He doesn’t get too overwhelmed too fast he doesn’t stalk. When on a bike ride, she puts her hand on his shoulder, he doesn’t get into raptures over it. He doesn’t seem to have a problem with her smoking. Gautham has no courteous words to offer, but doesn’t pursue her without consent. It’s impressive that despite being a toxic romance between a broken man and a healing woman, Ranjith’s treatment of how love occurs between them is surprisingly respectable. Songs tend to have their own lives though, and you have to wonder what damage it will cause, existing out of the film’s realm, and whether the decision to indulge as much in Gautham’s idiocy was necessary. It’s wily to have such a song, and then to turn it against itself. There’s a dominant use of red as the film progresses to signify this plummeting of his character. The song comes at a time when he’s sinking deeper and deeper into hatred.
But IRIR doesn’t take his side, and proceeds to point him out for the idiot he is. IRIR means well, and I say this despite it having a despicable TASMAC number in which the male goes about bashing women. It’s hard not to cut slack for a film that firmly has the toxic male in its crosshairs. You have to, as an aside, wonder if this sort of deification of women is useful for them, but that’s a topic for another day. You see this in IRIR, as the man hurts and hurts some more, only to receive more and more love.
In a recent interview with us, he spoke about his belief that men are blessed demons and women, cursed angels. In a sense, Ranjith seems to be arguing that it’s how most relationships are. IRIR is the relationship between an anti-hero and a heroine, the love story between a perpetrator and a victim. It’s important that certain scenes in this film don’t get taken out of context and viewed in isolation. Director Ranjith proceeds to point out how dangerous these ideas are, and even better, tries to narrow down their source, in a bid to arrive at a solution. Towards the end of the film, a man, embodying Gautham’s mental state, prods him into violence, with the sort of misogyny that’s been known to incite appreciation in theatres. It proceeds, thankfully, to sneer at his false heroism. But where Arjun Reddy cannot stop looking at its protagonist with love, IRIR can. The name she’s saved Gautham’s number under - Rowdy - is a fitting summary. Heroic entries, CS Sam’s dubstep tracks, Tara looking in awe… all of this adds to the seeming appeal of Gautham’s unhindered violence. There’s a fair bit of romanticisation of his violence. As an aside, I do think Harish Kalyan would have been quite apt for the Arjun Reddy remake.
It’s hard not to get reminded of the toxic masculinity in Arjun Reddy. The relationship is between a man who is consumed by his darkness and a woman who tries desperately to kindle light within him. Gautham is aggressive, ego-centric, and above all, in need of love. IRIR shows much interest in trying to understand the psyches of both parties, Gautham and Tara (Shilpa Manjunath, whose awkwardness begins to be less of a problem as the film progresses), characters who are extensions of your stereotypical male and female. This film can also be seen as a take-down of the superficial romances we get, in which the sun shines bright and rainbows flash forever. Quite naturally, there’s a dedication card at the end to films like Blue is the Warmest Colour, Romeo Juliet, Tamasha, Kaatru Veliyidai… all films that deal with complications arising out of contemporary romantic love. How does the average male behave in love? What’s in it for the woman? The male lead, Gautham (Harish Kalyan), grapples with a few more questions: When does love transform into hatred? What prompts a lover to turn into a killer? IRIR is about love and its tragedy.
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