MANAM

In my life, I’ve noticed that there are certain films that I can confidently bet on to make me cry. And boy oh boy, every time I watch this film, there are at least two or three moments where I clench my face desperately determined to stop the tears. However, this film is more than just a tale of heartwarming cliches. Manam is a beautiful showcase of rich Telugu culture and how important the family unit is to this community of people. Moreover, the interweaving timelines of each subplot lends itself to present how the nature of personal relationships have changed from the rural, more traditional era to the present, modern Indian context. 

Manam incorporates four different, interweaving romances and tragedies that span several decades; each era of time contributing its own unique definitions of love, a fulfilled marriage, and the notion of family. This in itself would create an intricate story, but the plot is further complicated by introducing the concept of reincarnation as each pair of lovers pass away in a tragedy that robs them and their children of a prosperous family life. These lovers are then brought back sometime in the child’s life, during adulthood or old age and the now-adult can watch his young parents fall in love again. 

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This narrative isn’t entirely unique. In fact, after reading the short summary some of you may be convinced that this film is another one of those cheap Indian remakes that distastefully copies other Hollywood films. But that’s precisely where this film’s allure emerges. The fact that this film is made from a South Indian context with filmmakers that are deeply entrenched in Hindu philosophy and traditional Telugu customs is what attributes uniqueness to Manam. The film’s underlying implicit beliefs in reincarnation, eternal love, and unspoken affection have deep roots in traditional Telugu beliefs. Two such examples of these stand-out illustrations of context are in this film’s music and characterizations.

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Music is a very foundational component of Telugu film-making. The strong coalescence between film and music since the advent of Telugu film in the twenties has allowed for the development of a thriving crop of lyricists, singers, composers, and instrumentalists. In the past few decades, however, the commonality of lyrical music in film has transitioned from simply a good-to-have element into a necessity. A concrete example of this is illustrated by the cliche that Indian cinema has randomly placed song sequences that are unrelated to plot and serve no other purpose than the objectification of the female body or the showcasing of a lavish production budget. Unfortunately in modern Telugu film, this cliche is a reality in most cases. But not in Manam (Well, except for one song).

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In Manam, music is used to embody recurrent themes and emotions as well as cleverly compress time. Since the film needs to tell stories from the 1980s, then the 2010s, then the 1920s, then back to the 2010s, it’s very necessary for a film-maker to cleverly shrink time without having the plot feel crowded. In Manam, it was done through song sequences. And I know what you’re thinking: “What’s new about this? I’ve seen so many Indian films where characters fall in love, get married, have children, and grow old all in the span of a four-minute song!”. What’s different here is that the songs don’t succumb to the boring cliches of love and the lyricality of the songs are meaningfully intertwined with the visuals. For example, one song speaking about the adult reliving the experience of having parents is visualized beautifully with small details (such as the adult teaching his reincarnated mother economics whereas his mother taught him how to read in the first place) that tie the different subplots together. The effective use of parallelism is very satisfying for the audience and delivers a wholesome plot. The absence of dialogue has allowed for the director to deft-handedly develop plot and character through song, all in an Indian context. 

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The characterizations in this film are painstakingly mapped out to be consistent and also reflect the unique nature of the actors’ personal relationships. Nageshwar’s love for cars in the present day is a direct connection with Seethramudu’s obsession with cars in the past. Dr. Anjali’s stammer is a replica of Ramalakshmi’s style of speaking. Nagarjuna’s birthmark on the hand is identical to Radha Mohan’s. Priya platonic love for Nageshwar seems to be derived from her past reincarnation as Krishna Veni. Every detail is thought of so well. In another film, the repetitiveness of symbols may be annoying but in Manam, it simplifies the complicated narrative and ties everything together. Another interesting thing to note is that in reality, all three generations of characters, played by Nageshwar Rao, Nagarjuna, and Naga Chaitanya, playfully reflect their real-life identities. Their names and roles are switched so that the son plays the father, giving the audience another piece of thoughtful characterization to chew on. 

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Overall, Manam is a film of redemption, love, and family that makes its plot not only believable but resonant through the effective incorporation of Telugu context and culture. Of course, this is a South Indian film so there are plenty of songs and more than a fair share of cliched propositions of romance. But overall, I don’t the audience minded it. In fact, they might’ve even liked it a little.