Clearly, Rathna Kumar is a poet. You see it in the chapter titles. You see it in how the protagonist Sathya (Vidhu) describes Viji’s (Preethi Asrani) lips: ‘Thiruppi potta Thirukkural.’ You see it in how Rathna films a song around the beauty of physical intimacy, and in how he seems particularly interested in the woman’s individual expression (she did take the initiative, after all). You see it in how the film points out that a year feels much, much longer when 29 is headed towards 30. And ultimately, of course, you see it in how the film culminates in a beautiful poem (that’s set up so well too). The chief quality of a poet is an eye for beauty. Perhaps that’s why Viji says about Sathya (and perhaps indirectly about Rathna too): ‘Rasigan da nee.’

I enjoyed these poetic flourishes coursing through the veins of 29. There’s commentary about loneliness, particularly in Sathya’s case, and how love can arrive suddenly like rain over barren land. It’s understandable then that Sathya’s entire identity gets defined by Viji (‘azhagaana ponnukku aal apdingardhudhaan ennoda adayaalam’); there’s romance, but there’s desperation too. I got the feeling that the film is speaking about generational shifts too. Sathya is 29; Viji is 21. Sathya’s purpose is to be Viji’s permanent person… Viji, meanwhile, wants to preserve individuality even within love. These are such intricate emotional spaces, and the film is brave for taking them on.

There’s a lovely montage ending with Viji’s mother waking her up, almost as though the film were suggesting that the spell of romance has worn off. But strangely enough, what follows is an awkward kiss in a workspace with an entire office cheering for them. Around the same stretch comes another strange moment during a serious conversation. When Sathya is asked, ‘Periyavanaana piragu enna aaganumnu aasai patta?’ he replies, ‘Theriyala, periyavanaaganum nu aasa patten.’ The line may be true, but the film treats it as a joke, quickly releasing the emotional tension. The easily-angered Sathya too makes a horrible remark about Viji’s family, and it becomes increasingly difficult to root for him. All these are reasons why 29 seems to work best in fragments: in beautiful stretches, passing exchanges, standalone moments of emotional poetry.

I really liked Preethi Asrani as Viji. One scene specifically comes to mind. There’s a beach ‘proposal’ scene with many things working for it: character intimacy, ordinary life casually existing around Sathya and Viji, Sathya’s observations about sounds on a beach. At one point though, I wasn’t entirely convinced by the choice to make Viji a touch too screechy and childlike, but Preethi commits fully. Just after, Sean Roldan arrives with the gorgeous ‘Poo Paadal’, which carries such a profound lack of hurry that it almost asks us to pause and revel alongside Sathya and Viji.

There’s a lot happening inside 29, a lot to unravel and solve. There’s the central love story. There’s Sathya’s identity crisis. There are parental tensions for both characters. There’s a lake revival movement involving activism and desilting, with Sathya taking on politically powerful enemies. Which means the film has a prison fight, revenge beats, and at one point, even the threat of murder. Unfortunately, much of this, particularly that last angle, seems to dilute the soul of the film (the Sathya-Viji relationship). I thought some joke attempts got in the way too.

But. There’s something deeply comforting about watching a film about two real people with real problems (even if Sathya may feel a tad inconsistent). Our usual cinema is so concerned with grand issues that it forgets that universes exist not just outside of individuals, but within them too. In its best moments, 29 allows us insight into two well-meaning but complicated hearts… not the decorative hearts found on greeting cards, but the anatomical kind, filled with scars, blocks, and irregular rhythms. That’s why when Sathya draws a heart on sand, he’s busy drawing it with aortas and ventricles, as though the film were reminding us that beauty can be found in the real and the complex too.

And that is why films like 29 are important, for the portions that work provide you with such original joys. Take the scene where Sathya berates Viji for forgetting their meeting. She becomes so apologetic, so genuinely shaken that she admits she has never really known how to speak to men because she has no experience at all. Usually, cinema gives us the opposite: men proudly declaring that they don’t understand women. Here though, Viji says it not defensively, not accusatorily, but with genuine remorse over having hurt this man. When a film provides for such tender moments, even if it doesn’t work cohesively as a whole, it still leaves you feeling full.