Appuram review: Haunting portrait of a woman’s descent into depression

Written, directed, and co-produced by Indu Lakshmi, Appuram is a deeply intimate film about living in constant fear of loss and abandonment. It transmits strong waves of anxiety and empathy, each opening into the other. Supported by the minuscule cast, who ably animate the density of the tragedy, the 70-minute-long narrative is tightly knit, never once wavering from its core: the love Janaki has for her mother and the grief that comes with it. Several scenes at the beginning of the film show Janaki coming home from school, her cheerful self gripped by a sudden fear when a call goes unanswered or when she finds her mother seated still on the living room sofa. She is a child forced into premature adulthood.

A gratifying climax

This is a film laid out on straight lines, with steady shots and a neatly composed mise-en-scène that, like a prim student, doesn’t plunge into adventurous transitions and abstract flourishes. There are parts in the film that yearn for a touch of chaos and imperfection, the unbridled energy that often raises a good film to greatness. That said, this quiet stillness also becomes a fine agent of shock in several scenes, delivering unexpected emotional blows, like the moment when Venu softly informs Janaki of her mother’s death. Some scenes echo far beyond the screen, like a moment in the final act where Janaki, forced shut in the attic, listens to the distant clamour of the funeral and sees the smoke from the pyre rising to the sky.

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Appuram also brings the urban nuclear family into conflict with its mothership, the patriarchal upper-caste ancestral home. In the latter half, the film shifts from the family’s city home to Chithra’s ancestral home in rural Thiruvananthapuram, where the father and the daughter are cornered by the extended family. In the final sequence, Indu Lakshmi takes on the Brahmanical notions of pollution, wherein the female is the profane threatening to contaminate the sacred, in a head-on fashion, even at the risk of losing the subtlety she had retained in her storytelling until then. Janaki’s rebellious outburst sends shock waves through her conservative family and promises a gratifying climax to the film, but the emotional weight one feels in this part stems not from the high dramatic moments, but from the intimate, haunting images of the characters grieving in isolation: the father-daughter in a gentle embrace, and the blood trickling down her calf as if severing her from the monsters of her past.

A private grief

Rakesh Dharan’s camera imbibes light like cotton absorbing water, gently, never intrusive or out of line, perfectly in grasp of the subtlety Indu Lakshmi envisages. The indoor scenes and close-ups of faces are meticulously shot, and the scene of the family at the beach unfolds like a photograph from a family album. Indeed, the film’s technical crew delivers a fine job. Bijubal’s music oscillates between sound and silence, creating a haunting sensation.

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Anagha Ravi delivers a stunning performance, well supported by Jagadish, who internalizes and expresses the despair Venu undergoes with great nuance. It is a delight to see her perform the complex shades of the character —the innocence, joy, fear, grief and other things in between — without slipping out of its robe even once. Mini IG, as Chithra, brings a powerful vulnerability to her character.

A self-funded feature film shot in Indu’s native city, Thiruvananthapuram, in less than 10 days, Appuram (The Other Side) is situated away from the power structures of the industry and the state, in a space where voices so personal and esoteric find expression. Venu and Janaki’s grief isn’t intended to be understood but respected and left alone. A death in civilisation often brings a community together, but it is also a loss that must be mourned and suffered privately. Appuram is a journey to that place of repose.