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Valavaara (Partiality), directed by Sutan Gowda, is a bittersweet film about a little boy’s relationship with his family and environment. It is among those rare slice-of-life films whose only purpose is to serve you a healthy dose of lived reality. In the recent past, only a handful of Kannada films have been released in this genre — Jeerjimbe (2017), Ondalla Eradalla (2018), Photo (2024), Mithya (2025), and Hebbuli Cut (2025). All of them just let their characters be, and drew the audience into their life.
Valavaara is set in Sakleshpura, the director’s home town, and was shot in his village of Cheeri Chinnahalli. Amid the ebb and flow of the gentle stream of life is the action that comes from a missing pregnant cow and the quest to get her home.
Of late, Kannada films have rarely touched upon generational trauma, sibling rivalry, and partiality within a family. And, when they did, the backdrop was usually urban. It is almost as if we would like to believe the rural landscape is black and white, with hardly a hint of grey — it is usually about sylvan surroundings, and people with a heart of gold or those waiting to pull out their sickles. We tend to gloss-coat people’s struggle to survive and look at the life of a farmer through a romantic lens.
Very rarely do films speak about real issues people in rural areas face, the double whammy of caste and patriarchy, and just the routine drudgery and occasional joy of everyday living.
We don’t realise the barter involved — quickly-signed property papers for nutrient-rich colostrum from a cow that has just birthed; a rooster sold below market value in exchange for a cow tied up in a shelter; a Rs 50 bun with the birthday boy’s name written on it, instead of a Rs 250 cake.
It is in this world of compromise and sacrifice that Kundasi (Vedic Kaushal) grows up. He dotes on his mother (Harshitha Gowda), is terrified of his father (Malathesh HV), is unsure about his feelings for his brother Kosudi (Sayan), and his only friend is Yedhu (Abhay).
The mother protects Kundasi, who often bears the brunt of his father’s anger. Kosudi knows he has his father’s ear, and makes ample use of that, even for a game of cricket outside the house. Like in Mithya, here too, you see that children can be cruel, intentionally. Kosudi might be younger, but holds great power over his brother, because of this reason. The mother veers towards the elder child, figuring ways to ensure he feels loved, even if her neighbour wonders why she needs to enquire about a cake she can ill afford.
Among the more gentle relationships in the movie is the one Kundasi shares with Yedhu. The world, and Kundasi’s mother, think Yedhu is a no-gooder, a thief, but he’s the only one who shows up for Kundasi. The two share a symbiotic relationship — the child does not snitch after he sees Yedhu with his girlfriend by the bushes, and Yedhu steps up for him — there’s no fear of threat, just yet another barter that works.
And, when they decide to steal a rooster, Yedhu eventually returns it, because it is Kundasi’s favourite. There’s a scene with a tad bit of dread — Yedhu keeps sharing an edible powder with Kundasi, and when it is revealed what it is, there’s a smile on our face.
The scenes in the cattle pound, and the modern-day Shylock there – who charges Rs 30 for some hay, and Rs 20 for water when he knows the child is desperate – are when your anxiety creeps up too, because you know what awaits Kundasi if he does not get the cow home.
Sutan writes Kundasi well — despite his fear, he’s also able to let his inner child thrive, he even cracks jokes and is able to pull a fast one on the cattle pound owner, and take home the cow and its calf, even if the colostrum has been milked by the pound owner’s wife.
The father’s character is one I had issues with. This, despite Malathesh HV’s rooted performance that almost makes you feel the anger and hate. The reason why he stays away from Kundasi is reflective of generational trauma, but he does not realise he is re-inflicting it on his son, by not showing affection. Children wilt without love, and that’s something he should know best. Sadly, no one has access to a therapist here, and life’s ordeals do not end or even subside enough for him to think of healing. He holds the anger, hot and smouldering.
The performances are raw, which is why your heart goes out to Kundasi. Harshitha’s fear-filled demeanour speaks of how she’s a victim of her husband’s anger too. Abhay, with his impish smile, is the friend every troubled boy needs.
Balaraj Gowda’s cinematography keeps things real, like the harshness of the day, the panic-filled search during twilight and the gentle quiet of the night. Composer Manikanth Kadri knows when to let the music add value and when to step back and let the sync sound take over. Editor Srikanth SH works well with the material, allowing the scenes to breathe and sink in.
Sutan says he decided to narrate this story, which fuses his many childhood experiences in Cheeri Chinnahalli, without any cinematic liberties, because he wanted it to be real, warts and all. He shot it in sync sound, so you hear the sounds the characters live through — the incessant chatter of the insects, the crunch of feet on grass, the utter stillness of the night…
Sutan says he wanted to focus on the partiality angle, because every home with more than one child goes through this in some form or the other, either in affection or during property division.
Valavaara has received uniformly good reviews, and that is proof yet again that something rooted will strike a chord across the board. Whether this translates into box office success is left to the audience.
For now, Sutan and his team are working hard to get the audience to the theatres. “I narrated this story once to Appu sir (the late Puneeth Rajkumar). He loved it and told me to not slip up in execution. I think I’ve kept that word.”
Subha J Rao is an entertainment journalist covering Tamil and Kannada cinema and is based out of Mangaluru, Karnataka.
Views expressed are the author's own.