Masthishka Maranam (Malayalam)
Krishand’s Masthishka Maranam: A Frankenbiting of Simon's Memories imagines a frenzied future where a consumptive society is on the brink of self-destruction, like a snake eating its own tail. In this dystopian world, everything is entertainment; technology hasn’t dismantled patriarchy, it has allowed it a freer run. It is tempting to identify the Easter eggs in Masthishka Maranam and guess the real-life personalities and incidents the film satirises. But that would be reducing it to a mere game, when it aspires to be much more — a turning of the gaze.
The plot revolves around the idea of a problematic “memory” that goes viral. At its centre is a local female star of international fame, Frida Soman (Rajisha Vijayan), who even has a temple to her name. She is one of the last few human stars to have survived the onslaught of her AI counterparts. This “memory” is part of a VR (virtual reality) game that allows users to consume a carefully manufactured fantasy version of her. But for one player (Niranj Maniyanpilla Raju), the experience deviates sharply, confronting him with something far more disturbing — a version of Frida that no one else seems to encounter.
On the surface, the plot is an investigation into why this glitch occurs, and if there’s any truth to what the man sees. However, the deeper you dig, the greater your discomfort grows as you recognise the ugly underbelly of the voyeuristic culture that we live in. In this roiling sea of muck, everyone is implicated; the media, the public, men, women, straight, queer, conservative, woke.
Interestingly, everyone recognises certain violent acts as crimes, but not so much the unauthorised “memory” that is passed from one person to another. At one point, the film stages a striking reckoning for those who access Frida without her knowledge or consent. Among them is a modest morality and ethics schoolteacher, who appears to have been the most addicted. Just as you think #YesAllMen, a woman (Ann Saleem) joins the gang, as if to ask “Why should boys have all the fun?”
The commentary here doesn’t limit itself to gender binaries. It also examines how the public intersects with the private, especially with technology altering power dynamics. For example, as a celebrity, Frida enjoys power as a public figure. But celebritydom comes at a cost — it’s no accident that the site of a violation is named Mollywood Hotel. As a woman in the public eye, her body is deemed fit for exploitation in private by any individual — all they need to do is go online. She may seem unattainable, a fantasy for so many. And yet, she is easily accessible and susceptible to abuse and trolling online.
However, Frida is neither victim nor crusader. She drives the culture that exploits her, and actively feeds it. But between the swanky photoshoots, media interviews and accolades, there are flashes of real pain and grief. And each time the real Frida emerges and breaks her public image, the idol in the temple her fans have built her loses a chunk of itself.
Rajisha plays Frida with an unhinged intensity, and is particularly effective with her comic timing (the throwaway Hindi lines are a hoot). She carries off the demanding “too-muchness” of her character with a degree of edge that saves Frida from love or hate; you aren’t swept away by your emotions for her, but her visibility is such that you cannot ignore what she says.
At a time when even parents who are grieving the death of their child have the option to delete her memories or wander the virtual world trying to acquaint themselves with death, the question the audience must confront is whether we’re capable of feeling anything any more. If everything is a PR stunt, a conspiracy, or AI — a frankenbiting of reality and not reality itself — how do we stay human?
Krishand’s distinctively wacky film language — the colours, lighting, camera angles, pacing, soundscape, editing — is designed to push the viewer into an otherworldly dimension. At times, this can feel overwhelming, with one joke breathlessly running into the other. At other times, it is wildly entertaining. Divya Prabha is especially impressive as Frida’s round-eyed, cynical lawyer, and the courtroom scene in the denouement is brilliantly staged. But even when it is jarring, the film never stops being interesting.
Masthishka Maranam is ominous, foretelling a future where you cannot trust your senses to tell you the truth. That explains the title — brain death. And perhaps, we are already there?
Sowmya Rajendran writes on gender, culture and cinema. She has written over 25 books, including a nonfiction book on gender for adolescents. She was awarded the Sahitya Akademi’s Bal Sahitya Puraskar for her novel Mayil Will Not Be Quiet in 2015.
Disclaimer: This review was not paid for or commissioned by anyone associated with the film. Neither TNM nor any of its reviewers have any sort of business relationship with the film’s producers or any other members of its cast and crew.