Vetrimaaran’s "Visaranai" and "Viduthalai" 1 & 2, text only

Cop violence and systemic oppression in Vetrimaaran’s Visaranai and Viduthalai 1 & 2

Systemic oppression and state violence intersect in societies stratified by race and caste. Police violence, as a tool for maintaining state power, upholds structural inequalities. While race has historically served as the key axis of such oppression in the United States, caste functions in a parallel way in India, shaping socio-political hierarchies. Vetrimaaran's films Visaranai (Interrogation, 2015), based on M. Chandrakumar'snovel Lock-Up (2006), inspired by real-life experience, Viduthalai 1 (Freedom, 2023) and Viduthalai 2(2024), which were based on Tamil's well-known writer Jeyamohan's short story Thunaivan (Companion, 2000), offer a compelling critique of police violence in the Indian context, exploring mechanisms of state brutality that bear a striking resemblance to racialized police violence in the United States.

Critical perspectives on Viduthalai Part 2: head over heart

Viduthalai Part 2, the sequel to Vetrimaaran’s hard-hitting political drama, has sparked varied responses from film critics who both applaud its ambitions and question its execution. Although the film boasts powerful performances—most notably by Vijay Sethupathi—and a clear ideological stance, several reviewers suggest that its narrative and stylistic choices sometimes undermine its emotional depth. Such a perspective comes from a review published in the newspaper, The Hindu. According to this review, the film is propelled by Vijay Sethupathi’s commanding performance, which anchors the narrative even as the director shifts focus toward grand ideological statements rather than intimate storytelling. The reviewer argues that while the film’s thematic ambitions are laudable, the emphasis on ideological debate occasionally comes at the expense of personal connection and subtle character development (The Hindu). [Open Works Cited in new window]

In contrast, a review from Galatta Plus offers a more critical stance regarding the film’s structure. The reviewer contends that director Vetrimaaran overloaded the narrative with too many ideas and subplots. Although the film is a noble effort and a solid work of political cinema, this review suggests that lack of narrative discipline results in a work that feels less engaging and coherent than it might have been (Galatta Plus). Here, the reviewer does not critique the film politically. Sudhir Srinivasan’s review, titled “When Words Overpower Feeling,” further deepens this critique. Srinivasan points out that the film’s dialogue and rhetoric—while intellectually stimulating—often overshadow the emotional core. According to this perspective, the film becomes more a discourse on ideas than a vehicle for stirring genuine emotional response, leaving some viewers disconnected from the characters’ inner lives (Srinivasan). In fact, such an assessment underscores a recurring tension in politically charged cinema: to balance idea-driven content and affective storytelling.

A fourth review, which describes the film as “[a] solid political drama that ought to have been more powerful,” adds yet another layer to the discussion. This review acknowledges the film’s technical and thematic strengths, particularly its commitment to political realism and its exploration of systemic oppression. However, the reviewer laments that the film falls short of its potential due to an uneven narrative pace and missed opportunities for deeper emotional resonance (“Viduthalai Part 2 Movie Review”). Taken together, these reviews reveal a consensus on the film’s significant ideological ambitions and robust performances. Yet, they also highlight a shared concern: the film’s narrative overload and stylistic choices occasionally dilute the impact of its political message. The discussions in these reviews thus reflect broader debates within contemporary Indian cinema about the balance between message and mood, and about how filmmakers can effectively combine political urgency with affective storytelling.

As a director, Vetrimaaran is known for his ideological vision, rendering visible the predicament of the marginalized, and he is acknowledged as a leading voice among contemporary Indian filmmakers. In his scripts, an investment in politics is carefully balanced with the requirements of storytelling in Indian mainstream cinema for elements of romance and familial bonding. However, his political overtones border on propaganda. His films are dubbed and, like many contemporary Indian mainstream directors, he takes liberty at the cost of lip sync; in technical terms, sometimes the out-of-synch dubbed voices become noticeable. In particular, such a flaw draws attention to the verbosity of the master. Thus in Viduthalai the protagonist Kumaresan’s (Soori’s) monotonous voice-over giving explanations can become irritating. Though poles apart, Vetrimaaran’s “show and tell” aesthetic recalls another contemporary master, Wes Anderson, in his investment in the verbose.

Brief history of police violence in Tamil cinema

The depiction of police violence in Tamil cinema has undergone significant transformation, reflecting broader socio-political shifts in the region. Early Tamil films, especially those from the 1950s and 1960s, often portrayed police as righteous enforcers of justice, aligning with state propaganda that positioned law enforcement as an instrument of national progress. However, as a region, Tamil Nadu experienced political awakenings through the Dravidian movement and the rise of anti-caste resistance. During this time, Tamil cinema began to challenge this narrative of a benign police force, offering more complex and critical portrayals of law enforcement. During the 1980s and 1990s, Tamil cinema produced films that acknowledged police excesses, particularly in rural settings. Works such as Kuruthipunal (1995)–the critically acclaimed remake of Govind Nihalani’s Drohkaal (1994)–directed by the legendary cinematographer P.C. Sriram, questioned the role of law enforcement in perpetuating state violence, highlighting how police power was often wielded to maintain state and upper-caste dominance. Similarly, films like Moondru Mugham (1993) and Kaakha Kaakha (2003) marked a shift in police narratives, moving from moral absolutism to more brutal and reactionary explorations of power and violence, disavowing any ethical concern.

The turn of the 21st century, particularly with films like Visaranai (2015) and Viduthalai (2023), marked Tamil cinema’s significant departure from glorified portrayals of the police. These films align with Michel Foucault's concept of disciplinary power, showcasing how the police function as law enforcers and state-sanctioned instruments of biopolitical control. Recalling Frantz Fanon's critique of colonial policing, Visaranai exposes how police brutality disproportionately affects marginalized communities, echoing real-world instances of caste-based custodial violence, such as the Sathankulam case. Furthermore, the depiction of police violence in Tamil cinema can also be examined through Achille Mbembe’s theory of necropolitics, which explains how the state exercises control over life and death. In Viduthalai 1 and 2, for instance, the police serve as enforcers of law and arbiters of who is allowed to live and who must be eliminated. Significantly the use of open landscapes and remote terrains as sites of police violence in Viduthalai 1 and 2 highlights a shift from the claustrophobic urban brutality seen in Visaranai. This expansion of the cop narrative away from the city reinforces the idea that state oppression is not confined to institutional spaces but extends into the very geography of resistance.

Tamil cinema, therefore, provides a crucial space for examining the evolving discourse in India on police violence. From early nationalist portrayals to contemporary critiques of state oppression, these films reveal the deeply entrenched nature of caste-based and political violence, offering a cinematic history that parallels real-world struggles against police brutality in India.

Thanga Pathakkam and the evolution of police narratives in Tamil cinema

A precursor to contemporary critiques of police violence in Tamil cinema is Thanga Pathakkam (Gold Medal, 1974), written by the iconic J. Mahendran and directed by P. Madhavan. This film, which stars Sivaji Ganesan as the strict, duty-bound police officer S.P. Chowdhury, marked a significant moment in Tamil cinema's portrayal of law enforcement. Unlike contemporary films that either demonize or glorify the police, Thanga Pathakkam occupies a complex space where the protagonist embodies both the virtues and the rigid authoritarianism of the police system. The film's central conflict—between the disciplined police officer and his rebellious, anti-establishment son—mirrors a generational struggle over the role of law enforcement in a changing society. Chowdhury's unwavering commitment to duty, even at the cost of his relationships, highlights a key contradiction in Tamil police narratives: the tension between justice and authoritarianism. He makes a decision to shoot his own son, rather than compromise his principles. That action underscores the idea that state power operates above familial and personal bonds, reinforcing Michel Foucault's assertion that disciplinary institutions shape not just public order but also personal morality.

Additionally, Thanga Pathakkam can be examined through the lens of understanding contemporary institutional functioning. In this light, Max Weber's concept of bureaucratic rationality indicates how modern institutions, including the police, operate as impersonal control mechanisms. Unlike the films Visaranai and Viduthalai, which expose law enforcement's corrupt and violent underbelly, Thanga Pathakkam’s script presents a more traditional, duty-bound view of police power, albeit with some critique. The film's tragic resolution indicates that an unwavering commitment to the institution of policing ultimately results in personal devastation, a theme that later films would explore in more radical terms. I point this out to indicate how the evolution from Thanga Pathakkam to Visaranai and Viduthalai signals a broader shift in Tamil cinema's approach to police narratives. While Thanga Pathakkam grapples with the dilemmas of duty and familial responsibility within the protagonist’s rigid moral framework, later films deconstruct the very foundations of the police force, revealing its structural complicity in caste and state violence. Vetrimaaran's work, in particular, can be viewed as a response to earlier, more conservative representations of law enforcement, pushing Tamil cinema into a more overtly political and radical space.

Prison abolitionist perspectives on police violence

Abolitionist scholars such as Angela Davis, Ruth Wilson Gilmore, and Mariame Kaba argue that policing and prisons are inherently oppressive structures that maintain racial and caste hierarchies rather than ensure public safety. They contend that reforming the police is insufficient; true justice requires dismantling carceral institutions and investing in community-led alternatives. In her book Are Prisons Obsolete? Angela Davis critiques the prison-industrial complex as an extension of slavery and racial capitalism, highlighting how the U.S. criminal justice system disproportionately targets Black communities. Similarly, in India, the carceral system disproportionately criminalizes Dalits, Indigenous People, and other marginalized groups under draconian laws like the Unlawful Activities (Prevention) Act (UAPA), which has been used to target activists and dissidents.

Vetrimaaran’s Viduthalai 1 and 2 resonates with abolitionist critiques by exposing how the police function not as neutral law enforcers but as agents of state oppression. A crucial scene in Viduthalai 1 shows the protagonist, Kumaresan, grappling with the realization that his duty as a police officer is not to protect the people but to uphold a violent, hierarchical system. His internal conflict in the script echoes abolitionist calls to rethink public safety beyond policing. Similarly, Visaranai presents a harrowing depiction of how the police manufacture guilt and extract forced confessions to sustain the illusion of justice. The film reveals how the police system thrives on criminalizing the powerless while protecting the interests of the ruling class. This mirrors abolitionist critiques that suggest policing is less about preventing crime and more about controlling marginalized populations. Abolitionist thinkers propose alternatives such as transformative justice, community accountability, and investments in social welfare instead of punitive measures. In the United States, movements like Black Lives Matter advocate for defunding the police and reallocating resources to education, healthcare, and housing—addressing the root causes of violence rather than criminalizing poverty. In India, Ambedkarite movements and grassroots Dalit organizations similarly call for an end to caste-based policing and increased investment in social justice initiatives. Vetrimaaran’s worldview, as represented through his films, is similar. For instance, through the eyes of the newly recruited cop Kumaresan, Viduthalai traces the trajectory of Perumal Vaathiyaar (Vijay Sethupathi) from being a teacher to worker in a factory, mentored by a Marxist leader, to taking up arms as a leader of the People’s Army and advocating for voting and elections as a way to resist/change the government. Thus, Perumal Vaathiyaar is a fusion of Marxist and Periyarist and Tamil nationalist who advocates for eradicating caste. Let us look at the hero’s arc in his films.

Ensemble acting, people's cinema, and the hero's journey in Viduthalai

With scripts that trace the intersection of the hero's journey and police violence, the films Viduthalai 1 and 2 and Visaranai offer compelling narratives to critique how individuals navigate oppressive state structures. In contrast to mainstream cop films that often portray law enforcement officers as heroes overcoming adversity, these films subvert this trope by placing their protagonists within systems that corrupt, brutalize, and dehumanize them. In contrast to Joseph Campbell's monomyth structure that traditionally involves a heroic protagonist who embarks on a transformational journey and returns with newfound wisdom or power, these films disrupt such an optimistic trajectory, illustrating the futility of seeking justice within a violent, hierarchical system.

In Viduthalai 1, Kumaresan's journey begins with idealism—he believes he can serve as an honest officer. His 'call to adventure' is his posting in a conflict-ridden region, where he gradually witnesses his superiors’ relentless cruelty. Unlike conventional hero narratives where the protagonist successfully overcomes systemic corruption, Kumaresan's story highlights the state’s coercive nature, leaving him morally conflicted rather than triumphant. In this way, his internal struggle reflects Frantz Fanon's idea that colonial and state violence subjugate the oppressed and distort the psychology of those who enforce it. Similarly, Visaranai follows a tragic trajectory where the working-class protagonists, initially hoping to clear their names, are systematically broken down by police brutality. Their journey mirrors what Paulo Freire describes in Pedagogy of the Oppressed—a cyclical process in which the oppressed are forced into submission through institutional violence, stripping them of agency. These films have a narrative structure that challenges the hero's journey by denying its characters any return or redemption, instead showing them consumed by a system that thrives on their suffering. Specifically, both films dismantle the myth of individual heroism in law enforcement, illustrating that in a casteist and authoritarian state, justice comes not as an attainable personal conquest but a collective struggle against systemic oppression.

One defining characteristic of Viduthalai is its ensemble approach to casting and performance, which aligns with traditions of people's cinema while integrating elements of the hero's journey. Unlike mainstream Tamil cop films that center upon an all-powerful protagonist, Viduthalai disperses agency among multiple characters, emphasizing collective struggle over individual heroism. This ensemble approach resonates with the theories of people's cinema, particularly as articulated by Solanas and Getino in their manifesto on Third Cinema, which advocates that films prioritize the collective over the individual, depicting the masses as agents of resistance rather than passive victims. Kumaresan's character arc, however, as the hero of a mainstream film, also follows a version of Joseph Campbell's monomyth of a hero's journey, albeit subverted to reflect structural oppression rather than personal triumph. He begins as a naïve police recruit (the 'Call to Adventure') and gradually becomes disillusioned as he witnesses state violence ('The Road of Trials'). Ultimately, he is forced into an ethical confrontation with the system ('Atonement with the Father'). However, rather than a triumphant return, as seen in conventional hero narratives, Kumaresan's transformation underscores the impossibility of reforming a system built on oppression. This deviation from the classical hero's journey aligns with anti-colonial and Marxist cinema traditions, which reject individualist narratives in favor of structural critique.

The ensemble nature of Viduthalai 1 and 2 also enhances its ethnographic realism. By using actors who embody their roles with documentary-style authenticity, the film moves beyond melodramatic performances to capture lived realities of police violence. Non-professional actors and minor characters are given significant screen time, so that that the story is not just about Kumaresan and Perumal Vaathiyaar but about the larger community affected by caste-based policing. This technique to attain cinematic realism within fiction film is reminiscent of Italian neorealism, where everyday people and non-actors were used to lend films an immediacy and authenticity that professional performances often lacked. Vetrimaaran's approach to casting and directing operates at the intersection of political cinema with narrative realism. While the cop Kumaresan provides a moral center for the audience to engage with, the film resists individualistic storytelling by emphasizing the predicament of the larger community. This duality and the concomitant tension—between the hero's journey and an ensemble-driven people's cinema—adds to Viduthalai's complexity, making it a crucial text for studying socially engaged filmmaking.

Ethnographic style in Vetrimaaran's Viduthalai

Vetrimaaran’s Viduthalai employs an ethnographic style that immerses the audience in the socio-political realities of its setting. Drawing from an observational documentary aesthetic, by staging the sequences from many angles, mainly through handheld cameras, the visual style meticulously captures the textures of rural Tamil Nadu, depicting landscapes, people, and everyday life with a commitment to authenticity. Though meticulously staged, from newspaper headlines and events in the lives of real-life rebels like Pulavar Kaliaperumal, Vetrimaran seems interested in recording reality rather than stylizing it, even if he takes liberties with history regarding space and time. Therefore, news and newspaper headlines and historical events become essential markers in his films as signifiers of the sociopolitics of the period. Using non-actors in minor roles, relying on natural lighting, and paying detailed attention to dialects and regional customs create a sense of lived reality that aligns with ethnographic filmmaking traditions. The ethnographic approach in Viduthalai blurs the lines between fiction and documentary, allowing characters and environments to shape the narrative organically. Vetrimaaran's regular collaborator, R. Velraj's cinematography, enables a charged coverage of sequences and improvisational aesthetics. Such a visual style encompasses both acting and framing as the camera often focuses on mundane yet significant details. We notice how police officers interact with villagers—including police dependence on and torture of villagers. We see the challenging terrain that makes Kumaresan's journey physically demanding. And scenes linger on the everyday struggles of people caught in systemic violence.

An example of attention to the visual details of everyday life occurs in Kumaresan's love story with Tamilarasi (Bhavani Sre). It centers on her cooked food, particularly when he is forcefully starved as a punishment for his honesty by the higher-ups. Food also takes on feminist and communal resonance when Perumal cooks with his love interest, Mahalakshmi (Manju Warrier), for his fellow workers/comrades. Although choreographed for the fiction, this observational visual style enhances the film's realism and leads the audience to confront the harsh socio-political realities of caste-based policing. Furthermore, Viduthalai does not simply depict police violence; it immerses the audience within its environment, making them close witnesses to structural oppression rather than passive consumers of dramatized suffering. Long, uninterrupted takes, minimal background scores during violent scenes, and handheld camerawork amplify this immersive effect, positioning the viewer as an observer inside state brutality. More importantly, Viduthalai is filled with Kumaresan’s voice over, particularly in the form of a letter he is writing to his mother.

This immersive visual realism is further grounded in the film’s careful reconstruction of historical memory and political geography. Drawing on Siegfried Kracauer’s idea of “redeeming physical reality,” Viduthalai reanimates the socio-political landscape of the Naxalite movement through its visual and spatial design. Kracauer argued that cinema can recover and re-present the overlooked or forgotten textures of everyday life, especially when drawn from archival materials, for instance, from films shot on locations; in this case, Vetrimaaran redeems reality from newspapers, journalistic write-ups, and Tamil Nadu Films Division documentaries that documented rural unrest and insurgency. The hideouts of Perumal Vaathiyaar and the rugged forest terrain in which the People’s Army operates are not generic backdrops but are inspired by these sources, particularly records of leftist movements that took root in Tamil Nadu’s Dharmapuri region and parts of Salem, North Arcot, and South Arcot in the late 1970s and early 1980s. While Vetrimaaran departs from strict geographical fidelity—relocating the narrative to the hills and forests of Dindigul, Kodaikanal, and Kadambur—this creative shift serves a strategic purpose. The film creates a composite landscape that blends historical truth with cinematic specificity by building an entire village in these southern locales to mirror the affected northern regions. This reimagined geography does not dilute the film’s realism but intensifies it, allowing Viduthalai to function both as a fictional narrative and a sensory archive of state violence and rural resistance.

Editing, space, and pace in Viduthalai

Vetrimaaran's editing approach in Viduthalai is integral to its immersive and disorienting realism. The film adopts a slow yet tense pacing, with extended sequences that allow the audience to absorb the brutality of police violence and the complexities of resistance. The editing by R. Ramar rejects the rapid cuts typical of commercial action films, opting instead for long, uninterrupted takes that enhance the film's raw aesthetic. In contrast, the relatively faster-paced editing choices in action sequences shape the viewer's perception of space and movement, making violence feel more immediate and lived. Narratively, the use of ellipses in Viduthalai deepens its thematic weight. By often strategically omitting key moments and showing only their aftermath, the film compels the audience to imagine the horrors occurring off-screen, amplifying an episode’s psychological impact. In addition, the fragmented, non-linear editing in key sequences—such as the higher cast violence and police raids—reinforces a sense of chaos and instability typical of Third Cinema's rejection of traditional narrative coherence in favor of structural critique.

Spatial composition in Viduthalai plays a crucial role in articulating power dynamics. The expansive landscapes of rural Tamil Nadu contrast with the claustrophobic, oppressive interiors of police stations, creating a visual metaphor for the systematic entrapment of marginalized communities. This contrast aligns with Henri Lefebvre's theory of space, which posits that physical environments are not neutral but actively shape and reflect power structures. Framing of the character Kumaresan within confined spaces, often surrounded by senior officers, visually reinforces his entrapment within an authoritarian system. The overall pacing of Viduthalai mirrors the slow, accumulative horror of systemic violence. Unlike mainstream police films that escalate action toward a climactic showdown, Viduthalai maintains a steady, deliberate rhythm reflecting oppression's inescapable nature. This approach aligns with the slow cinema movement, where long takes, composition in depth, and minimal cuts lead the audience to engage deeply with the film's social and political realities.

In particular, Priya Jaikumar’s concept of history as filmed space offers a compelling lens through which to examine Viduthalai's spatial politics, notably in its representation of guerrilla/insurgent movement and state violence. Jaikumar argues that cinematic space is not merely a backdrop but a site where history is actively constructed and contested. In Viduthalai, Vetrimaaran employs the rugged, expansive landscapes of rural Tamil Nadu to evoke a history of resistance against state oppression. The film’s use of forests, mountains, and rivers as zones of guerrilla warfare aligns with Jaikumar’s assertion that cinematic space shapes our understanding of historical struggles. These locations are not neutral; they bear the scars of past confrontations between the state and insurgent movements, particularly the Naxalite struggles in India. By staging police violence within these landscapes, Viduthalai situates contemporary state brutality within a longer history of counterinsurgency campaigns, from the colonial-era suppression of peasant revolts to post-independence crackdowns on leftist movements. The film’s wide shots of the police forces navigating the terrain highlight the state's attempt to impose control over spaces of historical resistance, transforming natural landscapes into militarized zones. Moreover, Vetrimaaran’s long takes and aesthetics of realism immerse the viewer in these contested spaces, making visible the ways in which the past continues to shape the present. With this visual style, Viduthalai not only critiques police violence but also reclaims space as an archive of struggle, reinforcing Jaikumar’s argument that history materializes through the very landscapes that cinema renders visible.

Cinematography and Vetrimaaran's use of multiple cameras/angles

Vetrimaran strikingly uses multiple cameras/angles to capture scenes from various perspectives. This method of framing adds depth to the film's chaotic depiction of state violence. Such an approach brings to mind Dziga Vertov's theory of a "kino-eye," wherein the camera functions as an omnipresent observer, capturing the rawness of reality from multiple angles, here particularly in drone shots that I will discuss later. However, unlike Dziga Vertov’s investment in “life caught unaware” in documentary form, Vetrimaran’s film is fictional and staged. However, the anthropomorphism of the camera in Man with a Movie Camera could be extended to describe the omniscient and surveilling drone in Viduthalai. By employing multiple cameras/angles, Vetrimaaran constructs a fragmented visual narrative that mirrors the disorientation and fear induced by police brutality. Minimal lighting and earthy color palettes further enhance the film's raw unfiltered aesthetic. In a particularly harrowing sequence, Kumaresan witnesses the torture of detainees. The incident is filmed with multiple cameras to provide shifting perspectives—alternating between the detached gaze of power and the visceral, close-up horror of the victims. This multi-camera approach intensifies the film's critique of surveillance and control.

Vetrimaaran chooses to use slow motion and accelerated edits simultaneously during action sequences, ensuring that every moment of brutality is detailed from various angles. By employing multi-camera setup/angles, Viduthalai refuses to present a singular, authoritative viewpoint. Instead, it leads the audience to engage with multiple perspectives, similar to cinéma vérité and Third Cinema traditions. This approach transforms the film's depiction of police violence into an immersive, participatory experience.

André Bazin's theory of realism in cinema emphasizes the significance of deep focus and long takes in preserving the ambiguity of reality. In Viduthalai 1 and 2, Vetrimaaran frequently employs these techniques, allowing the audience to engage with the spatial and temporal complexities of police violence. A notable example is the film's opening sequence, featuring a long tracking shot of a train accident site—a visual metaphor for systemic collapse—where the audience is asked to absorb the horror of state negligence without any editorializing cuts or manipulative music. Vetrimaaran's decision to eschew excessive background scores during violent sequences aligns with his minimalist aesthetic, depicting the realism of suffering while not sensationalizing it. Additionally, Siegfried Kracauer's emphasis on cinema's ability to capture "material reality" through unfiltered images and sounds can be seen in Vetrimaaran's deliberate choice to present police violence in a raw, unembellished manner, without distractions.

The raw depiction of the train accident site in Viduthalai serves as a stark reminder of the consequences of societal neglect and government corruption. By presenting harsh realities of rural life without embellishment, Vetrimaaran creates thought-provoking commentary on life in Tamil Nadu. The film meticulously reconstructs the socio-economic conditions of its characters, from police concentration camps to impoverished villages. Through its unwavering attention to detail, the film draws viewers into the stark and often brutal world of the marginalized, allowing for an experience that is both immersive and unsettling. Through this approach, Vetrimaaran effectively sheds light on the systemic issues plaguing society without resorting to melodrama or manipulation. The film’s critique of caste and state violence remains historically and geographically grounded. Using non-actors in certain roles, along with local dialects and cultural references, enhances the film's authenticity.

Uncanny vantage: the drone’s omniscient gaze

Vetrimaaran’s Viduthalai 1 and 2 deploy drone cinematography sparsely but thoughtfully. It is used not merely as a technical embellishment but as a critical visual strategy that embodies both an uncanny vantage point and the logic of everyday militarism. As it portrays the state’s violent repression of a radical Maoist-like group in Tamil Nadu, the cinematography uses drones to construct an aesthetic of surveillance that echoes the militarized policing tactics used in real-world counterinsurgency operations.

The drone in Viduthalai operates as a disembodied, all-seeing presence, aligning with what Harun Farocki calls "operational images"—images that do not merely depict but actively participate in control and coercion (Pong & Richardson, 2024, p. 13). Farocki's concept of operational images aids in exploring the intersection of technology and warfare. Drone Aesthetics offers a thought-provoking examination of the visual culture surrounding drones and their implications for society, challenging viewers to consider their perceptions as shaped by drone footage and the ethical questions that arise with drones’ increasing presence.

By examining the visual representation of drones in various media, Farocki delves into the ethical implications of their use in warfare and surveillance and critically engages with the ways in which these technologies are portrayed and perceived in society. In Viduthalai, however, Vetrimaaran deploys the drone imagery sparsely and deliberately. The film opens with the protagonist Kumaresan arriving at his post amidst the dense, mountainous forest terrain. Here, the initial drone shots—evoking the vast, rugged landscape—function not merely as establishing shots but as initiation, signaling Kumaresan’s entry into a space already saturated with surveillance, suspicion, and militarized policing. The aerial view marks his spatial dislocation and establishes the character’s symbolic induction into state surveillance.

Later, drone imagery punctuates key moments of police brutality and crackdowns on villagers. In Viduthalai, paradoxically such moments take place in a historical period prior to the widespread use of drone technology. In this way, the film anachronistically maps contemporary surveillance aesthetics onto an earlier era, invoking the continuity of control through older technologies such as telegraphs, telephones, and walkie-talkies. This narrative gesture reinforces the idea that while the form of surveillance may change, its function remains constant: to suppress, to monitor, and to dominate. The drone becomes a spectral presence—a retroactive imposition of the state's "eye" across temporal boundaries, re-inscribing past violence with present-day visual regimes.

In the final scenes, as Kumaresan comes to terms with unjust police practices and recognizes the moral legitimacy of the villagers’ resistance, the drone returns—not just as a machine of vision but as a reminder of the larger mechanisms of state violence that continue beyond the visible. The sparing use of drone cinematography, then, amplifies its effect. Rather than normalizing the gaze, Vetrimaaran wields it strategically to shock, disrupt, and critique. The film’s aerial shots often depict vast, undulating forested landscapes from a high vantage point, invoking a sense of omnipotence that aligns with the logic of military reconnaissance. This scopic regime is unsettling, producing a panoptic effect where the hunted—primarily the rebel group led by Perumal Vaathiyar—are rendered minuscule, vulnerable, and perpetually exposed. This overview echoes Antoine Bousquet’s argument that drone imagery fosters a "martial gaze," where the world is apprehended primarily through the technological apparatus of militarized perception (2024, pp. 32-45). In Viduthalai, the drone’s high-angle shots serve to indicate the power imbalance between police and rebels, conveying both the hyperreal clarity of surveillance and the disorienting fear it engenders among those surveilled.

Everyday militarism is thus depicted as a pervasive force that invades even the most intimate spaces of resistance, blurring lines between public and private spheres. The use of drone technology in Viduthalai underscores the insidious nature of surveillance in maintaining power dynamics and controlling dissent, highlighting the constant threat of state surveillance in both physical and psychological realms. This portrayal reflects the reality of modern surveillance practices and the ways in which technology can be weaponized to suppress resistance and maintain control over marginalized communities. The film effectively captures the effect of constant surveillance on individual autonomy and free expression, serving as a reminder of the erosion of privacy rights and the difficulty of achieving a balance between security and individual freedoms.

Militarism, state of exception, and subaltern resistance in Viduthalai:
A Baishya-Agambenian reading

The narrative of Viduthalai revolves around an occupied landscape where a special police force carries out brutal operations to capture the revolutionary leader Perumal while ordinary villagers are subjected to constant surveillance, suspicion, and state-sanctioned violence. This terrain of control, conflict, and resistance can be productively analyzed through the theoretical frameworks of Giorgio Agamben's state of exception and Amit R. Baishya's work on militarism and "deathworlds," particularly in his studies of Northeast India. Baishya draws on Agamben to argue that the Indian state, in militarized zones like the Northeast, produces "spaces of exception" where legal protections are suspended, citizens are rendered as "bare life," and violence becomes routine (2018, 2021). These insights resonate strongly with the world depicted in Viduthalai, where the rural countryside functions as a laboratory for state violence and where narratives of resistance subtly undermine the sovereignty of the state.

In Agamben's formulation, the "state of exception" is a juridico-political situation in which the law is suspended in the name of its protection. This paradoxical logic allows sovereign power to act outside the law while claiming legitimacy (2005). Baishya applies this to the Indian context by focusing on laws such as the Armed Forces Special Powers Act (AFSPA), which allows security forces in "disturbed areas" to operate with impunity. In Viduthalai, the state of exception is enacted through "Operation Ghosthunt," a counterinsurgency campaign to eliminate the People's Army leader Perumal. The terrain of the operation is effectively rendered as a zone where customary legal frameworks do not apply. The villagers are no longer seen as citizens with rights but as potential threats whose lives can be surveilled, policed, and extinguished at will.

The film's visual grammar reinforces this transformation of the village into a "camp" in the Agambenian sense. Checkposts become mechanisms of control and classification, echoing Baishya's observation that militarized spaces in Northeast India are structured through grids of surveillance. The villagers are stopped, questioned, and often brutalized, not because they have committed any crime but because they inhabit a geography marked as exceptional. The landscape itself is treated as suspect, a terrain to be conquered and cleared. The commando units, clad in fatigues and armed with heavy artillery, do not resemble traditional law enforcement officers; they embody the militarization of the police that Baishya describes as characteristic of counterinsurgency regimes. Their tactics—abduction, torture, sexual violence, and extrajudicial killings—are carried out in broad daylight, suggesting a collapse between law and lawlessness. The very presence of such forces signifies the withdrawal of ordinary legal protections and the normalization of extraordinary violence.

This militarized violence also implicates the protagonist Kumaresan, a newly recruited constable who enters the village with naïve idealism. As he witnesses—and gradually becomes complicit in—the operations of the special police, his transformation illustrates what Baishya refers to as the co-option of individual ethics by militarized structures. Kumaresan's discomfort with torture and injustice is evident, but his location within the machinery of the state renders his resistance muted and precarious. He straddles the border between the state and the subaltern, caught between institutional loyalty and ethical clarity. Baishya's analysis of literature and life writing in Northeast India emphasizes how such in-between figures often dramatize the contradictions of state sovereignty. Kumaresan is not merely a witness but a participant in a system that erodes his agency even as it calls upon his allegiance.

Yet, Viduthalai does not solely narrate the triumph of state power; it also makes visible the subterranean forces of resistance. Though largely unseen, Perumal functions as a spectral presence, a figure of insurgent sovereignty. His absence from the screen paradoxically strengthens his symbolic power. He is constructed not through the state's caricature of him as a "terrorist" but through the memories, stories, and solidarities of the villagers who support him. This strategy aligns with Baishya's emphasis on the counter-narratives offered by former rebels and marginalized communities in literature from Northeast India. These counter-narratives, often metaphoric and allegorical, do not simply reject the state's claims to legitimacy; they expose the violence upon which those claims rest. In Viduthalai, the forest becomes a fugitive space, a site of alternate sovereignty where state surveillance falters and new forms of belonging emerge.

The gendered dimension of violence in Viduthalai also resonates with Baishya's concept of the "deathworld"—a term he borrows from Achille Mbembe to describe spaces where life is rendered precarious and disposable. In the film, women are subjected to sexualized violence not only as a tactic of terror but as a demonstration of sovereign power. This is not incidental but central to the logic of exceptionality: it reveals that the law's suspension is not a temporary deviation but a permanent condition in specific geographies and bodies. Baishya's analysis of such acts of violence in militarized India underscores how they are not aberrations but part of a more extensive system of biopolitical control.

Despite its bleak portrayal of militarism, Viduthalai opens a space for imagining justice beyond the state. The ethical tension within Kumaresan, the resilience of the villagers, and the mythic aura around Perumal all point toward what Baishya might call narrative counterpower—the capacity of stories, symbols, and allegiances to question and destabilize sovereign violence. Like the literary texts Baishya studies, the film does not offer a resolution but a rupture. It interrupts the state's monopoly on truth and violence by foregrounding lives lived otherwise—lives that persist, resist, and remember in the face of annihilation.

Thinking through Amit Baishya's insights on militarism and the state of exception in Vetrimaaran's Viduthalai reveals the deep affinities between the cinematic representation of Tamil Nadu's rural hinterlands and the lived experiences of Northeast India under military occupation. Both are "deathworlds" structured by a suspended legality, where the state enacts violence through the very mechanisms meant to protect. And yet, both are also sites of resistance where literature and cinema become tools for exposing and challenging the very foundations of sovereign power. Viduthalai is not merely a film about insurgency and repression; it is a meditation on the ethics of witnessing, the politics of occupation, and the possibility of freedom in a world marked by exception.

Asuran: caste, cop violence, and state oppression

Asuran (Demon, 2019), directed by Vetrimaaran and based on Poomani’s novel Vekkai, is a searing critique of caste-based oppression in Tamil Nadu. The film, starring Dhanush, unfolds as an intergenerational struggle between a marginalized Dalit family and the upper-caste landlords who control land, law enforcement, and political power. Through its layered narrative, Asuran exposes the systemic violence embedded in caste hierarchies, the complicity of the police in perpetuating oppression, and the state’s role in reinforcing caste supremacy. At its core, Asuran is a story about land—the central site of caste oppression in India. Sivasaamy, played by Dhanush, is a farmer whose family is targeted by the landlords for resisting their land-grabbing attempts. The conflict begins when his son, Chidambaram, kills an upper-caste oppressor in an act of defiance, triggering violent retaliation. This clash mirrors the real-world struggles of Dalit communities against upper-caste hegemony, where land becomes both a symbol of autonomy and a reason for subjugation.

The film traces the historical roots of land ownership as a marker of caste privilege, where Dalits, historically landless laborers, are subjected to feudal exploitation (Ambedkar, 2014). Through its visceral depiction of violence and resistance, Asuran echoes the works of Mari Selvaraj (Karnan, 2021), highlighting how land and caste are inextricably linked (Geetha & Rajadurai, 2007). The police in Asuran are portrayed not as neutral enforcers of law but as active agents of caste-based violence. In multiple instances, the police serve the interests of the landlords, brutalizing the Dalit family instead of protecting them. This aligns with real-life accounts of custodial torture, false accusations, and the disproportionate incarceration of Dalits (Rao, 2009). In one of the most harrowing sequences, Sivasaamy and his family are arrested and beaten mercilessly. The police, instead of investigating the landlords' crimes, align themselves with them, reinforcing the Brahminical state apparatus (Pandian, 2014). The family’s situation illustrates how law enforcement in India has historically functioned to suppress Dalit assertion, ensuring that the oppressed remain in a state of fear and subjugation. Asuran’s depiction of police violence parallels real-life incidents such as the custodial killings and the real-world injustices faced by marginalized communities across India (Kumar, 2021).

Subaltern resistance

Despite depicting an overwhelming oppression, Asuran also narrates a history of resistance. Sivasaamy’s transformation from a passive survivor to an active resister mirrors a generational shift, where the younger generation refuses to tolerate oppression. His son's act of rebellion against the caste oppressors is not just a personal vendetta but a collective assertion of dignity. The film’s title, Asuran (meaning "demon"), plays on the inversion of mythology—where the so-called "demons" in Hindu epics are often subaltern figures resisting upper-caste dominance (Ilaiah, 1996). This re-reading of history aligns with the works of Dalit intellectuals like Kancha Ilaiah and Gopal Guru, who argue that the demonization of specific communities in myth and history reflects the deep-seated caste logic of Hindu society (Guru, 2009).

Through its brutal yet realistic portrayal of caste violence, police brutality, and state oppression, Asuran positions itself within the tradition of anti-caste cinema in Tamil Nadu. Vetrimaaran crafts a narrative that laments caste violence and highlights the necessity of resistance. In this way, Asuran becomes a powerful statement on the continuing struggles of Dalit communities in India, where land, dignity, and justice remain sites of conflict. Vetrimaaran’s Asuran (2019) is constructed around moments of intense caste-based violence, resistance, and state complicity. Two key scenes illustrate these themes in stark detail: the police station interrogation and torture scene and the massacre of Mariamma’s (Sivasaamy’s first wife’s) family. These scenes highlight how caste oppression is institutionalized, how police brutality serves the interests of dominant caste power structures, and how resistance—however fragile—emerges in response to such oppression.

One of the most harrowing sequences in Asuran takes place in the police station, where Velmurugan (Teejay Arunasalam), Sivasamy's elder son, is arrested and brutally tortured. The officers mercilessly beat Velmurugan, treating him as a criminal rather than a victim of caste violence: Velmurugan had thrashed Vadakooran's son, who had attacked his mother, Pachaiyamma (Manju Warrier). The police beatings are not just punishment but a ritual of humiliation, where the police reinforce the family's position in the caste hierarchy. The landlord's influence over the police is evident: the officers are not impartial enforcers of justice but servants of upper-caste interests. The use of lighting, sound design, and handheld camerawork amplifies the chaos and helplessness of the family, making the audience experience a claustrophobic brutality.

The violence here is not an exception but part of a more extensive system that ensures Dalits remain in a subordinate position. Unlike the dominant caste landlord, Vadakooran, who enjoys legal impunity, Sivasaamy and his family have no access to justice, reflecting real-world patterns where Dalits face harsher punishments for crimes when perceived as challenging upper-caste power. Knowing that they have the support of the police force empowers the landlord and his sons and leads to the gruesome beheading of Velmurugan after stripping him. Such a sequence of events aligns with the historical realities of custodial torture and fake encounters against Dalits, as seen in real-life cases and films like Visaranai (2015), which similarly critiques the police-state nexus. Scholars like Anand Teltumbde (2018) and Gopal Guru (2009) have documented how custodial violence is a deliberate tool of oppression, ensuring that marginalized communities remain politically and economically dependent on dominant caste groups.

The humiliation and massacre of Sivasamy's (first wife) Mariamma (Ammu Abhirami) is the film's most visceral depiction of caste violence, illustrating how economic aspirations and land struggles escalate into outright genocide. When Sivasaamy grants Mariamma sandals as a gift, it backfires. Then, the higher caste accountant of his boss violently beats her and forces her to carry the footwear on her head in front of fellow villagers. Sivasamy retaliates by hitting back and tying the accountant and his goons to the tree at the village square, but the violence that follows is one-sided and merciless. The landlords' men, equipped with weapons, massacre Dalit villagers by burning their thatched roof-huts at night when the families are sleeping inside. The imagery here is horrific. Sivasaamy's desperate fight for survival mirrors the historical struggles of Dalit communities against upper-caste massacres, such as the Kilvenmani massacre (1968) and the Bathani Tola massacre (1996), where dominant caste groups carried out mass killings to suppress Dalit assertion and land rights movements.

Such a film sequence exemplifies how caste violence is often collective rather than individual. Sivasaamy's family is attacked for personal vengeance because they dared to claim dignity and land ownership. Even though landlords orchestrate the massacre, the absence of police intervention reflects the state's tacit approval of caste atrocities. Historically, many Dalit killings in India have been ignored by the police, or worse, the police have colluded with upper-caste groups. These two scenes demonstrate that caste-based violence in Asuran is not incidental but systemic, with the state, police, and landlords acting as enforcers of the caste order. Vetrimaaran's filmmaking—through realistic violence, raw performances, and politically charged imagery—asks audiences to confront the uncomfortable truth that these atrocities are ongoing realities. Both scenes also highlight that resistance, while necessary, comes at a heavy price. Sivasaamy's journey is a reminder of the generational trauma of caste oppression and how survival itself is an act of defiance.

One striking aspect of Viduthalai 1 and 2 is Vetrimaaran's decision to shift the focus of police violence from urban areas, such as police stations and courtrooms, to the vast, open landscapes of rural Tamil Nadu. Unlike Visaranai, which depicts the confined and oppressive environment of a police station as a site of institutional brutality, Viduthalai presents a different spatial dynamic. In this film, the expansiveness of the forests and remote villages does not provide protection; instead, it serves as an extension of state control. In Viduthalai, the police utilize rural terrain as their battleground, transforming forests and villages into militarized zones where surveillance, brutality, and counterinsurgency tactics mirror real-life operations against leftist revolutionary movements in India, such as the anti-Naxalite campaigns in Chhattisgarh and Jharkhand. The expansive, wide shots of forests and rural areas starkly contrast with the claustrophobic, dimly lit interiors of police concentration camps, highlighting the oppression faced by marginalized communities. These framings challenge the conventional understanding of police violence as solely an urban phenomenon, indicating the ways that state power infiltrates rural life.

Recalling Foucault's concept of biopolitics, Viduthalai demonstrates how the state regulates bodies through direct physical violence and also through spatial domination. The forced displacement of villagers, the establishment of police camps, and the relentless surveillance of suspected insurgents illustrate how state control manifests itself in open landscapes as much as in enclosed interrogation rooms. Vetrimaaran uses wide shots to depict the overwhelming presence of police forces in rural areas, showing an omnipresent state reach.

Visaranai presents the police station as a chamber of horror, where torture is normalized as part of the institutional procedure. The enclosed setting intensifies the feeling of inescapability, as Tamil migrant workers in the film are brutalized in a small, windowless cell, emphasizing their powerlessness within the system. Viduthalai 1 and 2, by contrast, stretch this sense of entrapment across an entire landscape, where hilly mud roads, rocky terrain, forests, and rivers become sites of state violence. The difference in spatial representation between these two films highlights that police violence is not restricted to urban power centers but is deeply embedded in the control of marginalized spaces.

Viduthalai 1 and 2 and a surveillance state

Michel Foucault's concept of the panopticon, derived from Jeremy Bentham's prison design, provides a crucial framework for understanding modern policing and surveillance. In Discipline and Punish, Foucault describes how power operates through overt repression and also through the internalization of surveillance, making individuals compliant even without direct coercion. The panopticon ensures control through constant visibility, where the possibility of being watched induces a self-awareness that reenforces discipline. Vetrimaaran's Viduthalai exemplifies the logic of the panopticon. Its extensive use of checkpoints, wiretapping, and informants reflects a structure where communities under suspicion are perpetually monitored. For example, a striking sequence in Viduthalai 2 features surveillance used to track the People's Army in the forest. This technological extension of policing reinforces the state's omnipresence and control, so that such a cinematic depiction aligns with the contemporary expansion of digital surveillance in counterinsurgency operations in India and globally.

In the United States, predictive policing algorithms, facial recognition technology, and mass surveillance disproportionately target Black communities, ensuring they remain under constant scrutiny. Films like The Lives of Others (2006) and Enemy of the State (1998) explore the psychological effects of pervasive surveillance, mirroring the experiences of marginalized communities subjected to continuous policing. As Michel Foucault theorized, the mere awareness of being watched shapes behavior, limits dissent and reinforces state authority.

Rebellion, Naxalism, and the People's Army in Viduthalai

Tamil Nadu has a history of leftist and radical movements, particularly the presence of Naxalite factions during the 1970s and 1980s in areas like Dharmapuri and Salem. Agrarian distress and caste-based oppression fueled armed struggles during this period. Although the Naxalite movement in Tamil Nadu did not reach the scale of insurgencies in states like Madhya Pradesh/Chhattisgarh or Andhra Pradesh, the state's response mirrored broader counterinsurgency efforts, characterized by increased police action, arrests, and targeted killings of suspected revolutionaries. Vetrimaaran's films Viduthalai 1 and 2 reconfigure this historical context within a fictionalized setting, shifting the conflict from the small towns and quasi-urban spaces of organized resistance to the rural, forested hinterlands. By doing so, the film underscores how the state extends its reach into these areas, deploying a militarized police force to suppress insurgent movements and exert control over marginalized communities. The People's Army in Viduthalai reflects elements of both Naxalite ideology and local Tamil resistance movements, emphasizing the intersections of anti-caste, anti-capitalist, and anti-statist struggles. By relocating the site of conflict, Vetrimaaran deepens the film's engagement with state oppression and aligns it with global traditions of revolutionary cinema, such as Glauber Rocha's Antonio das Mortes (1969), which portrays rural resistance against authoritarian rule. Viduthalai critiques how the state frames insurgency as criminality, thereby justifying extreme police violence under the guise of national security. Currently this kind of framing is central to real-world counterinsurgency operations in established Naxalite strongholds.

Periyarist Ideology and Tamil Desiyam in Viduthalai

One of the principal elements of Viduthalai is its depiction of rebellion against state oppression, drawing from historical and contemporary Naxalite movements. In the film, the People's Army, led by Perumal Vaathiyaar, represents an armed resistance force challenging systemic violence against marginalized communities. Although the group is not explicitly labeled as a Naxalite faction, it embodies many ideological elements associated with left-wing insurrectionary movements in India, particularly their commitment to anti-caste, anti-capitalist, and anti-statist struggles. The film's portrayal of insurgency aligns with Maoist guerrilla tactics, emphasizing decentralized resistance, strategic ambushes, and a firm ideological commitment to liberating the oppressed. In response, the film depicts official strategies similar to real-life counterinsurgency tactics used in Operation Green Hunt, during which security forces launched extensive operations against Naxalite rebels. Historically, these operations often resulted in widespread human rights violations, custodial deaths, and the mass displacement of Adivasi communities.

A pivotal scene in Viduthalai 2 highlights the asymmetry of this conflict. The police force, equipped with modern weaponry and surveillance technology, conduct a brutal operation to suppress the People's Army. The film juxtaposes the state's overwhelming firepower against the rebels' guerrilla tactics, illustrating a stark power imbalance. This scenario mirrors real-world encounters, where the media frames state violence as a necessary evil for maintaining law and order even as it disproportionately impacts the most vulnerable populations. Vetrimaaran's portrayal of rebellion resonates with Frantz Fanon's The Wretched of the Earth, which posits anti-colonial violence as an inevitable response to colonialism. The People's Army in Viduthalai similarly embodies this idea, portraying armed struggle as both a political choice and an existential necessity. This interpretation situates the film within a broader historical lineage of revolutionary cinema, drawing parallels to global struggles against imperialist and caste oppression.

A key ideological framework underlying Viduthalai is Periyarist thought and Tamil Desiyam (Tamil nationalism), which shape the film's critique of related state violence and caste oppression. Periyar E.V. Ramasamy's philosophy of self-respect, anti-Brahminism, and opposition to oppressive institutions is expressed in the film through Perumal Vaathiyaar, the leader of the People's Army. His character embodies the ideals of resistance against the Brahminical state and its repressive apparatus, particularly the police, which functions as an enforcer of caste hierarchy. Perumal Vaathiyaar's rhetoric and actions reflect the Periyarist call for social revolution. His speeches challenge the legitimacy of the police and the state's claim to moral authority, echoing Periyar's assertion that institutions built on caste oppression cannot be reformed but must be dismantled. The People's Army in Viduthalai serves as a revolutionary force that aligns with the history of Tamil resistance, extending from the Dravidian movement to contemporary anti-caste struggles.

Tamil Desiyam also plays a crucial role in the film's political landscape. Tamil nationalism, particularly in its radical form, has historically positioned itself against the centralizing tendencies of the Indian state, perceived as enforcing Brahminical and North Indian hegemony. In Viduthalai, this ideological thread is woven into the narrative, where the police, agents of the state, suppress Tamil subaltern resistance. The film critiques the historical use of police and military forces to silence Tamil voices, whether during anti-Hindi agitations, the suppression of Dalit uprisings, or the targeting of Tamil activists under draconian laws. For instance, in the film the Chief Secretary of Tamilnadu, the Brahmanical Subramaniyan (Rajiv Menon), is invested in the Hindi language. By situating Viduthalai within this ideological framework, Vetrimaaran extends the film's critique beyond individual acts of police brutality to the structural and historical forces that sustain caste and state violence. The struggle depicted in the film is not merely against the police excesses but against an entire system designed to subjugate marginalized communities and their culture.

Karuppan’s narrative

In Viduthalai Part 1 (2023), directed by Vetrimaaran, Karuppan's narrative emerges as one of the film's most haunting and politically charged arcs. His story is a devastating account of how caste hierarchy, patriarchal violence, and systemic injustice intersect in the lives of the rural poor. Unlike other cases of state brutality in the film, Karuppan's trauma is rooted in feudal oppression—the rape of his wife by a dominant-caste landlord who justifies the act by invoking "tradition." The landlord does not present his violence as a crime but as a continuation of caste-based custom. In a chilling moment, he tells Karuppan that this is how things have always been: that lower-caste women have historically been stripped of their virginity and used by landlords, their bodies made extensions of caste domination. This assertion turns sexual violence into a form of political control. It's not just an act of personal violation—it is a public reaffirmation of caste power, carried out through the body of Karuppan's wife. The violence is not exceptional but systemic, not aberrant but normalized by generations of impunity.

Karuppan, devastated, seeks justice but is met with silence and complicity. The police, meant to protect the vulnerable, offer no support. Instead, they justify the landlord's atrocity. For Karuppan, this institutional betrayal reveals the deep rot in the system. The very apparatus of justice is designed to protect the powerful and suppress the voices of the oppressed. His wife's pain is invisible to the law; by extension, so is his humanity. Stripped of all avenues for justice, Karuppan turns to revenge, but also an act of resistance since it is the only way he can reclaim a sense of agency, not just for himself but for his wife—for dignity as a human being. In the eyes of the law, Karuppan becomes a criminal. But in the moral framework Vetrimaaran constructs, his act becomes a form of justice, a desperate attempt to assert the value of a life deemed disposable. His story becomes a prism through which we understand the political radicalization of ordinary people, including the teacher Perumal. The young constable Kumaresan, who begins with faith in the system, is gradually confronted with narratives like Karuppan's that lead him to question the legitimacy of the very institution he serves. Karuppan's narrative is a profoundly human story of love, loss, rage, and denial of justice that asks us to reckon with the lived realities of caste and gender violence in rural India. Rebellion, in such contexts, is not a choice—it is the only path left open.

State violence, necropolitics, and the maintenance of hierarchies

In The Wretched of the Earth, Fanon elucidates police violence as a tool of colonial subjugation, a force that maintains power hierarchies. This colonial logic is visible both in the racial policing of Black communities in the U.S. and the caste-based repression of Dalits and Adivasis in India. Achille Mbembe's concept of necropolitics extends this analysis by highlighting how state power determines who is allowed to live and who must die. Necropolitics explains the extrajudicial killings and systematic erasure of marginalized communities through state-sanctioned violence. In Viduthalai, the police force operates with impunity, determining whose lives are expendable. The brutal suppression of the People's Army and the violent policing of the villagers illustrate a necropolitical logic by which Dalit and Adivasi bodies are rendered disposable by the state.

A crucial scene in Viduthalai 1 underscores this necropolitical reality. The police detain a group of suspected villagers and torture them to elicit information regarding the whereabouts of their leader, Perumal Vaathiyaar; their bodies are used as mere objects to extract information through coercion. Men and women of the entire village are rounded up, enclosed, stripped, and inhumanly beaten up. Earlier to avenge Karuppan’s rebellion against the landlord, police kill his friends mercilessly and unlawfully. In that scene, the camera lingers on their agony, showing close-ups of their bloodied faces and trembling bodies. This calculated dehumanization aligns with Mbembe's argument that sovereignty is exercised through the power to decide who can be killed without consequence. The parallels to custodial deaths of Dalits, such as the Sathankulam case, or the killings of Black individuals like Breonna Taylor and Eric Garner in the U.S., reinforce the global nature of necropolitical policing. The theme of custodial violence is central to Vetrimaaran's film Visaranai, which is a hard-hitting exposé of police brutality. In Visaranai, Tamil migrant workers in Andhra Pradesh are falsely accused of a crime and subjected to relentless torture. This systematic devaluation of their lives reflects how the state determines which populations can be subjected to violence without facing legal consequences.

Such extrajudicial behavior is tied to the power of their uniform. A critical aspect of police violence in Viduthalai 1 and 2 and Visaranai is its connection to hegemonic masculinity. The police force, as depicted in these films, embodies a hyper-masculine ethos that equates violence with authority. R.W. Connell's concept of hegemonic masculinity indicates how patriarchal institutions, including law enforcement, construct a dominant form of masculinity characterized by violence and aggression. In Viduthalai, senior officers exhibit this form of masculinity, as exemplified by the Officer in Charge of E-Company, the obnoxious V. Raghavendar (Chetan), through their routine torture of suspects, their lack of empathy, and their obsession with enforcing state power at any cost. The initiation of Kumaresan into this system highlights how recruits are socialized into a culture of brutality, where emotional restraint and detachment are viewed as virtues. Similarly, Visaranai critiques the performance of masculinity within the police force. The violent beatings and psychological degradation inflicted upon Tamil migrant workers are not merely acts of state control but also demonstrations of dominance, where officers assert their masculinity through cruelty. While Viduthalai and Visaranai deconstruct the hyper-masculine cop figure, many mainstream films celebrate it. Indian films like Singham and Dabangg, along with Hollywood films such as Dirty Harry and Bad Boys, frame excessive violence as an expression of righteous masculinity. These films glorify the police officer as an indomitable force, reinforcing patriarchal narratives that equate strength with dominance and justice with retribution.

Romance, family, and songs in Viduthalai 1 and 2

Despite its primary themes of police violence and systemic oppression, Viduthalai incorporates elements of romance, family, and music. Romance, in particular, is utilized to humanize the protagonist, Kumaresan, starkly contrasting with the brutality of his professional life. His relationship with Tamilarasi (Bhavani Sre) adds emotional depth, grounding his moral conflict and amplifying the personal stakes in his transformation. The tender moments shared between them underscore the vulnerability of individuals caught within oppressive systems, illustrating that love and personal relationships endure even amid systemic violence. However, this romance does not serve as an escape; instead, it intensifies the tragedy, as the omnipresence of the police state and caste oppression continually overshadows their relationship, mainly through the brutal death of Tamilarasi’s grandmother whom the police took away for questioning regarding the whereabouts of Perumal Vaathiyaar, Tamilarasi’s uncle. Similarly, familial relationships in Viduthalai 1 and 2 add layers of emotional and social commentary. The film subtly portrays the struggles of working-class families, especially those from marginalized backgrounds, who find themselves entangled in the violence of state mechanisms. Family acts as both a source of support and a site of conflict, where aspirations for a peaceful life clash with the violent realities imposed by caste-based policing.

Songs in Viduthalai are not mere diversions but integral to its storytelling, reinforcing its socio-political critique. Drawing from Theodor Adorno's theory of popular music and cultural hegemony, one can argue that commercial film songs often pacify audiences, reinforcing dominant ideologies. However, Vetrimaaran subverts this convention by using songs not as escapist relief but as extensions of the film's themes of oppression and resistance.

In Viduthalai, the songs align with Antonio Gramsci's concept of counter-hegemony, creating a space for marginalized voices to express their pain and resistance. The folk-inflected compositions, by the legendary music composer Ilayaraja, echo the oral traditions of oppressed communities, serving as a cultural repository of their struggles. This is especially evident in sequences where songs accompany scenes of systemic violence, acting as lamentations rather than celebrations. Unlike mainstream cinema, where music often reinforces spectacle, Viduthalai organically integrates its songs, preserving their authenticity and grounding them in the lived experiences of its characters. This starkly contrasts commercial cop films, where songs frequently glorify law enforcement and reinforce state power and individual heroism. In this context, Viduthalai's musical sequences challenge that narrative by embedding the voices of the subaltern into the cinematic form itself. By employing music as a tool of resistance, Viduthalai encourages critical engagement. The placement of songs amidst scenes of violence and oppression pushes viewers to confront the harsh realities of caste violence rather than escape into sentimentality. The folk-inflected compositions align with the film's rooted realism, often reflecting marginalized communities' pain, resilience, and resistance.

Irumbuthirai (Iron Curtain, 1960) and Viduthalai 1 and 2

A thematic resonance between Irumbuthirai (1960) and Viduthalai Part 2 is rooted in their portrayal of class struggle, albeit through distinct narrative structures. The romance between the working-class union leader and the factory owner's daughter serves as a framework for exploring labor rights and capitalist exploitation in S. S. Vasan's film, Irumbuthirai. On the other hand, Viduthalai 2 delves deeper into the repercussions of caste-based discrimination on individuals and communities, highlighting the intersecting oppressions faced by marginalized groups. Both films shed light on the complex dynamics of power and privilege in Indian society, urging viewers to critically examine systemic inequalities.

Irumbuthirai adheres to the melodramatic conventions of the Studio-era Tamil cinema. (In contrast, Viduthalai 2 delves into the complexities of caste dynamics and police brutality in a more contemporary setting, offering a nuanced reflection on social issues in modern Tamil society.) The film constructs its ideological tension through an interpersonal conflict between love and class allegiance, wherein the union leader’s struggle is personal as well as political. The romantic triangle in Irumbuthirai—wherein the conflict is not just between capital and labor but also within the sphere of love and individual choice—infuses the film with an emotional dimension that aligns with mainstream storytelling of its time.

In contrast, Viduthalai 2, directed by Vetrimaaran, eschews the personal love triangle in favor of a collective resistance against the state and its violent apparatus. While the protagonist Perumal Vaathiyar functions as a revolutionary figure akin to the union leader in Irumbuthirai, his struggle is not confined to factory walls but extends into the larger systemic oppression of the marginalized. Here, love is not a structuring force of the narrative; instead, rebellion and ideological conviction shape the film’s momentum. Class struggle is amplified into a militarized confrontation rather than a negotiation through individual romantic entanglements.

What Irumbuthirai and Viduthalai Part 2 share, however, is their depiction of resistance from within. In Irumbuthirai, the working-class leader, despite the factory owner’s daughter's love, remains committed to the workers’ cause. Similarly, Viduthalai Part 2 positions Perumal Vaathiyar as an unwavering figure of resistance, one who, unlike the union leader bound within a personal narrative, transcends individual stakes to become the embodiment of collective revolution with the help of his lover who, unlike her spoiled rich counterpart from 1960, is an independent thinker and has agency. While the two films belong to different cinematic eras—one shaped by the melodramatic structures of early Tamil cinema and the other by the realist-gritty aesthetics of contemporary digital cinema—their thematic cores remain intertwined. Both depict the fissures of class struggle, the contradictions of power, and the resistance that emerges from the oppressed, even as the films’ narrative emphases diverge significantly.

Caste, race, and police violence: a comparative analysis of Vetrimaaran’s films and policing in the United States

Despite pervasive state violence, resistance remains a key theme in both contexts. The People's Army in Viduthalai embodies a revolutionary alternative to state control, akin to the Black Panthers in the United States, who sought to challenge police brutality through community organizing and armed self-defense. The systematic suppression of such movements—whether it be COINTELPRO in the United States or Operation Green Hunt in India—demonstrates the lengths to which states go to maintain their dominance. Similarly, prison abolitionist movements in the United States and Dalit liberation movements in India provide nonviolent alternatives to state repression. Abolitionists advocate for a world without policing and prisons, arguing that safety is best ensured through community-based interventions rather than punitive systems. In India, anti-caste activists demand an end to the criminalization of Dalit assertion and call for a restructuring of justice mechanisms based on dignity and self-determination. The comparison of caste in India and race in the United States illustrates that state-sanctioned violence is a universal instrument of oppression, reinforcing hierarchies under the pretext of law and order. By examining these structures through the lens of cinema and academia, we can begin to challenge the mechanisms of systemic violence and envision alternative futures rooted in justice and liberation.

Fims such as Visaranai (2015), Asuran (2019), Viduthalai 1 (2023), and Viduthalai 2 (2024) depict systemic violence against marginalized communities, exposing the structural inequities within law enforcement institutions. A comparative analysis of police violence in the United States, particularly racial disparities in the use of force, reveals striking parallels between caste-based policing in India and race-based policing in the United States. By utilizing scholarship on race and policing in the United States, this essay contextualizes Vetrimaaran’s films within a broader discourse of institutionalized violence and social control.

In Visaranai, police brutality is depicted through the experiences of Tamil migrant laborers wrongfully detained and tortured by law enforcement. The film reflects real-life patterns of caste-based violence in India, where lower-caste individuals are disproportionately subjected to custodial torture and extrajudicial killings. Similarly, Asuran showcases the historical oppression of Dalits, linking police violence to feudal structures that sustain caste hierarchies. Viduthalai 1 and 2 extend this critique to the state's militarized response to anti-caste and revolutionary movements, revealing the nexus between political power and police brutality. Studies such as those by K. Kahn et al. (2017) and William Terrill & S. Mastrofski (2002) discuss how socio-political hierarchies influence law enforcement behavior, particularly in enforcing compliance through coercive tactics. Vetrimaaran's films are cinematic case studies illustrating the intersection of caste and state-sanctioned violence.

Research on racial disparities in policing in the U.S. demonstrates a similarly entrenched system of oppression. Hehman et al. (2018) and Schwartz and Jahn (2020) map fatal police violence across racial and ethnic lines, showing that Black and Hispanic individuals are disproportionately victims of excessive force. Weisburst (2019) and Buehler (2017) further establish that racial biases influence police decision-making, leading to an overrepresentation of minorities in violent encounters with law enforcement. Like caste in India, race in the United States functions as a marker of social stratification that dictates police interactions with civilians. Vetrimaaran's films resonate with findings from studies such as Lautenschlager and Omori (2018), which argue that law enforcement agencies are mechanisms of racial control. The concept of the "racial threat hypothesis" (Parker et al., 2005) is also relevant in the Indian context, where dominant caste groups use state apparatuses to suppress lower-caste resistance, mirroring the criminalization of Black communities in the United States.

Both caste-based and race-based police violence are not isolated events but products of larger socio-political frameworks. The U.S. literature on policing suggests that excessive force is used to reinforce social hierarchies. Ross et al. (2018) resolve paradoxes in race-specific police use of force, demonstrating that social hierarchies dictate who is deemed a threat. This aligns with Vetrimaaran’s portrayal of Dalit resistance in Asuran, where the protagonist’s defiance of caste supremacy invites state-sponsored retribution. Additionally, studies like Ba et al. (2021) explore the role of race and gender in police-civilian interactions, showing that minority officers do not significantly alter patterns of systemic violence. Similarly in India, Dalit police officers often remain complicit in caste violence due to institutional constraints and fear of losing their jobs. Similarly, Kramer and Remster (2018) examine investigatory traffic stops as racialized encounters, paralleling the arbitrary detentions in Visaranai.

Conclusion

Vetrimaaran's films, particularly Visaranai and Viduthalai 1 and 2, serve as essential texts that draw parallels between caste-based and race-based police violence. By recalling Fanon's theory of colonial policing, Foucault's concept of disciplinary power, Mbembe's notion of necropolitics, Ambedkar's critique of Brahminical supremacy, and prison abolitionist thought, I demonstrate how both films expose the systemic nature of police brutality in India. This echoes the realities of racialized policing in the United States. Vetrimaaran’s films not only document but also actively challenge state violence, much like scholarship that exposes racial disparities in the U.S.. His work aligns with Cano’s (2010) study of racial bias in police use of force in Brazil, emphasizing that state violence is a transnational issue rooted in historical oppression. By drawing comparisons between caste and race in law enforcement practices internationally, this paper underscores how Vetrimaaran’s cinema contributes to a broader discourse on policing, systemic violence, and social justice globally.

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