P.C. Sreeram’s work socked me like a kick to the balls when I was a kid and now, in a world clogged with noise and hollow spectacle, the blow lands even harder.
He wasn’t interested in pretty. The man was after purpose. Every frame he conjured breathed as if the film itself had a heartbeat. The guy’s a fucking maniac with shadows, and I mean that in the most brilliant way.
I went to meet him—or rather, I made the pilgrimage to his home in Chennai, documenting the roads tracing the path and trying to hold the moment still before reverence kicks in.
He wasn’t interested in pretty. The man was after purpose. Every frame he conjured breathed as if the film itself had a heartbeat. The guy’s a fucking maniac with shadows, and I mean that in the most brilliant way.
I went to meet him—or rather, I made the pilgrimage to his home in Chennai, documenting the roads tracing the path and trying to hold the moment still before reverence kicks in.