Movies of War

“Who’s afraid of the Bogeyman? Not I, not I.” That is what Chintan and his turbulent band of children seem to believe, all the more so as this bogeyman appears much friendly and benevolent. As the title suggests to Malayalam speaking audiences, “Kummatty” is an admirable variation on a folktale from Kerala’s Malabar region about a magician who turns children into animals. Buy This Titleby clicking on the image below Once upon a time, in a quiet village in Kerala, there lived Chintan, a young, mischievous boy. With his friends, he would wander happily after school, regularly and playfully teasing the old woman who tended the local temple. In turn, she threatened them with Kummatty’s arrival, promising punishment for their mischief. Then one day, a strange, dancing vagabond appeared in the village. He carried animal masks and a curious rattle studded with small bells, filling the air with a playful, enchanting rhythm. At first, the children were surprised by the friendly manners of this supposed tormentor, who showered them with sweets and biscuits. Soon, however, he became their main attraction, until the day he decided to leave the village. Before going any further, let us forget about the vivid Bollywood cinema and its conventions. Likewise, despite drawing on a children’s universal folktale vaguely reminiscent of the Pied Piper, “Kummatty” is not a children’s film as the director himself once made clear. The reason is simple: G. Aravindan seems far less interested in the moral dimension of tales than in their magical charge. We are firmly within the realm of magical realism, dear to Apichatpong Weerasethakul and a few others. Furthermore, narrative progression is not central to the film. The tale itself only truly begins after fifty minutes, leaving ample time for the viewer to become deeply immersed in the diverse and beautiful landscapes of the Kasaragod, cradled in the peaceful rhythms of village life. Following Chintan in his daily routine, whether in sweeping panoramas or splendid intimate close-ups, the film is beautifully framed and lit, creating a palpable sense of ethereal quietness and eternity. Even the recurring threat of illness, which surfaces twice in the narrative, seems to belong to a broader, peaceful cycle of life. Obviously, we think of Ray’s Apu trilogy, but as paradoxical as it may appear, Aravindan’s cinema stands somehow closer to certain traditions of African filmmaking, where magic belongs to lived reality. Here dialogue remains largely accessory and the traditional folk songs – by Kavalam Narayana Panicker & M. G. Radhakrishnan – drive the rhythm of the film. Yet, the film is not a musical despite the crucial role of the children’s songs, simply because they are part of the rich background, and not the narrative. This is a story not told through words, but through moving images, which counts the film among a precious and marginal facets of world cinema. Shot by Aravindan’s regular collaborator Shaji N. Karun, “Kummatty” was filmed on Eastman color stock, which beautifully renders the lush greenery of nature and the subtle handling of light. The camera often remains fixed, occasionally animated by slow panoramas – the beauty of certain still compositions is simply remarkable – yet the frame is frequently enlivened by natural movement within it, making the film distinct from purely contemplative cinema. Alongside the bogeyman figure, played by a fascinating Ambalappuzha Ravunni, it is also hard to miss the little white mongrel who ultimately proves essential to the story’s resolution. For trivia lovers, the cinematographer later revealed, “It was a stray. The trained dog we had brought died before the shoot. (…) I picked up a stray dog from the location itself. It was young and could not be trained, and that had its own innocence. Sometimes, the dog ran away and the crew had to hunt for it!” This may well be a key part of the film’s charm: nature sometimes comes through better than composition. And that’s, in any case, what Aravindan – the real bogeyman here – does best. While he died relatively young at fifty-six after having directed just a dozen features and documentaries, it is hard to imagine he shot the film in only two weeks, relying mostly on local, non-professional performers. There is also some kind of magic in this. Enriched by a superb restoration, “Kummatty” is all in all an iconoclastic work of enchantment, both charmed and charming Tags:Apur SansarG. AravindanKummattySatyajit Ray