Sins of the past can be washed off with a heavenly character and a good story. Painfully, though, Daivathinte Swantham Cleetus (God’s Own Cleetus) is crucified through bad execution.
A priest discovers Cleetus (Mammootty) in a pious pose, and tempts him with a sufficient amount of cash to play the role of Jesus. Minutes after landing on the sets, though, Cleetus shows his true color. One of the artistes steals his bottle of liquor, so he bashes up ‘the twelve disciples’.
I quite liked the wardrobe and the hair makeup. Attired in a full-length white garment under a red mantle thrown over one of the shoulders, bearded, and with long, flowing hair, this not-so-pious fellow has a striking resemblance to the mass-circulated pictures of the Christ. So much so that when he smiles and raises his palm, everyone folds their hands in prayer.
The virtuous idea that a terrible sinner can be purified when immersed in goodness is at least as old as Christianity. And it is emphasized by having a criminal unwittingly chosen to play Jesus. The fearless protagonist, humble only before God and a priest, has a striking resemblance to the laughing, happy-face, knife-wielding Christians from the coastal belt. But this script is damned by its silly subplots, meant-to-be-funny dialogues, and other vices.
It would be unholy to talk about the “cinematography” or the work on the editing table. Many of the images, incidentally, are chopped up and sewed back with a dissolve. The fights are hopeless too. It’s not just the thugs that call for a scrap. The deputy superintendent of police too wants to enter the fray. At this point, even the otherwise nice priest utters something very un-Christian and his eyes shine with a diabolic gleam.
Mammootty, true to his caliber, changes his act according to the situation. With his hair tied back in a neat bundle, huge frame, angry eyes, and slow, menacing advance, he comes across as a Samurai warrior. As Jesus, he’s, well, divine. With his grin, underpants sticking out, and raised hairy legs, he’s the image of a village moron.
G. Marthandan’s debut is far from the kind of film that can resurrect a megastar on the wane. Fans from around this part of the country, nowadays, pretty much have their heads firmly on their shoulders. So, you can be sure that they aren’t going to beat their chest and cry even if their beloved idol is nailed to the cross or martyred.
