The Siddis, a community unrepresented in Indian cinema, is under the spotlight in Rhythm of Dammam, an exceptionally evocative, visually arresting film written and directed by Kerala-born, New York-based Jayan Cherian.

The film premiered this week at the 55th International Film Festival of India in Goa. It is now headed to the International Competition line-up of the upcoming 29th International Film Festival of Kerala.

Rhythm of Dammam – the title alludes to a musical tradition germane to the Siddi way of life – shines a light on the plight of the marginalised Afro-Indian tribe that languishes at the bottom of India’s social hierarchy.

In 2013, Cherian’s debut feature, Papilio Buddha, probed systemic and physical violence perpetrated against Dalits, women and the environment. Three years later, he made Ka Bodyscapes, a film about three rebellious millennials who defy notions of gender and sexuality perpetuated to a change-averse society.

Rhythm of Dammam isn’t quite as subversive but, like the filmmaker’s previous films, is political to the core. Using relatively muted means, it examines the marginalization of the Siddis who have suffered centuries of oppression.

Cherian’s script, which draws liberally from his extensive documentation of the lives of the forest dwellers, alludes tangentially yet unambiguously to the obliteration of the endangered minority’s history, culture and language.

Rhythm of Dammam, lit and lensed by Sabin Uralikandy, has the tone and texture of a documentary. However, the seeds of an ethnographic film embedded in the film are grafted upon a full-blown fictional structure for the purpose of elucidation. The strategy works wonderfully well.

The film’s protagonist, a 12-year-old Siddi boy, Jayaram (Chinmaya Siddi), struggles to come to terms with the demise of his grandfather Rama Bantu Siddi (Parashuram Siddi). His anguish, bewilderment and fears are aggravated by the ways in which the adults around him react to the death and its aftermath.

His alcoholic, debt-ridden father Bhaskara (Prashant Siddi, widely known to Kannada movie fans), bickers endlessly with his younger brother Ganapathi (Nagaraj Siddi). The two men have their eyes on what the deceased man is believed to have bequeathed to them.

Their home and the land on which it stands are in danger of being seized by the upper-caste landlord to whom Bhaskara owes a few thousand rupees. He hopes to avert the eventuality with the inherited money. But the box Bhaskara digs out of a corner of the house contains trinkets of little material worth.

To Jayaram, however, the heirloom, no matter how worthless, become a ready, if unsettling, conduit to the hoary roots of his brutally exploited tribe who were brought to India as slaves by Portuguese and Arab traders and thereafter left to deal with continuing subjugation and persecution over many centuries.

The principal actors in Rhythm of Dammam, set in Yellapur in the Uttara Kannada district of Karnataka, where a large percentage of Hindu Siddis are concentrated, are all non-actors from the community. The actors cast as non-tribals, all tertiary characters – the landlord, a doctor, or an instructor in a tribal boys’ hostel – are (or look like) real people.

Cherian sets the actors free to improvise their performances, songs and dances. Many extended shots with a static camera provide naturalistic, unmediated frames to create a tangible context for the sufferings of the Siddis even as Jayaram’s visions of his forebears transport the boy, and the audience, to a surreal, often disturbing, zone.

The assimilation of the Siddis we see in the film is complete, so, ironically, is their alienation from mainstream India. They speak a creole of Konkani, which is the language of their religious chants. Their gods and rituals are Hindu. But their spirit – embodied in the white-robed figure of the grandfather Jayaram sees and touches in his dreams/nightmares – is driven by a yearning for an identity.

Politics makes its emphatic way into Rhythm of Dammam. The songs and dances of the Siddis, performed to the accompaniment of the dual-headed cylinder drums called dammam, which also gives their principal musical tradition its name.

The dances are studiedly unchoreographed. The actors work themselves up into a frenzy and create their own moves once they get into the swing of the music. It is marked by a distinctly Afro accent.

Haunted by what his grandpa is trying to tell him, Jayaram turns febrile, teeters on the edge of delirium, and is branded a problem child in need of healing. A fretful mother, an aunt possessed by Goddess Yellamma, a community shaman and a doctor who prescribes psychiatric treatment suggest ways to help the boy tide over his problem.

Jayaram’s fragile state of mind reflects the reality of a community that dangles between a past they have all but forgotten and a present that they would rather put behind them.

A young man raps angrily, bemoaning the community’s loss of the soul, language and identity. The languages Jayaram speaks serve to denote how far removed the Siddis of India are from their Bantu roots.

In Jayaram’s school, the medium of instruction is Kannada. The teacher, a non-Siddi, makes the students recite a patriotic pledge before testing the students’ knowledge of the world’s seven continents. Jayaram is lost in thought.

The teacher ridicules him. He asks: Where do you live, Jayaram? Please, the boy replies. That is the name of his village. Jayaram’s ancestry, straddling two continents, is shrouded in a dense haze. For him, the assertion of specificity of location stems from a desire to belong.

When Jayaram is admitted to a hostel, the mass prayer there, rendered in Sanskrit, is overtly religious. Every step that he moves away from his moorings is indicative of the blows that his ancestors have faced.

Amid the politics that Rhythm of Dammam espouses, Cherian sprinkles the narrative with pure magic seen through the pristine eyes of a pre-teen boy. The tender, poetic imagery suggests a despairing search for stability amid a frightening absence of certitude.

Rhythm of Dammam trains its empathetic spotlight on the troubles of one community. But not only does the film give voice to the voiceless, it also speaks to all those who find themselves painted into a corner by history.

Hitting all the right notes, Rhythm of Dammam laments the undermining of a civilisational tapestry that thrives on diversity.

Back in the 1990s, as Disney’s second golden age of animated
movies surged, the company entered the sequel business, churning out follow-ups
to their popular titles. For the most part, these represented inferior products
and Disney knew it, but the goal was to expand branding rather than create art.
Although featuring the original voice actors, even the best were characterized
by shallow stories, cut-rate animation, and lackluster songs. Instead of going
the theatrical distribution route, Disney opted for direct-to-video releases –
a decision that created a lucrative revenue stream for more than a decade. In
some ways, Moana 2 feels like a throwback to those ‘90s sequels – a movie
that was made more to capitalize on the popularity of a character than because
there was a compelling new story to tell. Moana 2 features top-notch
animation and songs that are better than passable but the plot feels like a regurgitation
of elements from the first movie combined with bits and pieces of other Disney
animated projects from across the years.

Moana 2 began life as a planned Disney+ series taking
the character on new adventures. Upon seeing footage from the series, Disney
CEO Bob Iger thought it was “too good” for direct-to-streaming and had the production
team rework the series into a movie. Although the result feels reasonably
self-contained, an unevenness in pacing and some narrative hiccups are evidence
of the late-innings metamorphosis. The result will likely please the legions of
Moana fans and is easily digestible for accompanying parents even if Moana
2 falls short of being the next Disney classic.

The story transpires three years after the original (even if
Moana’s little sister, Simea, seems only a little older). Moana, now a revered wayfinder,
has been taking long trips away from home in the company of her pet rooster,
Heihei, and pig, Pua, seeking to find other tribes of humans. She learns that
the storm god Nalo has cast a curse that prevents diverse groups of people from
contacting each other. In order to reverse the curse, she must find the mystical
island of Motufetu and raise it from the ocean depths. To this end, she builds
a bigger canoe and recruits a crew of three: warrior Moni (Hualalai Chung),
engineer and craftswoman Loto (Rose Matafeo), and grumpy farmer Keke (David
Fane). As she sets out, the demigod Maui (Dwayne Johnson), who is separately on
his own quest to find Motufetu, is captured by one of Nalo’s allies, Matangi (Awhimai
Fraser), possibly to be used as bait to lure Moana.

Moana 2 features surprisingly little in the way of
conflict – the climax, which is sufficiently suspenseful, is more of a
human-versus-nature battle – and the main villain, Nalo, appears sparingly. It seems
that the filmmakers may have visions of making him a Thanos-style “Big Bad” who
remains in the background (at least for now). This ongoing-adventure approach
makes more sense for a TV series than in a movie, although a box office win for
Moana 2 would guarantee the greenlighting of more sequels. Visually, the
movie pops although there are no noticeable advances from the first film
(perhaps because this form of animation has reached full maturity). Although
the first half of the story is light on action, things ramp up during the final
45 minutes.

One of the biggest disappointments in Moana 2 is the
lack of direct interaction between Moana and Maui. Once they are co-located,
the camaraderie from the first film re-ignites but it takes nearly an hour
before the two share the screen. For kids wanting to see the characters resume
their banter, that’s an awfully long time to wait.

With Lin-Manuel Miranda having stepped away from songwriting
duties to work on Mufasa, Abigail Barlow & Emily Bear came on board
to collaborate with composers Mark Mancina and Opetaia Foa’i. Although the
movie’s songs are a step up from generic, they lack the dynamism evident in
Miranda’s contributions to Moana. Moana’s new anthem, “Beyond,” echoes “How
Far I’ll Go” without reaching the same emotional heights. Likewise, while Maui’s
“Can I Get a Chee Hoo?” is fun and energetic, it’s not “You’re Welcome.” An
argument can be made that the musical highlight of Moana 2 is “We Know
the Way” – a reprise of the Miranda-penned song from the first film.

Overall, Moana 2 does enough to fit the bill of solid
family entertainment. It accomplishes the most important thing for any sequel: reunite
the original characters with each other and the audience. Its high points lack
the amplitude of its predecessor’s pinnacles but it avoids craters. Rather than
taking any sort of bold step forward, Moana 2 is more of the same.
Although that can be seen as a positive, it feels a little disappointing that this
is the best Disney was able to craft after an eight-year wait.

Moana 2 (United States, 2024)

Maria Callas seized fame as the voice of Tosca, Medea and Carmen, opera’s eternally doomed heroines. If opera still commands audiences a century from now, perhaps it will sing of Callas, a fighter who survived the Nazi occupation of Greece, a heckling at La Scala, a media hazing on multiple continents and a humiliating public affair only to be hobbled by her own coping tools: sedatives and starvation.

“Maria,” starring Angelina Jolie, is director Pablo Larraín’s latest effort to build his own canon of 20th-century tragediennes. His previous melodramas “Jackie” and “Spencer” were fables about two painfully self-aware celebrities at their nadirs: Larraín peeked behind Jacqueline Kennedy‘s and Princess Diana’s facades less to humanize them than to expose their wounds. Callas, however, was infamous for her fits, so Larraín, perversely and underwhelmingly, chooses to respect her imperious veneer. If she’s the big boss-level diva he’s been working up to, Larraín lets her win.

This is Callas at the end of her life. Her corpse is the first thing we see onscreen, although cinematographer Edward Lachman has such a dazzling trick of cramming chandeliers into the frame that it takes a minute to spot her body. In the flashbacks that follow, Callas attempts to grandly dismiss liver disease as though it were spoiled wine. She spends most of the film doped up on Quaaludes, which in ’70s Paris were sold under the brand name Mandrax. Screenwriter Steven Knight even has her stroll around with an imaginary character named Mandrax (Kodi Smit-McPhee), a TV reporter she’s hallucinated into existence in order to feel important. Mandrax tosses her softball questions. She swats them down.

If you’ve seen any old interviews with Callas, you know that actual journalists tended to be rude with her. First, they’d ask Callas if she was a monster. Then they’d needle her about spending nine years with Aristotle Onassis only to get dumped for the future Jackie O. They needed to prick the goddess to see if she bled.

Early on, Callas parried these inquisitions with humor. Accused of hurtling a bottle of brandy at a director, she replied: “I wish I did. It would be a shame for the bottle.” As Callas got older, though, she got stiffer, and that’s the version we’re staring at here. Regal, guarded and stubborn, Jolie plays Callas as a lonely 50-something who rejected love, fame, joy and music and won’t fight that hard to get them back. Her character arc is just a blueprint plan of one; from scene to scene, you’re never sure whether she’s going to take action. Callas wants to be adored but she doesn’t want to be known. Her exhausted housekeepers Ferruccio (Pierfrancesco Favino) and Bruna (Alba Rohrwacher) speak volumes with every silent, fearful look, and when they get too personal with her, Callas commands them to move the piano as punishment.

Larraín makes a half-hearted attempt to recast Callas as a feminist martyr, alleging, as obliquely as possible, that she was once forced to trade her body to soldiers for cash and food. Biographical dots are unapologetically skipped, including her marriage to a man who doesn’t even merit a name before he’s ditched for Onassis (Haluk Bilginer). Adding to the disorientation, young Callas (Aggelina Papadopoulou) looks nothing like Jolie — not her lips, eyes, nose, jaw, frame, nothing. Yet the casting choice highlights how Callas recast herself in the 1950s, shedding a third of her body mass to transform from a zaftig soprano cliché into a high-fashion sylph (and in the process, sacrificing a bit of her oomph).

Callas could fold herself in a cloak and force an audience to focus on her. Her stillness was magnetic. All the emotions flooded out through her eyes and throat. Jolie trained in opera for seven months to prepare for the role and, according to Larraín, did her own singing on set. What we’re hearing is her voice blended into the real one at concentrations that range from 1% to 70% — the latter, I assume, in the scenes when a retired Callas tests her own vocal strength. To my ears, Jolie sounds fantastic, the kind of voice that would knock ’em dead on karaoke night. But peak Callas hits the senses like a lightning strike. Larraín tries to capture that power in his first close-up of Jolie, shoulders bare, singing at the camera in bold black and white. But the starkness of the shot works against him, giving us too much time to notice that Jolie’s throat barely seems to move, to wonder if her eyes shouldn’t have more passion.

Blazing passion used to be Jolie’s whole thing. I could close my eyes right now and see the wicked grin that made her a star in 1999’s “Girl, Interrupted.” But having endured her own tabloid scrutiny, she too has emerged too tightly controlled. Here, there’s only one second in one montage when, during a performance of Medea, Jolie unleashes a hot glare. The moment is so electric that you wish the whole film had that juice. We don’t see Callas that vibrant again until the end credits, and then, it’s archival footage of the real thing flashing a mischievous smile.

“A song should never be perfect,” Callas insists. I agree. Some critics called her singing ugly. Not in the factual sense, because that would be crazy, but closer to how fashionistas know to add one discordant accessory. The clash keeps things interesting. Jolie, however, uses perfection as armor, so no matter how much her Callas insists that opera is intoxicating, no matter how intoxicated her character actually is, her performance is a sober take on madness.

Larraín allows himself the occasional visual thrill, say a throng of Parisians suddenly assembling into a chorus. Otherwise, we’re so deep inside Callas’ delusions that things just feel flat. “What is real and what is not real is my business,” she pronounces, having bent the world to her will.

Oddly, after swooning along with giant aria after giant aria, I left the theater fixating on one of Larraín’s smallest sound-design choices. It comes when Callas, resplendent even in a bathrobe, glides into the kitchen to sing at Bruna while the poor deary cooks her an omelet. The solo goes on forever, long enough to make the point that, yes, Callas had fans clamoring outside the Metropolitan Opera, but she could also be a bit of a bore. And then, mid-song, Larraín adds a tiny clang — the sound of the spatula hitting the pan — to let us know that even in the prima donna’s fiercely protected bubble, her ego doesn’t always trump a plate of eggs.

I wish Larraín had cut Callas down to size more. He’s too protective of his fellow artist to slosh around in the fury that fueled her art. Callas could sing three octaves, but the film is mostly one note.