Chidambaram (1985) - A review

Adapted from a short story by C. V. Sreeraman, Chidambaram explores the complex layers of human relationships—particularly between men and women—through the lives of three people living and working on a cattle farm.

Muniyandi and her new bride Shivakaami

At the beginning of the film, we meet Muniyandi (Sreenivasan), a worker who tends to the cattle, as he tells his superintendent, Shankaran (a fantastic Bharath Gopi), that he is getting married. Shankaran is a single man, seemingly liberal and open-minded—unlike his casteist colleagues on the farm—and is kind to Muniyandi. He not only attends the wedding but also photographs the entire event for the newly married couple.

After the wedding, Muniyandi brings his young bride Shivakaami (the radiant Smita Patil) to the farm. Coming from a small village, Shivakaami finds everything about her new surroundings unfamiliar however she is curious and innocent and is keen to explore and learn. The rest of the film delicately unfolds the evolving dynamics between these three characters.

Chidambaram delves into many themes like male-female relationships, guilt and redemption, and casteism. Yet what struck me most was the director’s quiet exploration of hypocrisy—the contrast between one’s public virtue and private morality. There’s a striking scene where a man makes sexually suggestive remarks about a woman, and an “honourable” man publicly defends her, only to eventually wrong her and her family. This portrayal of the pakalmaanyan archetype—respectable by day, morally compromised by night—is subtle yet deeply unsettling. We see this man struggling to deal with his feelings of guilt and it is almost impossible to empathise with his struggles 

Visually, the film is nothing short of poetic. Each frame feels like a photograph—slow, deliberate, and full of meaning. The cinematography beautifully captures Shivakaami’s wonder and gentleness; the scenes of her with flowers are simply breathtaking. G. Devarajan’s music enhances the film’s emotional rhythm—the songs appear naturally, never overwhelming the narrative but enriching it. I particularly loved the scenes where Shivakaami’s quiet joy among flowers was underscored by soft, Tamil music.

An endearing touch I appreciated was the director’s decision to retain Sreenivasan’s voice in a small cameo as a doctor, since his Tamil dialogues for Muniyandi were dubbed. It’s a subtle gesture that speaks volumes about attention to detail and respect for authenticity. There is also a short scene in the film wherein Shakaran (Bharat Gopi) throws a picnic for the two legends of Malayalam cinema — Nedumudi Venu and Innocent (playing themselves) along with Murali. While the casual chemistry and camaraderie amongst the actors made that scene a delight to watch, it also filled me with a twinge of sadness at the realisation that none of these great actors are longer with us. 

A timeless classic that feels as relevant today as it did in 1985, Chidambaram is a masterful meditation on love, guilt, and redemption. It’s a must-watch for anyone who values cinema that moves you gently.