If the sound of Kantara was “Wooohhh”, the sound of Kanguva is “Aaaaarrrrrhhhh”. Siva’s film takes the primal energy in the Kantara climax, throws in imagery inspired by as wide a range of influences as Viking lore and Apocalypto, and pushes the volume button to the maximum.
Suriya stars in an ultra-loud and ultra-violent tale of revenge that hops through time. In the present, Suriya is Francis, a bounty hunter from Goa who is locked in competition/romance with his rival/girlfriend Angela (Disha Patani). A mysterious boy with enhanced powers looks at Francis in a strange way, suggesting a deeper connection.
This section of the movie is so jejune, so unfunny and so tedious that it’s almost a relief when the connection is revealed. In 1070, Kanguva (Suriya) is a dreadlocked, heavily tattooed tribal warlord kitted out in the era’s sartorial preference for fur clothes accessorised with shells, bones and skull headpieces. Kanguva metes out brutal punishment to troublemakers, but has his Ashoka moment when he meets Poruva, the son of one of his victims.
Kanguva’s love for Poruva drives the fierce warrior to even more extreme behaviours. From wrestling with a hapless alligator in search of a snack to using elephant tusks as weapons, Kanguva strains sinew and throat muscle to deliver visual effects-enhanced action set pieces. Kanguva’s barbarity meets its match in Udhiran (Bobby Deol), who is understandably upset when his sons die at Kanguva’s bidding, one of them ripped apart so that only his head survives.
As if it isn’t enough to watch endless eviscerations, director Siva and music composer Devi Sri Prasad layer the visuals with the kind of sound effects and score that might permanently affect the tympanic membrane. We can’t wait for the behind-the-scenes video of the movie’s dubbing process.
Kanguva has been made in Tamil and dubbed into various languages, including Hindi. Suriya makes his loudest bit yet for pan-Indian status, swaggering through Kanguva with unbridled enthusiasm. Suriya makes the proceedings tolerable, but only just.
The heightened acting – eyeballs pop out of sockets, no line is uttered at a normal pitch – is in sync with the fantastical imagination of tribal culture. “Poruvaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa”, Kanguva yells. “Kanguvaaaaaaaaaa,” the boy screams. The emotional element needed to justify a parade of primitive modes of dispatch is entirely eclipsed by the visceral action.
There’s so much to take in that some of the better visuals woosh by. One of the songs sees the performers wearing anklets made of fire. But much of the 154-minute movie is one long roar, a lot of noise signifying nothing.
