Agnyathavasi (Kannada)
There’s an oft-repeated phrase people use after watching certain films — it is “slow.” I didn’t understand it then, I don’t understand it now. Labels help no one. Does life move in real time or at an accelerated pace? The issue of pacing strikes the audience only when they aren’t drawn into the world the director and storyteller have created.
Agnyathavasi (translation: ‘a person in exile’) is a film that insists it will breathe — and wants you to breathe with it. Editor Bharath MC works his charm here. Which is why, despite generally steering clear of thrillers and jump scares, I was drawn into the film’s world — gently, like the fog and the mist of Malnad, where the story is set. The thrills here stem not from the certainty of geography, the reliance on camera angles, or music cues — though Charan Raj’s score is fabulous — but from the possibilities of the human mind.
Agnyathavasi peels itself layer by layer. Some scenes unfurl first on screen, then in your mind, and then on screen again. Because of how it is staged and shot, you remember the layout intimately, allowing you to focus not on where the action takes place, but how and what. After a point, the film’s settings feel familiar — two kitchens, a backyard, a room with a computer, a courtyard, a police station that has never seen action, an imposing gate, and an open cooking space.
Director Janardhan Chikanna, who made his debut with the 2018 Gultoo, uses his team of actors very effectively. You don’t sense them performing, you don’t sense them ‘being’ the character, but they approach the script with an equal amount of distance and closeness, leaving you unsettled, which works very well for the movie. You also can’t see anyone as black or white. Everyone has a hint of grey, or a baggage to carry. Everyone moves at a pace you don’t normally see on screen, because no one is ‘performing’ a part.
At its core, Agnyathavasi, produced by director Hemanth M Rao, Prachura PP, and Jayalakshmi, is about an inspector (Rangayana Raghu is a treasure the Kannada industry is happily tapping into) in a police station that has not seen a case in 25 years. Helping him are Anant (Ravishankar Gowda) and Kumara, all of whom live regular lives and don’t wear the uniform. The inspector is the kind of farmer-cop whose pet rooster takes a ride on the bonnet every day from home to his workplace.
This is a police station that looks ramshackled, possibly lacking a lock-up. The flowers for the deities are plucked personally by Anant, who always leaves one behind for the tree, reverentially placed, and the lamps lit.
Somewhere in the village, a computer makes its way into the home of Rohit (Siddu Moolimani), much to the disdain of his father. There’s even an ode sung to its arrival.
The art design team led by Ullas Hydur can take a bow for those beautiful cardboard boxes with “TVS” printed on them. The joy they evoked in the initial days of home computers!
Everyone thinks the computer is going to cause trouble, and eventually, it does. But is the machine operating on its own? Or are humans with warped minds using it to further their agenda?
One day, an elder of the village, Srinivasaiah (Sharath Lohitashwa), is found dead after a meal. The inspector, who is more a farmer than a police officer, declares the death a murder, and gets ready to send the corpse for a post-mortem. They wonder how to search for Arun, the prodigal son, but his love Pankaja (Paavana Gowda) shows up with a garland.
This is where you begin to see the film through various prisms. Each one reacts differently to the death, leaving you suspecting everyone.
Cinematographer Advaitha Gurumurthy frames the film so evocatively — sometimes you see things as they happen, sometimes he places the camera up there in such an angle — you almost feel like a lizard on the ceiling looking at the humans down below, warts and all. Composer Charan Raj excels in the background score, which seems to mimic the unravelling of minds, the forming of thoughts and human hesitation. Of the songs, ‘Karula’ is especially haunting, for the music and the aching lyrics by Pramod Maravanthe.
And then the threads, hitherto seen like a tight ball, begin releasing themselves — through similar incidents and dissimilar reactions. Anant seems to sense something, and you realise there’s yet another story hiding in plain sight.
There are many egos at play, a person living a life unlike what they envisioned, another coming to terms with a loved one staying away.
The police station tries to become a law-enforcing place again. They take in someone for questioning, but there’s no place to make them sit — the suspect sits on the floor as does the inspector. And, they talk. He gives the person water — rules being enforced with empathy intact. Or, is the inspector doing so to assuage a previous happening?
Eventually, writer PM Krishna Raj and Janarthan tell you that being punished is a privilege. It absolves you of a life of repentance and frees you up to live. The not-so-lucky ones get away, but are caught in an exile that’s never-ending.
Subha J Rao is an entertainment journalist covering Tamil and Kannada cinema and is based out of Mangaluru, Karnataka.
Disclaimer: This review was not paid for or commissioned by anyone associated with the film. Neither TNM nor any of its reviewers have any sort of business relationship with the film’s producers or any other members of its cast and crew.