Written and directed by Ranjith, 2001's Ravanaprabhu was one of a pair of films the Malayalam superstar Mohanlal made in the guise of one Mangalassery Neelakandan. The character was first seen in 1993's Devaasuram (written by Ranjith but directed by I.V. Sasi) as a feckless rich kid engaged in gangland rivalry with fellow heir Mundakkal Shekharan (played by Napoleon; no, not that one); he returns here, older and greying of locks, as an entrepreneur whose feud with Shekharan, now operating as a one-armed property baron, is reignited by the actions of his own impulsive flesh-and-blood Karthi (Mohanlal again). The mass cinema, like history, repeats itself; the idea, underlined by the sequel's title, is that the two aging warhorses are the Ravana and Rama of the new, increasingly capitalist India, locked in battle to the death. This time, however, it's the bull-like Karthi - more Sonny Corleone than Michael - who takes up the fight: introduced smashing up a hospital to which Shekharan has donated, he's an agent of chaos and destruction wielding a peacocking catchphrase (savari giri giri), which is pure sound and fury, signifying nothing. Karthi became a fan favourite, but Mohanlal the foursquare character actor makes the older man by far the more interesting and affecting screen presence: uxorious yet bereft, regretful both that he cannot fully enjoy the fruits of his labours and that this turf war has re-escalated. It would be a stretch to suggest that Ravanaprabhu was a South Indian rebuke to the same year's Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham, the Karan Johar-engineered Hindi blockbuster that insisted the kids were all right - it opened four months earlier, and the two movies really have as much in common as, say, Unforgiven and Clueless - but its first half, at least, gestures wearily towards the fact that each successive generation of capitalists has proven more vicious, vulgar, entitled and grasping than the last.
It's still mostly fathers, sons and the line of succession - everything the 21st century cinema would subsequently begin to back away from, in search of fresher themes - but Ravanaprabhu stands as a vivid, not to mention punchy reminder of the pleasures of the traditional, and why audiences kept faith with such stories for so long. Mohanlal has never been the most athletic or limber screen presence, but in the younger man's action sequences, he figures out a compelling way to use his bulk; despite his passing resemblance to a hairier Willie Thorne, he does look like he could do some damage. Around him, Ranjith's script fleshes out this intrafamilial struggle with various courtiers, hangers-on and lawmen, themselves torn between the old ways of doing business and a desire to forge a more peaceable future. His material may be time-honoured, but he shoots everything like a comic strip: big, emphatic close-ups, whiplash whip pans, Godardian zooms into signs and signifiers. The roadside fistfight that pre-empts the intermission - or "tea break", as it's rather charmingly styled here - finds Karthi trading blows with a police assailant in the direct path of oncoming trucks. (It also yields an especially cherishable grace note: the star casually leaning against a jeep as police reinforcements show up, as if to say "Fighting? What, me?") It softens in the second half, as Karthi - consumed by affection for Shekharan's doctor daughter (Vasundara Das) - redeems himself to some degree. Yet the whole remains fiercely entertaining right through to its fiery petrol-tanker finale, elevated by some of the period's most poetic songwriting, possessed of the intrigue and incident of a great novel or play. For a few months back at the very start of the millennium, Mohanlal appeared to be on top of the world, playing a withered Lear and a baseball bat-wielding Hamlet simultaneously, and knocking both roles clear out of the park.
Ravanaprabhu is currently available to rent via Prime Video.
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