Together, they play Anoop and Deepthi, a couple who once were in love; today, there is room for anything but that emotion. Deepthi realises she is pregnant and tries to get in touch with Anoop. He receives a message on his phone about a pregnancy, but that of another woman. They are at a stage where love, a feeling where respect is grossly overlooked for affection, has been drained from their lives.
This is because the narrative is guised in the cloak of a thriller. Structured as an incident and its aftermath that unfurl inside an apartment, the proceedings are cleverly designed so as to mask the shortcomings posed by the pandemic.
Only partially because, for a movie shot with so many challenges in place, an area where it surprisingly falls short is its writing, This is despite the dark humour that adorns the narrative occasionally and a plot technique reminiscent of Inside Out.
Even Shine Tom Chacko, who shoulders the film along with the supporting cast of Sudheesh Koppa and Gokulan, fail to sustain the momentum. Love has a brisk runtime of 91 minutes. For once, maybe a few more minutes would have gone a long way towards adding plausibility and helping a film realise its potential.
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It starts innocently enough. A woman gets an ultrasound. A man (who's at home) gets an "I am pregnant" message. But like everything else in this film, Things. Are. Not. What. They. Seem. Spare a moment to look at this home. It has smiley-happy pictures of the couple all over the walls. So why does she have a bruise on her cheek? What is his thing with violent video games? Just talking about the title, Khalid Rahman's Love is like Anuraj Manohar's Ishq. It's a decoy. You listen to a word like "love" or "ishq", and it makes you think the movie is about smiley-happy scenarios. By the end, we realise that these words are used ironically, as though to suggest that dictionary definitions are not what relationships are like in real life. There's a reason Facebook has a status that says "It's complicated."
Khalid Rahman seems to like these deceptive titles. His last film, the terrific Unda, came with a macho name: the word means "bullet". It practically needs a bucket under it to catch all the dripping testosterone. But the film, for the most part, subverted the action-adventure machismo we know from the movies. Love, similarly, subverts the romance inherent in the word. It's about the murderous feeling when you come home to unwashed dishes that the husband has left for you to clean up. It's about another murderous feeling that is actually voiced in words: Is there a husband who hasn't felt like killing his wife at some point? It's about smashing a dinner plate because, at that point, it's easier to vent your rage on chinaware than enter into the 693rd confrontation with your husband.
At first, watching the lush, slo-mo, music-video treatment, I was a little confused. Why not complement this raw story with spare filmmaking? Why these "arty" flourishes, like the one where a crumbling building appears to mirror a crumbling psyche? But soon we see that the form (not just the making, but also the writing) is as misleading as the title. Love is tricky, and therefore, Love is tricky, too. It flips around genres like mad: it's a narcissistic murder mystery like Alfred Hitchcock's Rope mixed with a psychological black comedy like David Fincher's Fight Club mixed with a domestic-abuse drama like Anubhav Sinha's Thappad. The latter is probably the easiest reference point, but it was more direct in its appeal. And in terms of form, it was more traditional. Here, we have a director saying: I'm going to play mind games with you that kinda-sorta reflect the mind games inherent in unhappy relationships (and oh, even in some happy ones). The form, therefore, becomes the content.
Khalid Rahman co-wrote the film with Noufal Abdullah, and the screenplay builds up to a brilliant twist that involves all the characters (superbly played by Rajisha Vijayan, Veena Nandakumar, Gokulan, Sudhi Koppa and especially Shine Tom Chacko). This twist is not just a haha-gotcha "stunt" but deeply rooted in psychology. If you feel the first hour or so is "going nowhere", it's deliberate. When you watch the film a second time, you won't feel that at all. And the second time will probably make you linger on a razor blade that hints at suicidal tendencies, or the reason someone doesn't seem to care about shattered glass on a floor. There's a very "male" line, one that's been repeated down the centuries, that says we can never understand women. But Love says that men cannot understand themselves, either. We can have contradictory impulses that almost make us feel we are a different person altogether.
"Between what is said and not meant and what is meant and not said, most of love is lost" goes a Khalil Gibran quote. We bring you a compilation of beautiful melodies from Malayalam cinema that speak about the anguish of lost love, about those memories that are too deep and profound to get over and a heart that seems to take its own sweet time to heal.
3. 'Pokkuveyil Ponnuruki' from Chillu (1982): Venu Nagavally, who was the quintessential Devadas of Malayalam cinema, sports a badly kept beard and looks immensely unhappy, reminiscing his lost lover played by who else but Jalaja?!
5. 'Pathiramazha Yetho' from Ulladakkam (1991): Can there be a more sublime piece of poetry than this? In a mental health institution, we have a lover (Asokan), who has lost his mind following the death of his lady love, recalling her through a poignant melody while another woman (Amala) listens sadly, lost in her own memories of her dead lover.
11. 'Azhalinte Aazhangalil' from Ayalum Njanum Thammil (2012): Lost love has never sounded so poignantly heart-breaking. The hero (Prithviraj) is devastated when he realises that he has lost her (Samvritha Sunil) forever and it plunges him into unfathomable depths of sorrow.
15. 'Swarnamukhiley' from Ithu Njangalude Katha (1982): Five friends fall in love with the same woman. The woman is having her share of problems as she tries to share it with one of them.
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