From sharply satirical cartoons to pure adulation to anonymous memes: tracing the political iconography of Tamil Nadu

hen the floods devastated Chennai early this year, there was a lot of controversy around the ‘Amma’ stickers that AIADMK (All India Anna Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam) party workers slapped on all relief material. Online, though, everyone was dissolving in laughter because someone had cleverly created a meme that showed Prime Minister Narendra Modi boarding a plane to leave Chennai, unaware that an ‘Amma’ sticker had been pasted on his back as well.

In a State ruled by larger-than-life figures and their larger-than-life images, suddenly it is the quick and sneaky political meme that rules. This is a major change in the visual language of politics that Tamil Nadu has seen over the last many decades where the close connection between rulers and cinema has meant that political imagery has always been overpowering and glitzy. Now, changing public sensibilities and the ubiquity of smartphones and the Internet appears to have impacted not just socio-political behaviour but political iconography too.

This evolution is worth exploring because if, as Marshall McLuhan famously said, the medium is indeed the message, then the change in iconography might well be the harbinger of other changes to come.

Mostly created by unknown youngsters with pseudonyms such as Meme Maams, Kathi, Cookie Kumar, Tight Mohan, etc., the memes borrow heavily from film songs and dialogues. They are spliced with real photos to create short clips or pictures that spread like wildfire online. The main target this year has been film star Vijayakant aka Captain who has become, for the first time in decades, a third chief ministerial choice in the typically two-pronged contest in the State. To parody his ambitions, there’s a still photo of him in tears taken from one of his films and a caption that says he’s crying because he thought Game of Thrones was only a game.

Because of their anonymity, the memes spare nobody — from Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam’s (DMK) M. Karunanidhi and his son Stalin to Chief Minister Jayalalithaa, to new aspirant Vijayakant and Pattali Makkal Katchi’s (PMK) Anbumani Ramadoss, everyone is a target. The creators are not directly affiliated to any political party but sometimes it’s a politician who picks up the tab for their work. According to a recent report in The Hindu , they could be paid as much as Rs. 1 lakh for a really good meme. As a result, the political meme has become the most democratic visual tool today, breaking the hegemony of cash and clout over physical spaces.

Interestingly, the three chief ministerial aspirants occupy distinct graphical spaces in the public imagination. From Karunanidhi who once ruled hand-painted wall graffiti, to Jayalalithaa who is synonymous with gigantic banners, and now Vijayakant who has emerged as the undisputed king of Internet memes.

The 1970s and 80s saw an extraordinarily rich visual landscape of politics, when M.G. Ramachandran (MGR) and Karunanidhi were at the peak of their rivalry. Pictures taken by artist Dashrath Patel and photographer-journalist Sadanand Menon, of campaign graffiti of the period, show a series of wickedly funny and sharply satirical cartoons. The humour was raw and earthy and the canvas was the city’s walls, often pre-booked by the two parties. Each side exposed the scandals of the other. “It was the rape of the citizen held up before their eyes for their own entertainment,” says Menon. It was irony at its best. “Today,” he quips, “they might earn their creators a defamation or sedition case!”

In that era, however, the cultural background of the Dravidian movement meant that leaders were respectful of editorial spaces and the form and content of each space. Symbolism was used sharply. The rising sun, the two leaves, classical Tamil, MGR’s dark glasses and woolly cap, Karunanidhi’s dark glasses and curly hair — all these were their stock in trade. Clearly, the Dravidian parties had mastered the art of ‘indexical’ sign language. As American philosopher Charles Sanders Peirce said, indexical signs — films, videos, personal trademarks — require almost no knowledge of convention to make an impact.

The vibrant imagery was also, of course, the result of the Dravidian movement’s deep roots in cinema, publishing and writing. “They were on the cutting edge of image-building and promotion. They had strong in-house teams and also used art students to transmit party messages boldly and effectively,” says Menon.

Then came the age of the colossal cut-outs. Art historian Preminda Jacob has written about the extravagant advertising that’s the signature of Tamil cinema, and it was in the 1940s that the first film cut-outs appeared on Chennai streets. Fittingly, it was superstar MGR’s protégé Jayalalithaa who took this and perfected it into the giant political cut-out. In the 1990s, Chennai’s skyline was defined not only by massive cinema posters but also by competing cut-outs and banners of Jayalalithaa and Karunanidhi, sometimes reaching heights of 80 feet or more. Soon, these were replaced by the equally in-your-face vinyl banners, which continue to reign despite a ban.

But with increasing size, the sense of humour proportionately decreased. In fact, far from being lampooned, politicians began to assume god-like forms and the language changed from satire to adulation. The first artists hired to paint banners were those who made calendar paintings of gods and goddesses, so it wasn’t surprising they catapulted their new subjects to the status of deities. More important, politicians themselves began to believe they were gods, and just as coconuts are broken on posters during a Rajinikanth film release, politicians and their banners began to be worshipped.

The lampooning of earlier days seems unimaginable today. In the ensuing humourless milieu, even the rather tame hits that the DMK took on Jayalalithaa this year were received with glee. DMK borrowed the punchline, “Ennamma, ipdi panreengalemma” (loosely translated as ‘What Amma? How can you do this?’), from a Tamil reality show and plastered it across full-page ads to address different complaints about the AIADMK regime.

As Joker might ask, ‘Why so sad’? Says writer and political commentator Gnani, “Political parties and political culture has become corporatised; they now hire advertising and public relations agencies to run their campaigns. They are more interested in brand positioning now.” Interestingly, where Gnani sees the bigger loss in humour is in the classic print cartoon. “Young and creative people are moving to cinema now, not to print media. Magazine cartoons are neither funny nor punchy as they were in the 60s and 70s.”

The memes might be funny but they rarely attack ideology or make a point with cutting wit. On the other end, of course, we have the worshipful vinyls. “AIADMK has only one layer to its campaign,” says Gnani, “and that is the projection of ‘Amma’ as god.” This clearly leaves no room for humour or satire.

But is a shrinking sense of humour the main reason for the lack of political punchlines? To quote McLuhan again, if the characteristics of the medium affect the message, then today’s quick and ephemeral parodies probably suit the fleeting attention span that the Internet encourages.

Also, as Menon points out, the best cartoons derive their humour by pitting ideologies against each other. In Tamil Nadu, the two major parties have marginal ideological differences. And with both facing allegations of rampant corruption, there is no moral high ground that either can occupy. In these unfunny days, all we can do is smile and bear it.

COVER

The political meme has helped to break the hegemony of cash and clout over physical spaces