayalis hold the story to their hearts. The movie has become a modern day epic, just as treasured as the tales of Unniyarcha or Kannaki in the hearts of most, if not all, Malayali people across the globe. Dare I say it is tantamount to sacrilege if a Malayali hasn’t revelled the marvel that is this piece of cinematic magic?
For the uninitiated, Manichithrahazhu is a psychological horror/thriller, first of its kind in Indian cinema, that expertly melded elements of comedy, suspense, romance, horror and dance to create a unique and lasting legacy that still stands up to scrutiny thanks to its smart and witty script, expert direction, stunning cinematography, evergreen music and effortlessly superb acting. It tells the story of a purported haunting of an old manor house in Kerala (Madampilly Meda) by the vengeful ghost of Nagavalli who was murdered by one of the forebears of the current owners of the place. When the young heirs of the property, Nakulan and his new bride Ganga come to stay at their ancestral home, events unfold leading to disputed claims of ghostly mischief or a mentally unstable cousin, and the crux of the story revolves around solving this issue.
The film, directed by Fazil, was unusual in its premise and approach at the time to topics such as hauntings (which had been a common legend in Malayali culture) and mental illnesses. Opting for atmosphere and character rather than jump scares or gore, the film was able to transport audiences to the cobwebbed and rotting corridors of the old manor and instil a sense of dread and suspense, all the while making the audience feel for the character of Nagavalli, the wronged dancer from yore. Much help in this was given by the sublime musical score by Johnson and original songs by M G Rashakrishnan, both of which have remained instantly iconic and recognizable. When initially released, the film garnered universal acclaim from critics and audiences alike, and its esteem has only grown in the quarter of a century since. It still holds up, which is remarkable for a comparatively small budget film from a regional language industry in India, and audiences across the globe regardless of language have been captivated by this lightning in a bottle.
A lot of the credit also goes to the superlative work done by the ensemble cast comprising of Malayalam cinema staples like KPAC Lalitha, Innocent, Kuthiravattom Pappu, Thilakan, Nedumudi Venu, Vinaya Prasad and Kannadiga dancer Shridhar. The acting, the naturalistic and lived-in style of the best of Malayalam films, feels so effortless that the audience doesn’t need to suspend their disbelief at the events unfolding before them. The subtle balance of comedy and thriller elements is masterfull, and the characters jump off the screen, and have remained favourites of audiences. Suresh Gopi, who plays the level-headed and likeable Nakulan acts as an anchor and straight man to the two titanic performances elevating the film. His role might come off lighter compared to his two co-stars, but the fact that he is able to hold his own without being completely washed out of the screen (which is the case with every other version of the character in the many remakes of the classic) speaks to the talent of Suresh Gopi as a screen behemoth. Mohanlal, one of the two greatest superstars of the Malayalam pantheon, only appears halfway into the narrative, but it’s his show from then on until the last half an hour or so, when the real star of the show takes her due. Dr. Sunny remains one of his greatest cinematic achievements, which is something considering his repertoire.
The success of the film hinges entirely on the success of conveying the dual-role of Nagavalli and Ganga. The reveal that the ‘haunting’ was actually caused by the Dissociate Identity Disorder affecting Ganga, and her affinity to the character of Nagavalli and her story would have crumbled and come off as a gimmick if the actress essaying the part was not up to par. Thankfully, Shobana was the one such actress who stepped into the character with such élan, even today her scenes as the vengeful Nagavalli send chills down my spine. The acting is simply a masterclass in subtlety, even when Nagavalli goes off the rails and is dancing maniacally in the ruins of the older parts of the manor, and the control and instinct necessary for portraying it as such elevated Shobana’s performance to the stratosphere, making this not only her finest performance on screen and a tour de force of acting, but also one of the best performances in Indian cinema as a whole. The part not only required a superb actor, it also called for a superlative classical dancer, and Shobana delivers in a way few performers ever get the opportunity for. It is an experience, watching the climax unfold before our eyes, as the exorcism of Nagavalli takes place and Shobana towers above the acting veterans with such a fully realized and almost ethereal and unsettling display of genius. When all the great elements come so magnificently together, greatness was only the start.
The film was the biggest hit of the year, and went on to win two National Film Awards, including Shobana’s first in the Best Actress category. Since then, it has always been a staple of Malayali pop culture, played reverentially on TV channels on a regular basis. It remains one of those films that people sit down and watch when they happen upon it on air, the pull of the piece too strong to resist. It was even hailed as the second Greatest Film of All Time in India by IGN Live in 2013.But more than that, the very fact that people still talk about it reverentially, like a shared cultural tradition regardless of religion or location as a Malayali is the true mark of its greatness. Its legacy as part of the Malayali identity is its pinnacle, and that’s why 25 years after its release, it is still adored by millions, with nary a criticism to be levelled. It has even elicited academic discourses, based on psychoanalytic theories, feminist studies and queer subtext and their interpretations.
Also unsurprising are the many remakes of the film throughout the years and they vary in quality quiet significantly. None of them come half as close to achieving the greatness of the original because from the ingredients themselves, there are innumerable issues that ultimately spoil the finished product. The first of the remakes was in Kannada by P. Vasu called Apthamithra, who left the original writer uncredited (which is basically plagiarism). It starred Vishnuvardhan in the role essayed by Mohanlal, with his character given far more screen time than necessary, thus shifting focus from the original theme and feel of the piece, especially since Vishnuvardhan isn’t nearly as effective as his counterpart. Soundarya was a capable actress who fared better in the acting than the dancing, and her performance was serviceable enough to win a Karnataka State Film Award for Best Actress. The team milked the story for all its worth by releasing an unwarranted sequel in Aptharakshaka. P. Vasu then went on to butcher the story once again in Tamil as a star vehicle for Rajnikanth called Chandramukhi. This was a travesty, with none of the charm, wit or grace of the original and with far too much attention given to Rajnikanth rather than the story itself.
The Nagavalli character, renamed as Chandramukhi, was played by Jyothika which was at best unintentionally funny, at worst sacrilege to the original. It was abysmal, the acting coming across more as special needs rather than mentally disturbed, and add on to the fact that the dancing was questionable at best, it is a travesty to endure for any Malayali, and it has been an indignant punchline to jokes for every Keralite who has had the misfortune to witness it. But apparently there’s no accounting for taste as Jyothika somehow won the Tamil Nadu State Award for Best Actress for…that. The same year, in 2005, a Bengali version more faithful to the original was also released entitled Rajmohol. The less said about it, the better. Although the climactic song “Amor Chokhun Agun” is catchy enough, the woefully miscast Anu Choudhary as Deboshree (Nagavally) was completely out of her depth in the acting and dancing, and begs the question why they even tried it. The most faithful of the remakes was made in Hindi in 2007 by Priyadarshan (unsurprisingly) called Bhool Bhulaiyya. Priyadashan, who acted as one of the second unit directors of the original, handled the material well enough, with the scale and scope of the original scaled up for Bollywood while the atmosphere was very nearly successfully translated onscreen. The music in the film was also excellent, especially the climactic “Mere Dholna Sun” being a perfect piece of semi classical music worthy of many a dance recitals. Akshay Kumar was the highlight, stepping in to portray the role of the psychiatrist with characteristic charm and ease. But Shiney Ahuja as the husband was completely wasted, and Ameesha Patel as the proxy failed to make any impact. The crucial role of Avni/Manjulika was handled gracefully by Vidya Blalan, possibly the only Bollywood actress of her our generation capable of the task. She was no Shobana, her acting sometimes verging on the absurd, but her Achilles heel was her dancing, particularly next to the capable and always excellent Vineeth. Also, another faux pas was the use of Hindi instead of Bengali in the character of Manjulika, which might seem nitpicky, but the whole point of that character was her complete separation from the character of Avni. In my opinion, the only actress who could have done a convincing turn as the character in Bollywood was Madhuri Dixit, herself a fantastic actress and superb dancer, but alas that can now only be a pipe dream.
On a personal note, Manichithrathazhu holds a very special place in my heart because it was the first Malayalam movie my parents took me to watch in the cinema at the ripe old age of 1. Although I don’t remember seeing it, somehow the character of Nagavalli has always drawn me to her and the dance sequence at the end is something I frequently come back to. So you can understand my frustrations at the pale imitations and remakes that tarnish the legacy of the original. Well anyway. All this writing has made me miss the film. I’m going to curl up in bed, wrapped in my blanket in my dark room, and walk back into the magical world of Manichithrathazhu. See you there?
P.S For those who haven’t got the film on hand, or haven’t yet watched it (gasp!!), it is available for free on Hotstar in HD, with English subtitles. Get to it.
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