AVM Saravanan: The Last Of The Studio Men

As a film producer, AVM Saravanan was legendary for his punctuality and military-like strictness regarding schedules. In an industry known for 'Indian Standard Time,' AVM functioned on near precision. Perhaps it is no wonder that the legendary film personality has passed away exactly a day after his 86th birthday.

Born on December 3, 1939, and passing away in Chennai on December 4, it was almost as if he was tallying time with his life, ensuring the schedule was met, the shift was over, and the pack-up was announced after the cycle was complete.

The weight of the three letters

Born M Saravanan, he was the son of the doyen AV Meiyappan Chettiar. Yet, to the world and the industry, he was simply 'AVM Saravanan.' He was acutely aware of the legacy of the three letters that preternaturally prefixed his name. He operated with the constant consciousness that he must never harm the interests of the cinema enterprise his father had conjured up as a pioneer in 1934, back when Indian cinema was still finding its voice.

The AVM family is a vast one. The patriarch had two wives and sired six daughters and five sons. Yet, none became more synonymous with the studio's modern era, nor more respected, than Saravanan. This reputation did not happen by chance. Saravanan worked for it sedulously from the moment he formally stepped into his father's studio as a teenager on April 9, 1958.

His peak professional years (spanning the 1960s through the late 1980s) marked the zenith of the studio era in Tamil Nadu. It is no exaggeration to say that under Saravanan's watch, the four pillars of Tamil cinema (MGR, Sivaji Ganesan, Rajinikanth, and Kamal Haasan) cemented their stature as the biggest box-office stars. It was AVM, and by extension Saravanan, that gave them their commercial cachet.

Commerce, the king

In Anbe Vaa (1966), Saravanan broke the mould of MGR's 'revolutionary' image, presenting him in a glossy, romantic, fun entertainer (inspired by Roman Holiday), proving MGR could be the king of colour and style.

For Sivaji Ganesan's 125th film, Uyarndha Manidhan (1968), Saravanan ensured a production value that matched the actor's prestige, delivering a silver jubilee hit that remains a textbook on family drama.

With Rajinikanth, it was Saravanan who bankrolled Murattu Kaalai (1980), the film that truly transitioned Rajinikanth from a stylistic actor to an invincible mass hero, introducing the 'Superstar' aura. And decades later, he would produce Sivaji: The Boss (2007), pushing the boundaries of Tamil cinema's budget and scale.

For Kamal Haasan, with Sakalakala Vallavan (1982), Saravanan proved that the method actor Kamal could also be the ultimate mass commercial hero, a move that expanded Kamal's market exponentially.

To be sure, the AVM banner has given many other memorable hits for these stars, but none more effulgent and important than these four milestone movies in their career.

He worked with all the top stars of the time over decades, and aside from the above-named one, he had done films with the likes of Prem Nazir, NT Rama Rao, Akkineni Nageswara Rao and Chiranjeevi in various South Indian languages and Hindi.

The self-effacing servant of cinema

Despite having a hand in chiselling these superstardoms, Saravanan always downplayed his influence. With typical self-effacement, he talked up the stars and the directors. He viewed himself merely as a servant of the production house from his first film till his last. "It is not Saravanan alone. Filmmaking is a team effort," he often recalled, highlighting the contributions of his brothers (Kumaran, Balasubramanian) and later his son, MS Guhan.

Also, he never failed to invoke his father, whom he saw as the true trailblazer. "Dad's career was dotted with many pioneering efforts. Besides production and direction, introduction of playback singing and dubbing of films made in other languages and releasing them after adding some innovative touches, made my father stand apart," Saravanan would say, positioning himself simply as the custodian of that flame.

He authored four books, all related to cinema and his life (Muyrachi Thiruvinaiyakkum, Manathil Nirkum Manithargal, AVM 60 and Naanum Cinemavum). The last one was a compilation of a series of articles that he had penned for a Tamil daily. A bit puzzled by its title Naanum Cinemavum (I and Cinema), which was quite unlike him (to put himself ahead of the industry), I asked him why. Saravanan smiled avuncularly, and replied "because the title Cinemavum Naanum (Cinema and Me) is already taken." (It is the title of the book penned by director Mahendran).

The AVM formula

Clad always in a loosely stitched, spotless white shirt and white pants, with his arms often folded at his chest, Saravanan projected simplicity in both appearance and deed. His journey began as a production executive on the Sivaji Ganesan starrer Deivapiravi (1960). The film was a massive commercial success.

Impelled by this, a young Saravanan wanted to remake it in Hindi. Sivaji Ganesan advised against it, arguing that the film's heavy Tamil sentiments would not translate well to a North Indian audience. Undeterred, Saravanan prevailed upon his father to produce the Hindi remake, Bindya (1960), starring Balraj Sahni. The movie tanked.

Saravanan candidly recalled in his memoirs that he should have listened to the wise words of Sivaji. Having tasted both success and failure in his debut year, he never took the audience for granted again.

It became his life-long dictum. Cinema may be art, but for a studio to survive, it must be commerce first. AVM films, especially under his stewardship, followed a clear formula. Good songs, strong emotions, clear-cut morals, action, comedy, a touch of glamour (sometimes crass, occasionally glorious), and above all, something that 'worked'.

You went to an AVM film knowing exactly what you were getting. It was dependable cinema. Unpretentious. Solid.

The producer's creed

Saravanan's cinema era was also concomitant with the slow demise of the major studios that ruled the roost for decades in Tamil cinema. AVM under Saravanan, however, stuck to its formula of reliable commercial fare, and this pragmatism ensured AVM's longevity. Unlike rivals that eventually faded, AVM has remained a household name, its logo a guarantee of entertainment.

Critics often called AVM movies low-brow, but Saravanan didn't mind it. Until the glitzy 2000s arrived, AVM, even as the biggest producer in the South, wasn't afraid of being 'thrifty.' The financially prudent Naatukottai Chettiar that he always was, Saravanan disliked splurging on on-screen ostentation unless the script demanded it.

It was not in his genes to waste money. Every rupee, whether it is visible on the screen or not, had to be in the box office returns. 'Saving art' and 'chasing cinema movement' were not for him. Saravanan was almost an accountant of cinema. His singular mission was to protect the name his father had built with effort.

That responsibility was handed to him in almost biblical terms.

In a quiet, solemn moment, the elder AVM reportedly called his sons to his room. He pointed to the AVM insignia on the silver shield of their hit Hindi film Bhabhi (1957) and said: "These are not merely three letters. They represent 50 years of my hard work. Continue making films if you can. Even if not profitable, keep the studio alive. That alone will make me happy."

Dignified till the end

Whether his brothers took those words seriously or not, Saravanan took them as sacred duty. Even when disputes fractured the family and AVM had to be divided, not once, but three times, Saravanan maintained his dignity and poise and kept the production house running. Drama was for his movies. In life, he was the opposite. That is why AVM is still standing even after 75 years and 175 movies.

But more recent internal family fallouts, involving one of his granddaughters which necessitated splitting assets and rebranding AVM Productions to AVM Studios to ward off further losses, took a toll on Saravanan's health that was already fragile due to old age.

A sensitive man beneath the stern exterior, he retreated from public view, hurting inside but maintaining his stoic dignity outside. As his health further impeded his movement, he focused on setting up the AVM Heritage Museum, ensuring that even if the cameras stopped rolling, the history would remain.

In the end, AVM Saravanan was more than a producer. He was the timekeeper of Tamil cinema, ensuring that the legacy of his father endured, that stars found their commercial footing, and that the AVM logo continued to spin.

Punctual to the very end, he has signed off like one of his productions. No unnecessary drama or no excess show. Just a quiet, dignified fade to black.