Shaji N. Karun: Cinematographer-auteur who introduced a new visual poetics to Indian Cinema

Shaji’s cinema trusted the frame to do the work that dialogue often does in lesser films. From his directorial debut Piravi (The Birth, 1988) to Swaham (One’s Own, 1994), Vanaprastham (The Forest Dweller, 1999) and Olu (She, 2018), his films unfolded as lived experiences rather than plotted narratives; works that asked viewers to inhabit emotional states rather than merely observe them. Loss, longing, memory and faith were not themes so much as conditions of being, rendered through austere compositions and a rigorous patience that resisted both melodrama and easy symbolism.

That patience, film critic N. Vidyashankar argues, was central to Shaji’s moral and aesthetic vision. “When Shaji passed away, for many of us who knew him personally, it was not merely the loss of an accomplished filmmaker or an intimate friend, but the depletion of a part of one’s own conscience, one that had been awakened by Piravi. The essence of his cinema lay in the contemplative patience he showed towards his characters and their atmospherically dense surroundings, making pain, grief and even joy inescapably comprehensible to the audience,” says Vidyashankar, former Artistic Director and present adviser of BIFFes.

Piravi: A father’s agonising wait for his son

Piravi is centred on the anxiety-ridden inner life of a devoted father, Raghava Chakyar (Premji), and his agonising wait for his son, Raghu (Rahul Laxman), who disappeared during the Emergency after being arrested by police; it portrays phis desperate hope and gradual loss of reality as the family hides the truth of his likely death from police brutality. “What Piravi did to many cineastes was to stir a hidden consciousness that lies dormant within individuals, often unrecognised or unacted upon. It as an elegiac film, steeped in an aesthetic of sorrow and mournfulness,” adds Vidyashankar, an active member of the International Federation of Film Critics (FIPRESCI).

Shaji’s distinctive directorial voice was inseparable from his mastery of the camera. A gold medallist in cinematography from the Film and Television Institute of India (FTII), Pune, he first made his mark as a cinematographer, collaborating closely with some of Malayalam cinema’s most significant auteurs. He shot almost all the films of the late G Aravindan, and worked with Adoor Gopalakrishnan, K. G. George, M. T. Vasudevan Nair and Padmarajan. Across more than 35 films as cinematographer, he developed a visual grammar marked by controlled lighting, precise framing and an acute sensitivity to natural textures: water, earth, skin, silence.

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It was perhaps inevitable that such a cinematographer would eventually direct, but Piravi exceeded expectation. The film, acclaimed for its rare ability to inhabit the anxiety-ridden inner life of a devoted father, announced a filmmaker of startling assurance, capable of blending the “world of feeling” with the “world of fact” without reducing either. In the old man’s mind, memories, recollections and fantasies assume the force of an immediate, compelling reality, no less concrete than the village bus stop, the local ferry, or the traffic and bustle of Thiruvananthapuram. Every stretch of terrain he has traversed for years is inseparably bound to an encounter, a gesture, or a remembered moment between father and son.

In Shaji’s construction of Chakyar’s emotional universe, images of the past return with obsessive clarity, shaping a lived present defined as much by memory as by physical space. That sensibility would get fine-tuned in later works. Vanaprastham, with Mohanlal’s internationally acclaimed performance, extended Shaji’s fascination with identity and displacement, while Swaham and Olu explored faith and solitude with similar restraint. Throughout, his cinema remained resolutely his own, resistant to categorisation as either “popular” or even conventionally “parallel”.

Inspired by a real incident

Shaji finds evocative visuals and an appropriately brooding rhythm for a situation that is tragic, mysterious, haunting, and— in an understated way — politically unsettling. A particularly striking aspect of Piravi is its music, composed by G. Aravindan, the prodigiously gifted late filmmaker with whom Shaji worked extensively as a cinematographer. “That is precisely why Piravi has been chosen for the homage screening,” explains P. B. Murali, Artistic Director and Curator of BIFFes.

Murali is an independent filmmaker who trained at the Centre for Film and Drama, Goethe-Institut (Max Mueller Bhavan). He has been associated with the five-decade-old Suchitra Film Society, curating multiple film festivals and filmmaking workshops, and has served BIFFes since 2013 in various capacities, including Chief Festival Coordinator, Curator, Chief Programmer, and Deputy Artistic Director for its 15th edition.

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Inspired by the real-life disappearance of a young man in police custody, Piravi resolutely avoids melodrama or polemic. Instead, it contemplates grief as a lived, lingering condition. The camera lingers on faces, landscapes, and the slow passage of time, making absence itself the film’s central presence. Through this ethical and aesthetic restraint — cinema as witnessing rather than accusation — Shaji carved out a distinctive space for himself in world cinema, Murali tells The Federal.

“This is perhaps the only way we can pay homage to a master storyteller of our times,” he adds. “Piravi makes the audience feel that some traumas scramble the soul so deeply that the moment becomes permanent, not as a memory dent, but as a condition. Time keeps moving; the human being does not, even after everything changes.”

On Shaji’s relevance in the present moment of Indian cinema, Murali argues that his importance lies not merely in his stature as a ‘past master’, but in what his work offers as a corrective ethical compass at a time when Indian cinema is undergoing profound shifts. “His films do not compete with the present; they question it. And that, in times like ours, is precisely why he remains essential,” he says. Emphasising why each of Shaji’s films continues to matter, Murali observes that “all his works are aesthetic, ethical, and historical interventions within Indian cinema, and this is where Shaji’s true importance resides.”

The influence of Tarkovsky

From Piravi to Olu, Shaji offered a boquet of eight classics to world cinema, alongside 14 short films ranging from Wild Life of Kerala (1979) to Artist Namboodiri: Neruvara/Trueline (2015). Across works such as Swaham, Vanaprastham, Kutty Srank (2009) and Olu, he repeatedly returned to lives on the margins: ageing parents, itinerant performers, ritual specialists, and solitary women.

His cinema bears the influence of filmmakers such as Andrei Tarkovsky and Yasujirō Ozu, particularly in its attention to time, interiority, and moral weight. For his contribution, Shaji received numerous national, international, and Kerala State awards. Global recognition — from Cannes, Venice, and Locarno — followed naturally, though he never tailored his work for festivals.

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“Shaji was a cinematographer first and a director later. He trained in cinematography at the FTII, and collaborated closely with several leading figures of Malayalam cinema before making his directorial debut with Piravi. His approach to cinematography was grounded in visual restraint and a tender emotional resonance. Silence formed an integral part of the visual vocabulary of many films he was associated with, and he used it to enhance the overall mood. His style aligned effectively with the ‘art film’ trends of that period,” observes Giridhar Khasnis, artist, art critic, photographer, and bilingual writer.

He adds: “I am not certain he was particularly experimental or innovative in a technical sense. Even during Shaji’s time, there were other outstanding cinematographers. For instance, Apurba Kishore Bir, whose work in films like 27 Down was pioneering in many ways. I am not sure one could say the same of Shaji.”

The human factor

Visually, though, Shaji’s films do reveal the eye of a master cinematographer. Light, water and shadow are not decorative, but philosophical elements. Long takes and minimal dialogue encourage contemplation; sound design privileges ambient texture over emphatic scores. Besides that, performances of artists are also inward as his strength lies in drawing intense psychological depth through restraint.

This writer met Shaji when at the 15th edition of the International Film Festival of India (IFFI), which was held in Bangalore in 1992, where Piravi was screened. Around the same time, this writer had been affected by accounts of the custodial death of P. Rajan, an engineering student in Kerala during the Emergency in 1976. Rajan’s body was never recovered. The case came to symbolise state excesses during the Emergency and eventually led to the resignation of the then Chief Minister, K. Karunakaran.

It was in this context that the first question was put to Shaji, about the impulse behind Piravi. His response was reflective and precise. “After nearly 14 years of working as a cinematographer for various filmmakers, I felt it was time to change lanes,” he said. “Even while I was beginning to understand the importance of the auteur-director at the Institute, I was drawn towards direction. What disturbed me deeply was political oppression. A young man had been brutalised by state forces during the Emergency. This came to be known as the Rajan case, though Piravi is not a documentation of that incident.”

“The oppression continues,” he added. “It is not confined to India; it exists across the world. Unless a human being can pull strings, unless he wields clout, he is nobody. That was the impulse behind Piravi. The film asks whether politics is truly meant for public good, or whether it has become a sham. The new generation, in particular, no longer believes that governments work for the greatest good of the greatest number.”

Shaji repeatedly acknowledged the role of writer Jayachandran in giving him the confidence to make his first film. “Jayachandran gave me the courage to begin Piravi. If I owe a debt for the film to anyone, it is to him and to no one else,” he said. The script, he recalled, was revised four times before filming began.

During the shoot, Shaji paid particular attention to sound, attempting to incorporate details often overlooked such as the soft patter of rain. “Sound is one aspect of cinema that is still developing,” he observed. “But then cinema itself is a young art form when compared to others. Whether audio or visual, cinema has limitless possibilities.”

Piravi, he realised in the process, also clarified something fundamental for him as a filmmaker. “I understood that the human factor cannot be ignored. It is as important — if not more — than the milieu. The emotions of the characters one creates are like the colours a painter uses on a canvas. And these emotions, these colours, are universal. They are the same everywhere. Perhaps that is why international audiences were able to relate to my film without barriers.”

Creator of profound images

This writer was also curious to know why Shaji chose cinematography at a time when most FTII graduates aspired to become actors or directors. The filmmaker, then young, responded with a gleeful recollection of his formative years: “I read Malayalam literature while travelling from Perinad to Quilon to borrow books from a panchayat-run lending library,” he said. “I read everything written by Thakazhi Sivasankara Pillai and O. V. Vijayan. My acquaintance with cinema came relatively late. The first film I clearly remember watching was the Malayalam film Sita. It introduced me to larger-than-life images and made me wonder about what lay beyond the visible frame.” Wouldn’t it be wonderful,” he mused, “if one could photograph a gust of wind, or a breeze moving across a landscape?”

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Another influence, he recalled, was Babu, his brother-in-law. “We spoke often about what we saw around us: the rain, the rivers. We would imagine how raindrops or flowing water might sound if one heightened those sensations. That sense of heightening was what drew me to David Lean’s films.” Among Lean’s works, The Bridge on the River Kwai remained the most powerful for him, followed by Doctor Zhivago and Ryan’s Daughter. “I loved the interplay between human endeavour and physical terrain in those films,” he said.

Though he initially went on to study chemistry at University College, it was cinema — the prospect of creating images for the screen — that ultimately claimed him. “Even when I took still photographs, I avoided shooting people. I was drawn instead to landscapes and nature. Perhaps that is why, when I shoot a film, I search for hidden moods and try to uncover what others often overlook.”

He joined the FTII to deepen this interest, enrolling as a cinematography student in the class of 1984. One film, in particular, left a lasting impression. “Akira Kurosawa’s Red Beard showed me the immense potential of cinema as a visual medium — its ability to establish a profound emotional connection with the viewer.” Even today, he said, he could trace the contributions of cinematographers such as Freddie Young to David Lean’s films, and recognise the decisive role of camerawork in Tarkovsky’s Mirror, Stalker and Nostalghia.

Recalling a more recent conversation with Shaji, Vidyashankar noted that his stature was established well before his directorial debut. “It was through his technical and creative interventions as a cinematographer in the films of the eminent, experimental and visually daring filmmaker G. Aravindan,” he says. “Almost all of Aravindan’s films are known for their strong and unconventional visual narratives, and it was Shaji who made this possible. Creating visual equivalents for a script’s ideas is, after all, the cinematographer’s responsibility.”

When Shaji began directing his own films in 1988, and continued after Aravindan’s passing in 1991, he was quickly recognised as a creator of profound images, prompting some to draw parallels with Robert Bresson. “Shaji is no more,” Vidyashankar concludes, “but he will live on through his own films and through the films of Aravindan. However, his whispering, tentative voice — so full of warmth — will be sorely missed.”