Dasavatharam and the Art of Disguises

When I was 14, I received my first make-up box. It was a present from Appa, who had arrived from his first visit abroad. It was a flat purple plastic case. I flipped it open and the slight fragrance tickled my nose. It contained a compact rectangle, a tiny brush, a selection of creamy eye-shadows in purples, browns and oranges and tablets of lipsticks in red, maroon, orange and pink. The only time I’d used lipstick was when I was made to play a part in school function that included our Anglo-Indian catechism teacher smear fire-engine red on all choir singers’ lips and use the same to daub little rounds on our cheekbones. We were too worried to bring our lips together and sing. The feeling of treacle and perfume on lips felt strange, uncomfortable and yet I recall being excited, girlie and if I might add, feeling pretty and exhibitionistic.

Make-up is the first armour to battle the cruel lines of age on your face. It can uplift self-esteem, give a boost and make you confident if worn well and with a little finesse. It is  a clever invention and it can be high art in the hands of the skilled.A make-over can sometimes mean a new leash of confidence.

Appa would say a woman needs make-up when she’s forty. He was of the old school that felt a woman’s youthfulness and freshness were her best calling cards. As for men using makeup, you had to be a stage actor in Tamil Nadu to use pink pancake, black eye-liners and shimmering lipsticks and curly wigs and all would be forgiven. Besides, all Tamil actors wore make up and looked none the better for it. The best of them had street theatre backgrounds that relied on guises, make-up and masks for larger effect.

When I first met Kamalahasan (No, he wasn’t Kamal Hassan then) it was on the sets of a flick called Singaravelan at AVM studios in 1991. He was the first hero I fell in love as a teen when I was allowed to watch cinema in the halls.

As I shook hands with him, he responded to potshots about his height-“Marlon Brando was short, but no one in Hollywood harps on that”, he bristled. I was struck by the sheer sexuality he exuded and his clean good looks. He spoke a lot in English with a faint accent that seemed to be in tune with the 1980s upper class Madrasis. He sounded verbose but you knew his intentions, political and cultural, were right, though he often sounded convoluted and contrived. Kamal is also the man who liked to chase an idea or reinvent himself. Is the man larger than the actor? Of course. All superstars are so anyway.

For over a decade we continued to bump into each other as the occasion demanded. We were formal and cordial with each other, though never chummy. There came a time, when despite his famed aloofness, he’d come over phone to take my call, and I was allowed to meet his then wife Sarika at his home, near the Rangachari Cloth Store. When I expressed dismay over the demolition and rebuilding of his office on TTK Road that I loved for its old Madras garden house deco, he shrugged it, “It’s just a house”, he said. Of the scattered conversations we’ve had I can recall his wish that he missed acquiring a formal education. It seemed like a little insecurity in his heart that despite his many artistic achievements he felt a need for learned confidence.

Ergo, it may not be to his relish to say he possesses the art of elevating kitsch. As a committed professional actor he has a never-ending fascination for disguises and the sheer thrill of impersonation and experimenting with looks and donning make-up. He excels at it as much as he does in generating ideas- small and big, the sincere and the mad, the fascinating and the revulsing. His forte includes toilet humour, grotesqueness, smarminess and slapstick. Yet he is almost MelGibsonish in his attempts at sadomasochistic pathos, use of excruciating physical violence and a Freudian urge for physical aggradisement. For a good looking man, he is almost physically attracted to appearing ugly.
“Why?” I had asked him.
“The narcissism works well there”, he had remarked wryly.

Dasavatharam is the big idea of an artiste who is grappling with things political, geographical, religious and historical. It wants to ask the big philosophical questions of how and why and who-some say the Chaos Theory and Butterfly Effect. It wants to meld hi jinks and kitsch, drama and colour with a grand sweep and a far vision. Sadly, it falls to its watery death, more because of a hero, who unable to come to terms with his middle-age and sagging flesh and sparse hair wants to try every trick to buoy himself much like a megalomaniac. And that includes playing each part and donning a variety of masks perfect for a Halloween’s night. As a result, the ‘tricks or treats’ moments and acts are few and limited. A fantastic idea turned fatal with an acting overdose.

Alas, Dasavatharam is a sad story of a gifted actor who has the brilliance to come up with interesting themes and stellar performances on occasions including Nayakan, Pushpak, Anbe Sivam, Michael Madana Kamarajan and many, many more but just unable to age gracefully.