Don has a fascinating way of storytelling. He starts from the roots, the seemingly inconsequential encounter, a gesture or a movement from where it all began. If he had to narrate the history of the locomotive, he might start with a description of a virgin forest, the official deliberation that led to the laying of the first railway track, the cutting down of the first tree… He does not change his tone or make dramatic pauses, yet, at some point, the audience finds themselves hit by a wave of intensity they had not seen coming. In 1956 Central Travancore, a man travelling through a forest meets a woman in a treehouse. Out of the blue, he starts to narrate a story. It appears absurd and random until he reaches the tail end when boundless possibilities start crawling out of the account. Suddenly, the storyteller seems taller than before, thanks to the dangerous secrets he holds.
In Family, the filmmaker is the proverbial storyteller, the possessor of the dark secrets. He notes down every minor tremor that slowly gathers momentum over the narrative. His camera – a fly on the wall – quietly watches the central character, Sony (Vinay Forrt), a young teacher and the community’s favourite do-gooder, sneak into families, quietly pick his prey, and make the smoothest exit. His victims do not complain or even fathom what they underwent because the violence in Family is slow-building, one that might manifest in the long term in different, catastrophic forms.
