EMPURAAN: WHY A FILM THAT CRITIQUES POWER CHOSE TO CUT ITSELF SHORT
C.S. Venkiteswaran
The controversies surrounding the film L2: Empuraan have been raging for the past few weeks, polarising film lovers, Mohanlal fans, and political parties.
Unlike the many “hurt sentiment” dramas triggered by films in recent times, where filmmakers were forced to remove scenes or dialogues, here we find the filmmakers themselves coming forward to cut the “controversial” scenes and re-censor the film. That, too, despite the support of the public and the ruling and opposition fronts in the State, both proclaiming their solidarity with the film.
This much-awaited Mohanlal-starrer, directed by Prithviraj Sukumaran, is a sequel to the earlier film Lucifer (2019) and the second part of a proposed trilogy. Even before its release, there was a lot of hype around its state-of-the-art technical design and global production scale. Hitting the screens on March 27 with huge fanfare, it was hailed as the highest-grossing Malayalam film of all time and the second-highest-grossing Indian film of the year.
Though the right-wingers were initially enthusiastic, they grew upset after the release owing to the film’s references to the Godhra incident, the 2002 Gujarat riots, and especially the suggestive naming of characters like “Baba Bajrangi”, the uncanny resemblance of certain scenes to real events such as the Naroda Patiya killings, and the negative representation of national agencies like the National Investigation Agency (NIA). Despite the rousing box-office reception, within a few days, Mohanlal, the superstar protagonist, issued an apology “for the distress caused” by such references and promised fans that “such subjects” would be removed from the film. The producers followed suit, and the film was re-censored and re-released with 24 cuts.
It looked (or was made to look) as if it were all an accident or oversight—as if the actor or producer were surprised by the backlash. Notably, while the scenarist Murali Gopy tried to defend his script, the film’s director Prithviraj maintained an enigmatic silence throughout the controversy. This “harakiri” by the producers—one is not sure whether it was forced or voluntary—is more than an act of backtracking; it is an act of betrayal and a show of utter lack of faith in freedom of expression. Art is where one is free to employ allegories, metaphors and symbols and also facts, truths and evidence. When a superstar like Mohanlal retreats, it sends out negative vibes to the industry as a whole. If there was pressure on the producers, it is a déjà vu kind of situation, with a scene from their own film turning into reality.
First of all, there was nothing subtle or indirect about the historical references in the so-called “offensive” scenes. The visual, indexical, and verbal references were very overt, and it would be naïve to think that the actor, producers or director were unaware of their potential consequences. Many analysts saw this as a successful experiment in “shock marketing”. In the initial days, the pre-release hype around the film drew in superstar fans and admirers of spectacular mega-productions. Soon after, when the first reactions emerged, it attracted a “progressive” left-wing audience who were thrilled to see a mainstream movie pinpoint the violent origins of Hindutva ideology.
Then came the announcement of the cuts, triggering another rush to see the uncut version. Even now, the viral buzz on social media continues to pull in audiences who fear missing out on something everyone is talking about. So, whether the references were intentional or unintentional, Empuraan has succeeded in becoming an all-time box-office hit. On the other side, right-wing Hindutva ideologues appear content that the filmmakers responded to their anger and “corrected” their mistakes. It has been a win-win game for everyone: the right-wingers are happy that they made the filmmakers regret, the leftists are happy that the real face of communal politics was revealed, the fans are happy that their hero’s image was “redressed”, and the Malayalam film industry is happy to have entered the hallowed Rs.150-crore club. It is also ironic and sad that the “progressives” have to defend such a film that celebrated violence and revenge to defend the right to freedom of expression!
Looming fears and pasts
If Lucifer had a more or less coherent storyline, Empuraan is a loose collection of gory incidents, high-tech fights and melodramatic scenes. In both films, there is a fear of the “local” in the face of the national-global: in Lucifer, it was the fear of the “dirty business” of drugs buying out the State’s political leadership; in the sequel, it is about communal forces doing the same. Added to this is the spectre of a potential dam disaster. Every character has a violent past that comes back to haunt them: Priyadarshini (played by Manju Warrier) has two dead husbands (the first killed by her second husband, the second by Stephen at her behest) to contend with. Zayed Masood (Prithviraj), a terrorist-trainee turned mercenary, has scores to settle with the Bajrangi goons who massacred his family. The past of Stephen and his lineage is riddled with mysteries, yet to be revealed in the next chapter.
The film plays upon the fear that looms over Kerala, and the violent pasts of the characters, to sustain and prod the narrative forward. But the only solution to allay any such fear or to come to terms with the hoary past is to resort to violence and revenge—carried out by superhuman figures like Lucifer, who is Stephen Nedumpally in his local exploits and Khureshi Ab’raam in his global avatar. Interestingly, Stephen alias Khureshi’s power is at its peak and somewhat coherent at the local and global levels: he wields immense influence with corrupt political alliances in Kerala and with the global drug mafia, like that of Félicien Kabuga. But when it comes to the in-between level of the national, the Khureshi-Zayed combination is not as omnipotent. While the incursion of communal politics into a “progressive” landscape like Kerala and the global-level gang war for control of drugs and arms can be confronted, the power of hate-filled national politics is more difficult to tackle. In the film, it has settled only one score; the Bajrangi-Balraj dispensation still holds power at the Centre. The intervention is framed only as a way to save Kerala from this venom and to redress Zayed’s personal loss. Beyond that, it remains at large.
The End of Family as an Overarching Metaphor
The institution and idea of the family used to be the central metaphor in Indian cinema. It was an abiding and often comforting metaphor for the nation at large, as many scholars have pointed out. Personal, social or political upheavals and conflicts were enacted and resolved within the family and its value system. Family reunion was one of the most clichéd closures to such conflicts: by keeping the family at the centre, scores were settled, wrongs forgiven, injustices undone, and villains annihilated and relegated to the past. The reunion of a broken family, or the formation of a new one, promised hope and augured new beginnings.
No longer so. In contemporary cinema, what we see is the impossibility of any family founded upon mutual trust, recognition of one’s place in the order of things, and a continuity between past and future. That hoped-for order and shared future is in shambles now. This uncertainty resonates with the subterranean anxieties of the contemporary State and the ambivalence of national imagination. The nation today cannot be imagined as a family. More than relationships and solidarity, it now reeks of violent memories and unsettled scores. Consider the families in Lucifer and Empuraan: all are broken, haunted by fratricides, patricides and traumatic pasts. They are beyond repair and reunion. Hence, the glaring ill-fit of the metaphor of the family.
The intoxication of violence
Violence is the only thing that holds the narrative of Empuraan together. It links scenes and episodes, defines relationships, nourishes bonds, and gives people direction, meaning and a raison d’être. Each episode revolves around violence and revenge: the film begins with the massacre of innocent families and ends with revenge on the perpetrators at the same site. If Lucifer ends with the murder of Bimal Nair, Priyadarshini’s husband, Empuraan ends with the killing of Jithin, who is the Chief Minister and her brother.
Between these murders lie Khureshi Ab’raam’s international exploits: violent killings of drug mafia operatives and dark deals with spy rings such as MI6 and Interpol. The film is an endless celebration of violence across all levels. Violence is portrayed as the only cure to the communalism and corruption plaguing Kerala politics, the hate-driven national politics, and the dark web of international terrorism. It splurges in violence of all kinds and scales—from the butchering of innocent people to shootouts with drug gangs and remote bombings of enemy targets. This spectacular carnival of revenge and violence is devoid of ethical reflection, redemption or regret. It offers the viewer no vantage point for critique. It is an ethical void, whose be-all and end-all is violence—a genre that has become the prime source of entertainment in contemporary Indian cinema. Whether it is a “historical” drama like Chaava, a “family” action drama like Animal, or a “noir” film like Marco, it is violence and revenge that thrill and sell.
Spectres of/in Hindutva
The omnipotent persona of Lucifer/Empuraan is enigmatic and conflicted: situated between the real-life corruption of local politics and the surreal world of international terrorism. In many ways, this dark figure seems to embody a moment in Indian history when Hindutva ideology is on the verge of total hegemony within, but faces an uncertain world order without. Today, it is strong enough to view its dark legacy of riots dispassionately—as past history, stepping stones to power. But the world outside is chaotic, with nations and forces vying for economic, racial and political dominance, leaving the neoliberal and globalisation projects in tatters. In India’s neighbourhood are powerful players like China and Russia seeking new allies to challenge a declining Western empire. Such uncertainty produces dark, ambivalent figures. So the question is not “Who is Khureshi Ab’raam” but “What is he” How does one interpret the holy shiver at the core of his persona Is it the Hindutva-infused lust for dominance, manifesting its dreams and nightmares Is it pure, ethics-free violence dreaming of global power and celebrating itself
Towards the end of Bertolt Brecht’s play Life of Galileo (1939), the illustrious mathematician, having succumbed to Church pressure, is confronted by his admirer Andrea. Frustrated by Galileo’s surrender, Andrea exclaims: “Woe to the land that has no heroes!” Galileo replies: “No. Woe to the land that needs heroes.” Between a land without heroes and one that needs them, tower figures like Empuraan—beyond the laws of history or politics, they embody the ethical void within us and give voice to our collective silence.
C.S. Venkiteswaran is a film critic and documentary filmmaker based in Kochi.