Sruthi Ganapathy Raman
Venu and Murali’s fates are intertwined by destiny in a coastal town in Kerala. One wants to become a filmmaker and another, a music composer like Malayali virtuoso MS Baburaj. Off they set to Madras to see if their tiny dream can make them a living.
A dreamy overstuffed love letter to life you sometimes can’t resist. Varshangalkku Shesham is the kind of film that chokes you up with its treatment of certain moments, as clichéd as the scene might otherwise play out in your head.
Some moments cannot be described, but can only be experienced. As brilliantly cringey as this expression sounds, this phrase slowly wafts the mind while watching Vineeth Sreenivasan’s Varshangalkku Shesham.
Varshangalkku Shesham is that kind of film in which moments don’t merely move the plot forward, but stop you mid-thought, squeeze your heartstrings, and fill you up with a sort of fullness that you didn’t expect from scenes, as simple as they may be.
The film is driven by the biggest and tiniest butterfly effects that instantly bring a sheepish smile to your face. By the time we reach the interval, we realise that we’ve seen a first act worth its own film, and the intermission card acts as a timely refresher.
What keeps the film going relatively smooth are the performances. Dhyan and Pranav remind us of that one friendship that we’ve inevitably experienced — one that’s made up of a silent dreamer and an usher that pushes the other to dream openly.