Beyond sprawling scale and complex characters, Vetrimaaran’s Viduthalai Part 2 is a coming-of-age journey of an ideology

Now with its sequel, Vetrimaaran not only deepens Soori’s moral dilemma but also shifts the focus to Perumal (Vijay Sethupathi), the leader of the rebel forces. In the first film, Perumal was a mythical presence, rarely seen but constantly spoken of. His aura loomed large, with almost every character fixated on him. Now, the sequel reveals the man behind the myth, the revolutionary behind the terrorist. As the vantage point expands, so does the narrative ambition. Its scale grows exponentially, characters become more layered, and the political commentary more urgent and nuanced. Where the first film depicted a story within some days, Viduthalai Part 2 captures the sweep of time. Where the initial chapter explores the egos and conflicts of low-ranking cops, the sequel ascends to the grand moral struggles of larger-than-life leaders. If the first film offers a foray into Vetrimaaran’s mind, the second plunges deep into his heart.

But beyond its sprawling scale, intercutting timelines, and gray characters, the soul of the film lies in the parallel coming-of-age journeys of two men — Perumal and Kumaresan. It captures how Perumal, once an honest teacher (Vaathiyar), became a rebel. His transformation spans decades, from the late 1950s to the late 1980s, as he moves from one conflict to another, with each battle growing in scale, each choice bearing greater stakes, and each metamorphosis leaving an enduring mark. Through his journey, we encounter many characters — some short-lived, some enduring — each one shaping Perumal into the revolutionary who would lead one of the most incisive uprisings against the establishment.

Some moments are intensely violent, as in a haunting bit where Perumal is mercilessly beaten, only to be awakened by the rain. A baptism of sorts, as if nature herself breathes new life into him. It feels almost poetic that he dedicates the rest of his life in service to the very force that revived him. Other moments are quietly tender. Like how Makkal Padai uses cinema as both weapon and messenger, carrying their ideals across terrains and generations. In one particularly heartwarming moment, in front of a theatre screen, Perumal shares a quiet meal with his wife (Manju Warrier). It had to be cinema. For it is in the glow of its light that revolutions are born, and amidst its shadows that love is rediscovered.

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What’s fascinating is how Perumal’s journey is one of constant evolution. A man who learns and unlearns at every step. He listens to advice from nearly everyone, acknowledges his mistakes without hesitation, and adapts with remarkable speed. So at a crucial juncture, he confronts the unsettling realization that the ideology he spent his life nurturing has become overshadowed by his own spectral presence. The cause he built is now chained to him, its leader, threatening to reduce a collective struggle into the story of one man. In this moment, he understands that it was never meant to be about him. It cannot be about him. What follows is a cinematically rousing moment, one that shifts the film’s central thesis. It reveals that, all along, the true coming-of-age story belonged not to a man but to an ideology. Like truth itself, this ideology is not static: It is fluid, evolving as it encounters resistance, power, and the brutal realities of lived experience. It bends, reshapes, and grows, embodying the malleable nature of revolution.

Despite the film’s macro moments, Vetrimaaran never loses his grip on the story’s heart — Kumaresan. The narrative began with him, and it is destined to end with him. Across six hours of storytelling, marked by heavy exposition, uneven editing, poor dubbing, and ambitious filmmaking, everything leads to a singular point of realisation for Kumaresan. Fittingly, the story circles back to the forest. But this time, the trek is steeper and far more perilous. Nature itself becomes a unifying force, binding everyone — heroes and villains, rebels and enforcers, Perumal and Kumaresan. And as Kumaresan navigates this treacherous path, he is confronted with the weighty questions that the violence and politics have evaded: What is all this for? Who is it meant to serve? Whose lives are worth saving, and whose are to be taken? The film also turns the lens inward, making the spectators realise their own misjudgment in believing that Kumaresan’s arc was complete in Part One. Yes, he changed. But every transformation carries its own contradictions. Picking up the gun was one kind of metamorphosis. Now he must face the deeper question: Can he truly fire it? For true change, lies not in what we learn but in what we unlearn.