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Vaathiyar wakes up groggily one morning in his handsome wooden bed, placed in the middle of his bedroom. He steps down on a puddle. The strangeness of the puddle under his bed awakens him fully; he sniffs around to find that it’s petrol. Startled and suspicious, he runs towards the door, looking for help. The door is locked from the outside. He runs to the window to find a man pouring barrels of petrol into Vaathiyar’s house. At the other window, he finds Sethupathy reading a newspaper right outside.
Vathiyaar pleads, rather threateningly. Sethupathy pulls out a matchbox. Now, Vaathiyar is pleading loudly and helplessly, the threat in his voice gone. After a dramatic pause, Sethupathy lights the match and flicks it at Vaathiyar's aghast face. There is a CG-induced blast, and the end credits roll.
This is the climactic scene from the film Sethupathy (2016). The titular Sethupathy is the ‘hero’. The film builds up adequately to indicate that Sethupathy is not one to go by the books. He is also not one to lift a finger at the general public, even if they are creating nuisance outside a hospital. As if to take the build-up to its crescendo, the hero meticulously plans and executes the brutal murder of someone disagreeable to him.
That’s nothing new — murder and revenge have been fodder for storytellers since time immemorial and we’ve seen various amounts of blood and gore on screen. So, what’s so repulsive about Sethupathy? That he is a police officer. He is the establishment — with absolutely no sense of the law.
Storytelling, in mainstream Tamil cinema, revolves around a male protagonist — we call him the hero. Traditionally, with negligible exceptions, the hero is a good guy with an unshakeable sense of morality and a cut-and-dry approach to justice. He can fight and win against 6–8 men at a time, often without so much as a scratch on his arm, or legal consequences. Being a hero means being accustomed to enduring and unabashedly administering physical violence.
Physical violence — the fight-scene — is a carefully choreographed entertainment piece in the Tamil film. The staging of a fight scene — and the ways in which the hero defeats those fighting against him — is used to set the stage for the invincibility of the hero. Several of these violent fight scenes play out on the streets without so much as a call to the police by the people — the film Run (2002), for instance, the hero rubs the face of one of his attackers to a moving bus on the road, the bus continues to ply without so much as slowing down.
The fundamental understanding in each of these police films is that the cop-hero is a man of unshakeable virtue and therefore his violence is justified, even warranted.
Hardly ever, amidst all this physical violence, would you see the attackers or the attacked walk up to a police station and lodge a complaint. All these fights are between one man and other men — never needing any interference from the law.
This is true even if the hero himself is a police officer. Let’s take Agni Natchathiram (1988) for instance. In a situation where his stepsister is being molested by thugs, Gautam, an assistant police commissioner intervenes and fights the thugs to save her. After the fight scene, he brings her home safely — as a protective brother, not an officer of the law. Protecting her chastity and reputation takes precedence to legal recourse — Paneer Selvan of Sathriyan (1990) goes further, and marries the victim he saved from molesters; Anbuselvan from Kaakha Kaakha (2003) encourages a young girl to ‘walk with her head held high’ after saving her from harassers, through physical violence. None of them report the crimes they intervened in.
It is this sense of morality and judgment — about how to handle crimes they are cognisant of — combined with invincible physical prowess that makes a Tamil film cop-hero an independent superpower; a demi-god. In a scene where the four ‘untouchables’ in Kaakha Kaakha barge into a room of suspects, Srikanth says, “Couldn’t we have brought five more policemen for back-up. Why do we keep showing up ourselves like Superman?”
The fundamental understanding in each of these police films is that the cop-hero is a man of unshakeable virtue and therefore his violence is justified, even warranted.
Storytellers use every trick in their books to establish their cop-heroes as good men — casting the likes of ‘heroes’ like Suriya, Vikram or Ajit is a good start. But to get the audience to empathise with the hero — and forgive him for his extra-judicial psychopathic behaviour — requires more.
In Thani Oruvan (2015), the female protagonist, an aspiring police officer herself, jocularly threatens some men in a train, to steal their alcohol for her use. While this act from an aspiring police officer must be terrifying in itself, the real purpose of the scene is to build Mithran — the hero, also an aspiring police officer — as a righteous man, who will tell right from wrong, and intervene when one’s action impacts the imagination of children around.
It is so that when later you see him moonlighting as a vigilante and kidnapping the wife, the illicit girlfriend and the son of a kidnapper in an attempt to free innocent victims, you don’t notice the contradiction. In order to ensure the audience doesn’t empathise with the son the way they did with the children in the aforementioned train, the young boy is made to speak beyond his age and comment sleazily on the looks of his father’s illicit girlfriend.
Subtly, we are told that this young boy, a sleazeball son of a known criminal doesn’t deserve the protection of this righteous police officer. Several heads roll as Mithran practises to be a cop — the point underscored is that even before becoming a cop Mithran is a healthy, savvy, moral establisher of justice.
Establishing the hero as a capable and good person is key to the gross manipulation of justice and public opinion that follows. Mithran learns that Siddharth (the bad guy) is profiteering medicine overseas that could otherwise cure lakhs of people at an affordable rate in the country. In Mithran’s opinion, that crime doesn’t sway public opinion enough — you see Siddharth is a renowned Padmashri-winning scientist. So, police officer Mithran tampers with the evidence tape and presents a doctored one to the court, with an air of smugness. The court swallows what even looks like doctored tape; so do the public. Cunningly, Mithran has decided the course of justice by manipulating the narrative.
Extra-judicial violence and playing to the gallery notwithstanding, Thani Oruvan puts in words (on the title card too) what Tamil cop-films are about...
Siddharth says to sidekick : Kill everyone who was reason for my business deal going south.
Sidekick : There is no everyone. There is just one person.
Siddharth : Thani Oruthana? A lone one?
... That the story is always about two men — one good and one evil. The justice system, the letter of the law and the police force don’t serve any purpose. Sometimes, they don’t even exist.
The hero is a victim first, victimised merely for wanting to uphold law and order — which is a euphemism for morality and vigilante justice. As a result of being a victim, he is also the detective, judge, jury and the executioner, making the larger justice system invisible, and by extension, incapable.
Storytellers obfuscate the entire justice system and make the audience suspend their disbelief at the horror that unfolds in front of their eyes. The story is narrated in a simplistic linear fashion; the crime is committed clearly before the eyes of the audience — who then play eye-witness to the hero’s execution of justice — thereby eliminating any reasonable doubt or need for evidence.
Gautham Menon does this to good effect. In Kaakha Kaakha (2003), the hero (Anbuselvan) narrates the story in his voice — his narration, his opinion, his sense of morality and justice.
At one point, the hero and his team of encounter specialists camp on the terrace of a building waiting to encounter an alleged criminal.
Anbuselvan:Is it him?
Srikanth: : Yes, it is. Dharma.
Ilamaaran : Shall we arrest this guy?
Ilamaaran : Shall we arrest this guy?
Anbuselvan : Why should we arrest him?
Srikanth testifies : Anbu, there is no official case against him. But all information we’ve got is true — he is a thug, a rapist of young girls. Two months ago, he’s brutally raped a 16-year- old girl called Devi. There were three eyewitnesses. But no one came forward to testify in court. He’s the one who did it. But he escapes every time with the backing of a minister. Now, Devi is in the hospital. If we arrest him now, we can convict him with her statement.
Anbuselvan (rather dramatically) exclaims : If Devi wakes up, if Devi can speak, if Devi can write, can she?
He shoots Dharma down. Ilamaaran checks if he is dead. Anbuselvan smiles and explains : If we arrest him, it’s unnecessary expense for the government — we need to hire a vehicle, fill diesel, have 4 policemen standing guard for him, court and then judge. But now, it cost just a bullet, 50 rupees, my expense. Won’t Devi be happy?
Unthinking police violence stares us in the face — Dharma had no recorded criminal history, no forthcoming witnesses, he is not even a suspect in Devi’s rape; just Srikanth’s version of truth. The audience is told the truth (not even shown) rather callously, and we swallow it, because the narrative of the good guy with a badge is so compelling.
This scene — with the three of them laughing victoriously — is juxtaposed with the next where the four encounter specialists are sitting in front of a panel of investigators. This scene of witticisms and mockery of a grey-haired broken-Tamil-speaking human-rights activist is all the debate the film has. The scene ends with Anbuselvan arguing that human rights don’t apply to those he encountered because “they aren’t humans; they are animals!”
Later in the film, these encounter specialists chase and catch Sethu in the act of collecting ransom for a kidnap. They surround him — he is short of breath — with guns. At this point, they argue about what to do: one wants kill him, another, interrogate him to arrest his network. But Anbuselvan has the last word — he doesn’t have the heart to send the suspect away alive! While this ‘debate’ is on, Sethu catches his breath and pulls out his gun. The policemen shoot him down in pre-emptive retaliation. He drops dead.
This brings Sethu’s brother, Pandya, to Anbuselvan’s heels — beheading his friend’s wife leading to the friend’s suicide, kidnapping and murdering his own wife. In the end, he goes by himself, invites violent physical altercation, and stabs Pandya repeatedly to his death. Ten weeks later, Anbuselvan goes back to work, just another day in the life of a cop.
Justice is at the discretion of this one man. There is no court scene in the film at all.
After Kaakha Kaakha , Gautham Menon wrote two more cop-films, both of which followed the same storyline — righteous, self-important cop, psychopathic villain, harmed lover, revenge. By the end of the third film in his trilogy Yennai Arindhal (2015), his heroic police officer — Sathyadev — turns into a rabid psychopath himself, stabbing the villain to death and dragging his body to the streets, in the same manner his fiancée (and her father) were murdered several years ago. Sathyadev’s revenge is juxtaposed with the death of his fiancée. To protect a child from hearing gunshots, a group of police officers move the villain a few feet further before shooting him to death, as Sathyadev watches. The film ends with the narrator (the director himself) saying: “ Nallavanukkum kettavanukkum nadakkara sandai-la yaar jaikkara-ngardhula thaan, indha ulagathin samanilai adangi irukku [The world’s equilibrium relies on who is the victor among the good and the evil. Now, that equilibrium is restored].”
The justice system can rest in peace.
While Gautham Menon brought the slick, stylish, English-speaking, violent cop to screens, Hari’s violent cop seeped in Tamil nativity. The corrupt cop — who mixes beer in his breakfast, who declares himself a thug, speaks bad language, and pits one gang against another — is Hari’s hero. Is he different much? No. He is physically strong, has a great sense of morality, sees no need for debate, and is blind to the colour grey.
Hari uses slightly different tools to obfuscate the justice system and the letter of the law — family, community and kinship. He normalises violence through the words of the elderly, which is beyond debate.
For Duraisingam, the protagonist of the Singam trilogy, violence starts at home; violence is a weapon of discipline, not abuse. In the first film Singam (2010), he instinctively slaps a full-grown woman for doing something he deems silly. In Singam II , he argues passionately for corporal punishment as a way to discipline children. Slapping around petty criminals is a paternal act of preventing crime, in his city. As the film trudges along, violence escalates — becomes institutionalised.
An international criminal is bringing drugs to India with the help of local businessmen, who have political backing. When the home minister asks Duraisingam to arrest all criminals, he explains that there are stages after arrest of a criminal (note: not suspect) such as court and case. It’s not enough to be a clean police officer to eradicate such criminals. One has to turn into a ‘criminal police’ (the idea of a criminal police is a pet peeve of Hari’s). Those who don’t follow rules have to be shot at sight, or “strangled to death”.
So, among other indiscretions, he lists the ten commandments for Duraisingam’s climactic assignment: Operation D.
- Rule One: The operation commandant can select any police personnel from any district in Tamilnadu.
- Rule Two: Operation commandant will have the right to question any individual at any place, any time, in any manner.
- Rule Three: The mode of operation will not be disclosed and known only to the commandant.
- Rule Four until Rule Nine are filled with victorious music, and visuals showing the incredulous home minister as he absorbs the information.
- Rule Ten: The operation commandant (who is an DSP) is only accountable to the chief justice, home minister or chief minister of the State.
An additional request is the assurance that under no political circumstances shall the operation be cancelled. The home minister and chief minister approve of this, and other leeway for Duraisingam to do as he pleases. For the next 2–3 minutes, there is a song extolling the ‘ veeram [courage]’ of Durasingam, filled with the shooting of various people, that ironically croones: “ Ivan vandhaal podhum vanmurai adangum [when he enters, violence fades]”.
One would think that when the family of a policeman is attacked, he might be on his own. But when a policeman himself is murdered, the system will work overdrive to bring justice. Appears not, at least not in the Tamil cop-film world — here, it is just another heroic police officer who comes to seek revenge.
Sowmya, brings Jayaseelan in Paayum Puli (2015) to help stop Mahaprabhu from harassing her. Jayaseelan meets Mahaprabhu. He tells Sowmya, “Please walk 10 feet away, turn around and count to ten while I finish thus up”. She starts counting with her fingers and before she gets to two, Mahaprabhu and his colleagues are shot dead. It turns out that Jayaseelan, an assistant commissioner himself, was ‘investigating’ and ‘solving’ the murder of another cop. Sethupathy (2016) does something similar.
The inherent contradiction between these two ideas — that a wronged police officer will be avenged, but not by the police force but by another singular police officer — is never reconciled.
All cop films are stories of good fighting evil. They are all stories of a singular man — if anything only constrained by the justice system — sacrificing his life and loved ones to keep the city safe. Violent overthrow of evil authority the hero’s nemesis is certainly more than fifteen years old: Sathriyan (1990) and Soora Samhaaram (1988) come to mind, but there are several, before and after, most certainly.
In this rush to deliver instant justice, and restore peace, Tamil films in general — and police films in particular, by virtue of placing the story within the system — obfuscate the fundamental workings of a democracy. Delay in the delivery of justice, corruption at all levels in the justice system, political muscle are often shown as reasons that the police officer (the righteous hero, that is) must have undeterred powers to do as he pleases to impart justice. Serendipitously, all those who die at the hands of such policemen are those who don’t have any legal standing, no one to sue the government on their behalf.
Mathimaaran in Kaakki Sattai (2016) meticulously plans to shoot the villain, kidnap him in a fake ambulance, administer carbon monoxide and murder him — the same way he murders innocent victims for their organs. Naaygal Jaakirathai (2014) has the hero buries the villain alive in a coffin fitted with a camera which tapes the slow and painful death of the villain.
In Thuppaakki (2012), a captain in the Indian army — and some army friends of his — shoot twelve men at the same time across the city, on suspicion that they are members of a terrorist sleeper cell. He tortures civilians in his bedroom for information. These scenes are interspersed with romance and comedy sequences, almost in an effort to quickly change the topic and stop the audience from thinking further. In Vettai (2012), Gurumurthy who plays the brother, an imposter of Thirumurthy, the police officer argues that when criminals can outsource crimes, police can outsource law enforcement — in utter earnestness and belief in that argument.
Visaaranai (2016), a highly acclaimed award-winning cop film, is also a story of cop violence. It uses much of the same storytelling techniques — linear narrative and including the audience as eyewitness, for instance. The difference, one that is staring us in the face though, is that it makes the audience empathise with the victims.
Now, go back to Kaakha Kaakha . Imagine knowing Dharma. If you can, imagine you are Dharma. Imagine he had a story — a possibly hurting girlfriend, a job, children. Imagine him being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Imagine being shot down by Anbuselvan and his colleagues, because they ‘knew’ he was a criminal. Imagine.
From the times when police in Tamil cinema were mocked for being the last one on scene — MGR-era hero catches the crooks and hands them benevolently over — today’s police stories have come a long way. Storytelling techniques and narrative styles have come a long way — stories have become more pervasive, more persuasive.
Open endorsement of extra-judicial violence, presenting the physical and emotional ability to administer physical violence as a requisite for someone in the police force, unabashedly initiating violence, beginning ‘operations’ with the sole objective of seeing the suspect dead — cops of today’s Tamil films are the big brother with infinite powers who go unquestioned, whose actions accepted without debate, in the filmic universe.
