The fall of a great studio through the lens of writer Ashokamitran

Gemini Studios' rise and fall, captured in evocative writings by Ashokamitran, offer insights into Tamil film industry dynamics.

There is nothing in Chennai to indicate the existence of Gemini Studios, a landmark, except the Anna Flyover that continues to be referred to as Gemini Flyover. The once glorious studio, its owner S.S. Vasan, the memorable films he made, the heroes and heroines, and innumerable workers of the film industry of a previous era continue to live through the evocative writings of Ashokamitran. Karaintha Nizhalkal is a novel, and My Years with Boss is an account of his experience as an employee of Gemini Studios. In a way, Karaintha Nizhalkal is a fictionalised version of My Years with Boss.

The fall of men who once dominated the tinsel world and how easily the world moves forward without them is the central and poignant theme of both books.

“Vasan must have found himself dwelling more and more on the earlier times. Ah, Chandralekha! Ah, Nishan! Ah, Mangala! Dazzling women, gorgeous palaces, galloping horses, the swish of rapiers criss-crossing against a taut musical score... Vasan had made up his mind about the next film,” writes Ashokamitran about Vasan, who was addressed as Boss.

The next film Raj Tilak had a stellar cast: Vyjayanthimala, Padmini, Gemini Ganesan, Pran, and Meenakshi. In Tamil, it was Vanjikottai Valiban. “It was the last time Vasan yielded to his obsession to make a second Chandralekha. Of course, he couldn’t, for everyone now knows that Raj Tilak was the biggest flop Gemini ever made. The cycle had indeed come to an end,” he writes.

Gemini Studios, which once produced blockbusters like Chandralekha and Avvaiyar, faded into oblivion. Vasan being Vasan, who was also the owner of Ananda Vikatan, managed to keep up appearance. Ashokamitran wrote the novel after he quit Gemini Studios, and it is haunting. In the novel, film producer Reddiyar was also losing his standing in the film world. Changing times, however, proved cruel to people like Nataraja Iyer, a character in Karaintha Nizhalkal. Iyer, the production manager of Reddiyar, who knows the film world like the back of his hand, ends up begging at the Saidapet bus stand. Ashokamitran would have fashioned the character of Iyer and others after real-life figures from Gemini Studios.

Sampath, a character in the novel, recounts a heart-wrenching account: “I am not able to face him. He is suffering. Both his legs are swollen. Not able to go to hospital. He said he did not have money for vehicle. I felt like crying. What is cinema? It is car and food. So long as films are made, even an ordinary worker will not eat food which is less than ₹5 or ₹10. Two cars will go to Sowcarpet, eight kilometres away, to buy beedis which cost just 10 paisa.”

Both books offer insights into the dynamics of film-making while remaining windows to the Tamil film world. Ashokamitran makes a particularly sharp observation about Parasakthi. “There was a great deal of contemporaneity in it; almost every line had an allusion to the political and social scene in Tamil Nadu. The makers of a film like Parasakthi represented a real threat to the supremacy of Gemini Studios,” he writes, hinting at Vasan’s failure to adapt himself to the changing cinematic trends and contemporary and socially relevant subjects. The film had a far-reaching impact not only on Tamil film world but also on Tamil Nadu’s political landscape.