‘Viduthalai Part 2’: The Moral Dilemmas On the Road to Liberation
- The film is an extraordinary achievement in Indian cinema, especially in an era where fascism is tightening its grip, silencing dissent, and criminalizing resistance.
“Viduthalai” struggled significantly due to its two-part format and storytelling style. While Vetrimaaran’s ambition is undeniable, the structure of the film makes it feel fragmented and, at times, uneven. A mini-series might have served it better, allowing for a deeper exploration of characters, ideologies, and the system’s oppressive machinery without feeling rushed. The two-part format, instead of enhancing the narrative, creates a disconnect that disrupts the emotional and political intensity the film strives to maintain. Also, For me, Part 1 was downright mediocre compared to the far better Part 2.
One of the film’s biggest problems is its frequent overlapping dialogues. This contributes to a sense of chaos. At times, the movie feels preachy, especially when characters engage in ideological discussions rather than allowing the themes to emerge naturally from the plot. It’s clear that the film wasn’t built on a conventional screenplay. Instead, it operates on a skeletal framework of story and plot points. This approach gives the film an unpredictable feel, which contributes to its lack of cohesion. The film moves rapidly across different timelines, shifting between protagonists and their struggles. This pace mirrors the unrelenting oppression experienced by marginalized communities, making the audience feel the urgency and despair that define their reality. However, it also makes the narrative difficult to follow.
For those who have lived experiences of oppression, “Viduthalai Part 2” might feel resonant. But for those who haven’t, I wonder how effectively the film communicates its themes. Without prior understanding, the rapid shifts and fragmented storytelling might feel more disorienting than enlightening. The film challenges its audience, It demands engagement, forcing viewers to navigate the chaos much like the characters do. Whether this approach successfully bridges the gap between lived experience and cinematic representation remains an open question.
Despite its flaws, “Viduthalai Part 2” lands with impact. Even as a sequel, it stands on its own. The film doesn’t provide a linear, easy-to-digest narrative; instead, it demands that the viewer piece together the unfolding events, much like how Kumaresan struggles to make sense of his reality. The urgency in storytelling often makes certain moments feel rushed as if the film itself is racing against time to capture the intensity of its subject matter. Yet, this very approach mirrors the real-life experience of those resisting state violence — where clarity is often elusive, and survival depends on reacting to an ever-shifting landscape of power and oppression.
Kwame Ture once said ‘In order for non-violence to work, your opponent must have a conscience’. The film forces us to confront this question: Do the oppressed always have a choice? When faced with unrelenting state violence, systemic exploitation, and the complete erasure of their dignity, what options remain? The film doesn’t offer an easy answer but instead raises a crucial moral dilemma—whether violence is the right path to liberation or if another way exists. It challenges the romanticized idea that resistance must always be peaceful, questioning whether such an approach is even viable when the oppressor does not recognize the humanity of those they subjugate.
“Viduthalai Part 2” doesn’t just depict physical violence — it explores the violence of the system itself: the brutality of the police, the insidious role of the media, and the suffocating weight of institutional oppression. The violence here is not just physical but psychological, institutional, and generational. It forces the audience to ask: if the state itself is built on violence, is it truly wrong for the oppressed to respond in kind? Can resistance ever be purely ideological when survival is at stake? The film does not glorify armed struggle, nor does it dismiss the consequences of taking up arms. Instead, it presents the harsh reality that for many, violence is not a choice — it is a forced response to a world that leaves them no alternative.
At the same time, the film also talks about the fractures within resistance movements, the ideological debates that shape them, and the moral weight that revolutionaries must carry. It acknowledges that violence comes at a cost — not just to the oppressor, but to the very people fighting for liberation. There is no easy resolution, no clear right or wrong. The film simply presents the question and leaves the audience to wrestle with it: When all peaceful avenues have been exhausted, when oppression continues unchecked, what would you do?
The world Vetrimaaran constructs is rich with detail, with a stunningly authentic setting that immerses the viewer in the harsh, unforgiving terrain of both the land and the socio-political struggle it represents. His commitment to realism is evident not just in the cinematography, but in how the film’s atmosphere is shaped by the characters’ interactions, the bureaucratic indifference of the system, and the suffocating weight of state surveillance and police violence. The score by Ilaiyaraaja seamlessly blends into this narrative, heightening tension without overshadowing the rawness of the scenes. The music doesn’t dictate emotions — it flows with the story, making every moment hit viscerally. Acting by Chetan, Soori, and Vijay Sethupathi is top-notch, each bringing a unique depth to their respective roles.
Mahalakshmi played by Manju Warrier is a rare strong female character in a Vetrimaaran film, possibly his first of this kind. She is not just a supporting figure in the background but an active participant in the movement, embodying resilience, intellect, and unwavering commitment to the cause. Her presence challenges the often male-dominated narratives of revolutionary struggles in cinema, where women are either sidelined. However, her perspective is given little space, and her inner conflicts, struggles, and ideological contributions remain largely unexplored.
This isn’t necessarily a flaw — it shows Vetrimaaran’s evolving approach. His previous films have often centered around men navigating systems of oppression, with women playing peripheral or victimized roles. Women have always been integral to resistance movements, not just as supporters but as strategists, fighters, and leaders in their own right.
This film is an extraordinary achievement in Indian cinema, especially in an era where fascism is tightening its grip, silencing dissent, and criminalizing resistance. Making a film like Viduthalai Part 2 today is not just an artistic endeavor but a political act in itself. It refuses to conform to the dominant nationalist narratives that glorify the state and vilify rebellion. Instead, it forces the audience to confront uncomfortable questions about power, resistance, and the cost of both action and inaction.
Many believe Viduthalai part 2 is about Marxism, but that’s a misreading. The film is about liberation — about why Marxism isn’t always the most effective path in India, yet remains, in certain moments, an unavoidable necessity. Engaging with Marxist ideology on screen, acknowledging both its necessity and limitations, is a daunting task. Yet, Vetrimaaran does so with remarkable effort, presenting Marxism not as a monolithic ideology but as a tool — one that has both its strengths and its failings, depending on the socio-political landscape in which it is applied. It critiques the limitations of Marxist ideology, particularly in a society where caste, rather than class alone, determines oppression.
The film highlights the gaps in Marxist thought when applied to India’s specific socio-political reality, where upper-caste leadership within leftist movements has historically failed to address caste-based discrimination with the urgency it demands. Yet, it also acknowledges that for the oppressed, organized resistance — whether through Marxist structures or other revolutionary frameworks — is often the only viable means of survival. The film challenges both state propaganda, which portrays revolutionaries as terrorists, and mainstream leftist discourse, which often ignores caste realities. By doing so, “Viduthalai part 2” becomes more than just a film about ideology — it becomes a meditation on the nature of resistance itself.
Viduthalai also goes deep into how the state and the system brainwash the oppressed, using them not just as passive subjects of violence, but actively turning many of them against their own communities. This manipulation is one of the most insidious aspects of the system, as it transforms those who suffer the most into enforcers of the very oppression that keeps them marginalized. Through state-sanctioned propaganda, the media, and targeted policies, the oppressed are often made to internalize the values of the oppressors — be it through the demonization of their own identity, community, or history.
The film plunges us into a profound moral quandary—one that complicates the very notion of resistance. When the state has so thoroughly manipulated our own people, turning them into tools of oppression, the line between the oppressor and the oppressed becomes difficult to navigate. These manipulated individuals, often from marginalized communities, become both perpetrators and victims, carrying out violence against their own people in exchange for the illusion of power or safety.
Should the revolutionaries strike against the police officers who are, in essence, fellow victims of the same oppressive system? Does their role as agents of the state strip them of their humanity, or are they still fellow oppressed people, entangled in the same system of control? The choice to kill them in the name of liberation becomes not just an act of self-defense, but a morally complex decision about whether one is justified in attacking those who have been coerced into the role of enforcers. Is it fair to hold them accountable for the violence they perpetrate, or does the blame ultimately lie with the system that has forced their compliance?
Is it morally acceptable to let these individuals, in their role as enforcers, continue to carry out acts of brutality, knowing that their actions might bring the movement to a halt or lead to greater suffering for the oppressed? Do we allow ourselves to be victims in the hope that, in the long term, some higher form of justice will prevail?
But these two extremes — violence or passivity — are not the only options. The film forces us to question whether there is another way. A third path that doesn’t compromise moral integrity, yet still confronts the system and seeks real liberation. Is it possible to resist without falling into the same traps of violence, revenge, and destruction that the system relies on to maintain control? Can solidarity and collective action, education and consciousness-raising, offer an alternative to armed struggle? Or, in the face of such systemic brutality, is nonviolent resistance an illusion—a luxury that the oppressed can’t afford?
The film doesn’t offer a definitive answer to these questions, and perhaps that’s its power. It challenges us to confront the complexity of revolutionary struggle and forces us to grapple with the moral ambiguities. The struggle is not just for freedom from external violence, but for a more profound, internal transformation, where the oppressed find ways to resist the system without becoming what they despise.
By the end, the confusion that builds throughout the film reaches a crescendo, leaving the audience with an overwhelming sense of uncertainty and exhaustion. This isn’t just a stylistic choice — it’s a deeply intentional reflection of Kumarasan’s psychological state. He is caught in a whirlwind of ideological conflicts and moral dilemmas, and the film forces us to feel that same turmoil. Unlike conventional narratives that offer clear resolutions, “Viduthalai Part 2” leaves us grappling with the weight of its questions. We are made to feel the full force of Kumarasan’s disillusionment, his growing realization that there may be no easy answers, and that in the face of overwhelming oppression, survival itself is an act of defiance.
For every Vaathiyaar, there was a Karuppan, and for every Kumaresan, there was a Vaathiyaar — because no struggle exists in isolation. Viduthalai does not offer closure because the battle it portrays is not confined to the screen; it is a reflection of reality, where oppression persists. Revolutions are not built on lone heroes but on those who come before, those who rise after, and those whose names history may never remember. The film leaves us with an undeniable truth — liberation is not a singular event but a continuous fight, demanding that each generation decide whether to take up the struggle.
Lokesh Bag is a writer, movie critic, and sketch artist. He has a graduate degree in Agricultural Entomology. An Ambedkarite, Bag has been creating meaningful conversations about caste, gender, and social issues. He has been published in The Quint and he often writes on various topics in tweet-chunks on Twitter/X for his fans. He believes in working towards a better tomorrow, one word at a time.