My acquaintance with Kannada cinema has been, I confess, both slight and serendipitous. It is not a world I sought out deliberately, but one into which I occasionally stumbled—much like a child wandering into a garden he did not know existed, only to find its fragrance unforgettable.
In my earliest memory of this curious world, I found myself an onlooker to the formation of Suprabhatha, a film helmed by Dinesh Babu. The producer, a dear friend of our family, allowed us glimpses into its nascent stages. The film itself—modest in scope—was woven around the life of a gas filling station, its narrative held together by the presence of only two principal actors: Vishnuvardhan and Suhasini Mani Rathnam. Yet, despite its simplicity, it hummed with the kind of quiet sincerity that often eludes grander productions.
I was but a child then, too young to grasp the mechanics of cinema, yet not too young to be enchanted by its process. The house would fill with music and conversation, for the cast and crew often paid visits. Among them was the drummer Shivamani, whose rhythm, both in music and in manner, etched itself lastingly upon my young imagination. Though I could not have articulated it then, I knew I was witnessing the convergence of many minds and hands upon a single, shared dream. That film, I am told, became a milestone in Kannada cinema—though for me, it was less about acclaim and more about atmosphere: the peculiar buzz that lingers when creation is underway.
Years passed, and the name Girish Kasaravalli came to the fore. His film Haseena drew my family to a private screening. Yet, as though in a plot twist written by the gods of domestic mischief, we had to leave the theatre before the first frame could flicker. Our newly appointed maid had absconded, leaving us to unravel the mystery of her disappearance instead of the director’s narrative.
It was not until 2008 that Kannada cinema reappeared on my personal horizon. I was in Gandhi Nagar, visiting a long-lost friend, when I found myself surrounded by posters—dozens of them—each vying for attention like street performers on a crowded square. Many were forgettable, some surprisingly artful. But one, in particular, stood out. It bore the image of Sammir Dattani—also known by his regional moniker, Dhyaan—the romantic lead whom Kannada audiences had come to adore.
There was something in that poster—a freshness, an aesthetic precision—that compelled me to act. I took out my phone and sent Sammir a brief message, expressing my delight in seeing his face among the pantheon of other stars, many of whom struck me as oddly cast. Some seemed too aged, others prematurely youthful. Some had charm without depth, others depth without charm. But Sammir—ah, Sammir—he possessed that rare fusion of presence and prowess, a harmony not often encountered in the cinematic realm.
No sooner had the message been marked as delivered than the phone rang. It was Sammir himself. He was, at that very moment, boarding a flight from Bombay to Bangalore, and informed me that the premiere of the very film whose poster had caught my eye was to be held at INOX that evening at six. “Come,” he said. “I’ll see you there.”
I hedged, of course. I knew hardly a word of Kannada, and even less of navigating a crowd of strangers. But Sammir had, as always, a gentleness of persuasion that made refusal feel almost churlish. And so, I surrendered.
That evening I found myself at INOX, where Sammir stood surrounded by admirers, a constellation of camera flashes erupting around him. Others mingled and posed, clearly at ease in this world of lights and lenses. I stood with my friend Prathibha, attempting to remain inconspicuous, when Sammir approached with a mischievous grin.
“Do you even know the name of my film?” he asked.
I offered a sheepish smile, revealing my ignorance.
“Neene Neene,” he said, eyes twinkling, “not a difficult name to remember. Even my Bombay friends got it right this time.”
A few moments later, with the practiced air of one who knows how to orchestrate a room, Sammir announced that the film was about to begin.
If one were to reduce Neene Neene to a single word—always a perilous business—it would surely be romantic. Not merely in its theme, but in its very essence: the music, the mannerisms, the motives of its characters are all dipped in the saccharine hues of sentimental affection.
The story opens on a hopeful note with Abhishek (played by Dhyaan), an earnest young man, receiving an award for best employee—a moment he shares with his mother in a flourish not unlike the grand gestures of a certain Shahrukh Khan. We are then spirited away to a café where he meets a friend, and together they indulge in that universal male pastime: pontificating on life and the puzzling creatures that are women. This carefree banter is interrupted by Nandini (Aishwarya Nag), whose indignant call accuses Abhishek of frivolous flirtation via telephone. And so begins a volley of calls and text messages—today’s curious form of courtship—which in no time blossoms into a friendship, and from there, rather swiftly, into love.
That, as they say, is only the beginning. The speed with which events unfold is almost vertiginous. One moment they are strangers, the next, confidants; scarcely has the audience settled into the comfort of their companionship when Abhishek is already offering his heart. And while one might wish for a slower burn, there is a certain charm in the unapologetic momentum.
What held my attention, however, was not so much the storyline as the character of Nandini, who is—at least for the better part of the film—rendered with a refreshing steadiness. Her portrayal, lighted with sincerity, turns a little melodramatic in the second half, where she is cast in the familiar mould of the self-sacrificing martyr. Still, she fares better than most.
Of particular note is the subtle performance of Ananth Nag as Nandini’s father. His role, though brief, possesses a quiet dignity. One scene especially lingers in the mind: the father, upon realising that someone has remembered his daughter’s birthday before he could, notices her wearing a bracelet gifted by Abhishek. Without drama or reprimand, he proposes—in the gentlest of tones—that she should marry a young man from London. Observing the tremor of her expression, he draws her aside and, with paternal tenderness, concedes: he shall arrange the marriage with Abhishek, on the condition that she stand by her husband through all trials, and never return to her father seeking refuge. She consents. And so begins a union that is soon tested, not by lack of love, but by the complexities of financial strain—a noble young man’s attempt to give his beloved the comforts of her former life becomes, alas, his undoing.
The film, though imperfect, has the virtue of sincerity. Many of its scenes feel honest, its emotional chords struck without force. Yet, it must be said that the narrative meanders at times. Certain characters appear as if conjured from thin air—chief among them a friend who emerges mid-second act, fights off some miscreants, and then vanishes, only to reappear at the film’s conclusion. The plot, like an old clock, occasionally ticks unevenly.
What was most jarring, however, was the shift in Abhishek’s character. He who had been energetic and endearing is suddenly cast in a darker hue, taking out his frustrations upon his wife. One cannot help but feel that the true villain should have been circumstance, not Abhishek himself. The director missed a chance here to deepen rather than distort his protagonist.
As a debut, however, director Shivadwaj makes a commendable foray. Sri Muruli’s musical compositions serve the lyrics, though they are not memorable in themselves. Dinesh Babu’s cinematography is deft, often elevating the material with a painterly eye. Sharan, as the friend, is a bright spot—not merely comic relief, but a pillar of loyalty to Abhishek.
Dhyaan is quite splendid. He possesses that rare combination of grace and emotional truth, the sort of actor who communicates as much with a glance as with dialogue. His smile disarms; his eyes reveal. One hopes future directors recognise and make full use of this expressive capacity. Aishwarya Nag, on the other hand, is a work in progress. Though sincere, she lacks the finesse that might have rendered her more believable as Abhishek’s beloved. At times, she appears more an elder sister than a romantic equal. A gentler presence might have better suited the role.
The film’s final act borders on the absurd, particularly when Abhishek, in a fit of despair, attempts suicide with a loosely slung bag over his shoulder. One is tempted to laugh—and indeed, I did. Unable to restrain my amusement, I texted Sammir in the theatre: “Why must one attempt suicide carrying a bag, bro?” His reply was immediate and disarming: “Haha, it’s just a movie, bro.”
And so it is. Neene Neene is, in the end, a film of diffident ambitions and heartfelt efforts. Though uneven in execution, it possesses a warmth and relatability that redeems its flaws. A family entertainer, no doubt, and one that leaves the viewer, if not profoundly moved, at least pleasantly entertained.
