The first half of 23 is pacey. While the plot moves briskly, the writer-director also keeps us hooked to the story in other ways. The narrative never lets us forget Sagar’s social status even before he is arrested. There are multiple moments where we can see Sagar and Das getting swatted away from places, be it a small paan shop or a police station. Their presence remains unwarranted everywhere. Be it the way Das is handed over money by a cop, or how Chandra’s bar membership privileges are instantly revoked at the court cafeteria, these visuals of discrimination make a strong imprint. In a chilling visual, a few upper-caste men casually stroll into a Dalit’s courtyard, before setting the house on fire. It’s not the violent act that stuns you, but how casually they walk away afterwards — there are no fervent warcry chants, no aggression. For them, killing someone comes as easily as walking.
Raj R also spends sufficient screentime capturing Sagar and Susheela’s lives at their dayjobs. There is a quiet dignity to these visuals. Someone seeking a crisper narrative would have done away with these scenes, but the Mallesham filmmaker recognises the value here, in the visuals of these factories and mills, with hundreds of people toiling away, underlining the significance of the blue-collar class which remain essential to the functioning of the society, irrespective of their social standing.
When we think of ambitious film making, we think of films with a mammoth production scale, countless junior artists, projects that require a lot of talent management. 23’s ambitions, while of a different kind, are equally daunting. The second half of the film, set almost entirely within a prison, touches upon plenty of issues that are both noble and poignant at once. There is only one larger conflict at play here — whether Sagar and Das will be sentenced to death. However, the plot doesn’t move in a single direction. Instead, we are made privy to slivers of the humane condition in its myriad ways. Under a larger umbrella of exploring characters, Raj R makes space for many interesting segments — a police officer who is equally burdened by guilt as he is with goodness, in his endeavours to reform criminals. There is a convict who remains haunted by the grave repercussions of his crimes. Another inmate confesses to substance abuse, for it’s the only thing that helps him deal with his trauma. During a casual interaction, a jovial prisoner (Thagabothu Ramesh) admits to feelings of irredeemable self-hatred for several years. When a tough prisoner admits to feeling emotional as he looks at his inmate walking to the gallows, his friend admits he just can’t bring himself to cry — that’s how much his life has hardened him emotionally. 23 is obviously preachy in its narrative, almost assuming a documentary-like form in some of its scenes — but it’s also emotionally overwhelming to see such complex and empathetic exploration of humanity.