In 1999, Friends, a Malayalam film directed by Siddique, hit the theatres—about three friends who go to work in a palace as painters, with one of them falling in love with the princess there.
In the scene where the friends arrive, the palace manager, played by Janardhanan, comes to meet them. On the way, he slips and falls on a bucket of limestone powder. It is a classic joke, causing everyone, including the friends played by Jayaram, Sreenivasan and Mukesh, to break into laughter. Seeing the humour in the situation, Janardhanan himself starts laughing. Gradually, as the laughter dies down, one lone voice rings out in the silence. Everyone looks around until the camera pans to Sreenivasan, who is pointing at Janardhanan and guffawing. The scene is hilarious, and the first time I watched it, I could not stop laughing.
Malayalam cinema of the 1980s and 1990s tended to have that effect on you. The humour was genius, its simplicity rivalled only by its sophistication. Much of it was far ahead of its time.
Take the scene in the 1989 film Ramji Rao Speaking. A jobless man, Balakrishnan, played by Sai Kumar, is fast asleep when a kidnapper mistakenly dials him instead of a rich businessman, informing him that his daughter is in their custody and demanding a ransom to get her back. Balakrishnan has no idea what he’s talking about and, still half-asleep, goes outside to pee, cradling the phone in one hand. As he opens his fly and starts doing his business, the kidnapper tells his accomplice: “I hear a sound. I think he is using a tapping device.” He speaks into the phone, “I am warning you, stop immediately the equipment you are using.” As Balakrishnan zips up his pants, the kidnapper heaves a sigh of relief. Those kind of jokes—unparalleled in creativity and spot-on in delivery—are hard to come by these days.
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There were others, too—Mannar Mathai Speaking, the sequel to Ramji Rao Speaking; Akkare, Akkare, Akkare; Nadodikattu; Chithram; Kilukkam; Vietnam Colony; Aniyan Bava, Chettan Bava; Thenmavin Kombathu.... Even today, Malayalis recycle these jokes regularly; they never fail to crack us up. Malayali humour of the 1990s has the kind of immortality that billionaire biohackers can only dream of.
It was not just Malayalam cinema. Life in Kerala in the 1990s had a halcyon quality to it, a kind of gentle, lilting rhythm. It was like we were living inside a lullaby. Walkmans and CDs were still a thing. Encyclopedias and not Google were the primary sources of research and therefore, we knew more about deciduous trees than designer brands. Amazon meant a forest and not a shopping site. The outside world streamed in to us one episode of FRIENDS at a time, which aired on Star World at 7 pm every night. There was no problem of choice overload—cereal meant cornflakes; there were no hundred varieties of it. Health food was non-existent; muesli, avocado and quinoa might as well have been the names of faraway planets. Enid Blyton was the high-priestess of our literature and Prince William, the object of our fantasies.
Today, it feels like the world has gone topsy-turvy. Madmen have received a promotion—from the asylum to the White House. Adults behave like children and children, like adults. Silence is a weakness and shouting is a strength. Celebrities wear gym-wear in the airport and influencers wear makeup in the gym. Our comedians are too serious, while our politicians are too funny. An ethical businessman is an oxymoron and many of our leaders are plain morons.
In these dire times, Malayalam cinema is branching out in another direction: black comedy. Strands of it are growing increasingly prominent in recent films like Mohiniyattom, Mukundan Unni Associates and Purusha Pretham, which blend satire with blood, gore and morbidity.
People are finding humour in couples using karate chops to decimate each other, widows blackmailed at funerals, rivals murdered by snakes, bodies chopped up and cooked. But comedy—whether black, white or blue—is still comedy. Its health benefits are well-documented.
How does laughter benefit health?
According to Mayo Clinic, laughter can stimulate your heart, lungs and muscles by enhancing your intake of oxygen and increasing the endorphins released by your brain. It can regulate your heart rate and blood pressure, thus relaxing you. It can improve your immune system by releasing neuropeptides that help fight stress and potentially more serious illnesses. It can relieve pain by producing painkillers in the body. It is also an antidote to depression and anxiety.
Today, the internet is giving humour a raunchy makeover. Artificial intelligence is opening up its possibilities, even if in unregulated and uncensored ways. Political memes spring up even before the words leave a neta’s mouth. Some leaders, especially, have got the Midas touch, like Shashi Tharoor and Rahul Gandhi; everything they say is gold for a meme maker. Take, for example, the recent ‘breaking news’ that both Iran and the US have approached Tharoor to write an agreement “that no one understands and both can claim victory”. The last joke that cracked me up was an AI image for a Fevicol advertisement—of a placid Mamata Banerjee sitting fixed on the CM’s chair while Narendra Modi, Amit Shah and Rahul Gandhi are pulling in all directions. The tagline: “You can try, but you can’t remove.”
Yet, how rare and precious are the moments when one can laugh from the heart. In my life, there are several kinds of laughter. There is the duty-bound laugh to impress the boss, the polite laugh to win the approval of a colleague or friend, the artificial laugh when I don’t find a joke funny or the forced laugh when I don’t understand it. Then there is the ‘Sreenivasan’ laugh—that rare jewel of a genuine laugh which, I believe, is the universe’s best-kept secret, making it function more effectively than any weapon, war or dictator’s whim.
The opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not purport to reflect the opinions or views of THE WEEK.
