Movies like Vallidaru Okate stay with you long after the actual experience. Like a nightmare or a bad order of prawns. Even after you’ve staggered out of the theater and reached home safely, you know that on some level a part of you is still sitting there in that dark hall watching the horror spool on and on.
Vallidaru Okate is made up of really loud songs that seem to revolve largely around getting someone pregnant. This is also the central theme for most of the comedy. Second most popular ingredient is the grinding of the hips. Grind, grind, grind. This is, we assume, an effort to emulate the act of sex. We’re not sure which species has sex like that, but it has to be one with extremely muscular hips.
After everyone’s done dancing and laughing, the hero falls in love with the heroine because she alone of all the girls in the world refrains from bashing his face in for being an almighty twit. They fall in love, spurning family bonds. You’d think the respective families would be ecstatic, but instead they go to war. Not the boy’s family, just the girl’s. And here we’re treated to a liberal dose of magic element number three: the beating up of the womenfolk. Sock, grunt, wham, grunt, thump, grunt. Okay that’s done, now what else do the masses get off on? How about some family sentiment?
So the father of the boy obligingly beats his (father’s) head on the wall repeatedly and cries for his doomed son. Okay, what else? Chase scene, fights, the spilling of the hero’s blood, quick song-and-dance (during which the heroine is impregnated thrice), more chases, some woman dies, more blood, heroine has a gun. In her shining moment of glory, the heroine strikes terror in the hearts of the baddies as she waves the gun around like a windmill and utters some very touching dialogue about the long-lasting qualities of true love. Everyone backs off while, blood-soaked and victorious, the couple limps sorely into the sunset.
You get to leave too. But remember that when you wake up in the middle of the night, screaming and drenched in sweat, there won’t be anything there to comfort you. Only the sock-wham-grind-grunt of a tortured reel.