Even early into Anbil Avan, it’s hard to shake off a sense of imminent danger, like dark clouds are gathering over the lives of Surya (Ashok Selvan) and Iyal (Preity Mukhundhan). You get small hints of this, like you would in genre films. Surya and Iyal are driving towards their homestay when they suddenly hit a bird, causing them both to get jolted. There’s another mini jump-scare when Iyal gets startled, only to realise that it’s Surya. Anbil Avan builds mood patiently, painstakingly, and I was totally involved.

The first big sign of danger comes when their four-wheeler gets suddenly intercepted at night, and someone slaps Surya. These men, their unruliness, their aggression… they are presented with scary realism. Iyal jumps out of the car and gets yelled at by Surya who asks her to go back in. You can see Ashok going red in the face, exercising tremendous restraint. Anbil Avan pays attention to such little emotional details, with Ashok supremely impressive as this faultless, loving man. Each time Surya stops himself because it’s the reasonable thing to do, Ashok ensures that we register what it takes for him to curb his anger. So when he eventually smashes a mirror and yells in frustration because he can contain it no longer, I completely understood.

I’m not sure we’ve seen a, as they say it these days, greener forest of a man in Tamil cinema this year. Right in the beginning, after a long day at work, Surya tries to have a romantic moment with his wife, but she falls asleep. It’s yet another night when he’s feeling rejected, but he doesn’t channel that disappointment into self-pity or aggression. He goes in the opposite direction and works towards making her forgotten dream come true. What?! That’s the kind of man Surya is. He gives and gives, and asks for nothing in return except for her happiness (great idea to have him only look at her when they both enter their homestay). I only wish Iyal did a bit more for him.

What makes this film feel fresh within this genre is its understanding of how violation works. Surya waits endlessly in government offices seeking clearance certificates. A dream, as Iyal puts it, slowly turns into a nightmare (which actually feels like the one-line premise of this film). Strangers invade their home. One man casually scrapes dirt from his shoe onto their furniture. Another lifts his thigh and injects himself because he has diabetes. I love that this film gets that you don’t always have to hit someone or verbally abuse them to violate them. Sometimes, all you have to do is act entitled in another home.

This is why one of the best punchlines I’ve heard all year arrives when the local MLA threatens this new resident-couple by declaring, essentially, that the entire town belongs to him. Surya acknowledges that this may well be true and retorts: “But this is my house.” What an idea. I only wish Anbil Avan had trusted this idea more in the action portions. Imagine if the climactic battle had really been built around it. Surya and Iyal know this house in ways their attackers cannot. They have rebuilt it, customised it, lived in it. No guest has even been allowed inside yet. They literally have the home advantage. Every room, every modification, every little detail established earlier could suddenly acquire purpose.

Unfortunately, along the way, the vulnerable Surya becomes almost invulnerable. The fights are shot in cramped spaces, almost like ants running over each other, but it still feels a bit much for Surya. I think this actually is a compliment to everything the film did until then… because I was thoroughly invested in this world, and the threat posed by scary authority figures, including an MLA, a lawyer and the police. So much so that suddenly extending larger-than-life cinematic liberties to Surya felt antithetical to the film I’d seen till then.

There are some other places where the film gets carried away too. An abuser repeatedly gets attacked in the genitals, and then, acid needs to be poured as well. Govind Vasantha’s score underlines Surya’s pain a bit more than necessary with a pathos ‘sad song’. Meanwhile, multiple waves of attackers make it all feel more designed than frightening. And yet, even during all this chaos, Anbil Avan shows a tiny moment that tells you something about its taste. Surya is about to smash a man’s head with a hammer… when he recognises him. He remembers a previous encounter, loses his grip over the hammer, and instead settles for a slap across his face. I loved that choice.

It’s such choices that made me feel quite a bit of affection for this film. For all its grand, chaotic violence at the end, Anbil Avan is at its most affecting when it’s interested in smaller forms of violence: a dirty shoe in the living room, an unwanted stranger putting his arm around Iyal, a politician baring his thigh… The most invested I was in this film was when it was asking the unusual but very real question: how much can you take before you fight back? Like, as Kokki Kumar said in Pudhupettai: “Evlo adippa?! Valikkala!”