You can see it in his videos, where he paces helplessly through cemeteries and city streets and unfurnished bedrooms. You can hear and feel it in his voice. The 30-year-old rapper born Michael William, who is rail-thin with sharp, angular features and a pencil mustache, is also fearless on the page. He writes about all that’s been done to him, and all that he’s had to do.
“I can’t forget about the past,” he wails on his latest album, “It’s a Ugly Come Up.” “Where the Hennessey at? I’m finna down that. My whole life, I’ve been down bad.” The beats, mostly piano-based, are exquisitely complementary. Shy himself is movingly human — full of vim but also lonesome and afraid.
“I got to plot it out,” Shy says of the new album. “I actually got to make it a great project.” Much of his previous work was rushed and improvised. This time around, though, Shy took his sweet time. Lyrically and thematically, “It’s a Ugly Come Up” is focused without infringing too much on the spontaneity that has become Shy’s trademark.
For Shy, lyrics are of secondary importance. His power is in his voice — a twitchy, erratic, untethered yelp — that reveals him not as a victim, but as a vessel of chronic pain. The Compton native says he is tormented by what he’s experienced or, more to the point, what he can’t un-experience. How appropriate that Shy tweets under the handle “@sbbenthroughit.”
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His song “Cry Me a River,” is a desperate airing of grievances. Thus far, “River” is the most viral song Shy has ever made (156,000 YouTube views and counting).
“In the L.A. music scene, my problem as a producer is that everybody sounds like everybody else,” says TooRawEntertainment, Shy’s producer who sends him beats from his studio in Arizona. “[Shy] definitely stands out. His delivery is crazy and his energy is even crazier. And he tells the truth, for real, in his raps.”
The “Cry Me a River” video captures the L.A. rapper flopping around in a raggedy tent adjoining a rail yard. Shy is not unhoused — he is in fact a very vocal tenant of the Housing Authority of the City of Los Angeles, better known as HACLA. Though he has a place to stay, at times he seems lost in his chaotic interior world. In conversation, the rapper lives up to the implied duality in his name — alternating between quiet and rambunctious. But if you only know him through his music, nothing can prepare you for just how demure and put-together he is in real life.
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“I think it’s one of the most remarkable things about him,” says DeJon Paul, a rap critic and blogger from Inglewood who is also a regular on the popular hip-hop podcast “No Jumper.” His local gravitas provides a refreshing contrast to “No Jumper” host Adam22. Each year Paul rolls out the local equivalent of XXL magazine’s Freshman Class list. Shy was one of the chosen few in 2023.
In conversation, ShyBelligerent lives up to the implied duality in his name — alternating between quiet and rambunctious.
(David McGriff)
“He has this bombastic personality on wax and in his videos,” Paul said. “ But when you hang out with him or when you interview him, when you run into him in public, he’s quiet, stoic, he’s to himself, he’s reserved.” The explanation for that lies in Shy’s upbringing.
“It wasn’t your typical mother-father scenario,” Shy says. “My mother was supposed to fight for me, but she just wasn’t able to.” His mother walked out when he was an infant. His unstable father was not any better prepared for parenthood. As a child he was “signed over” to his stern, churchgoing grandmother and jazz-enthusing grandfather. Shy remained in their care until he was 15.
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Some good came of this familial arrangement. His grandfather instilled in him a musical curiosity that persists to the present day (“That’s why my style is so unique”). But Shy was a cowed and glum child. His world, small to begin with, shrank by two when his parents left his life. He couldn’t make sense of it. The more he fumbled for answers, the more overwhelmed he became by entropy and uncertainty.
“Later down the line,” Shy says now, “I was able to speak up and ask questions and figure things out.” But in grieving his lost youth, he became quarrelsome and sometimes belligerent. Shy’s trajectory is all too familiar: frightened, neglected boys often become angry men.
For a time he sought release and restoration in the classroom (his favorite course was Honors English). The gridiron was another precious sanctuary; Shy played defensive end on the Compton High football team. Even then, however, he had designs on a rap career; it was around 2009 when he got serious about his craft. L.A. is a networker’s paradise and Shy likes to network, but he didn’t always. His teenage apprenticeship was completely informal and self-supervised.
“This was when YG was in his prime,” Shy says. At the time, YG was an up-and-coming wiry truth-teller, a fellow Compton rapper who turned into a superstar and provided Shy with a blueprint of how to succeed. “I was trying to make a name for myself then, but with the little resources I had, the little knowledge I had at that moment, it was rocky.”
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William had at his disposal only the cheapest of equipment — RadioShack microphones and “busted-up laptops.” Eventually he built a functioning studio out of primitive equipment.
If Shy’s creative life suffered, it was because he had competing responsibilities. He fathered a child at 15. This enraged his fundamentalist grandparents, who sent him scrambling for steady work, much like Ice Cube on “A Bird in the Hand.” He worked in dollar stores, warehouses — any place that would pay him a legal wage. Shy’s employment history is largely aboveboard, but he’s done things for money that by his own admission are inexcusably vile.
As Shy’s rapping evolved, so too did his journalistic sense. He began to experiment with the vlogger model of YouTube street reporting. The following he gained from this activity wasn’t huge relative to the biggest vloggers, but it also wasn’t negligible. Shy says he has a knack for timing, for providentially capturing extraordinary scenes as they happen.
On tracks such as “Son of a Bitch,” William recounts a period in his life when he was “pimping hoes.” This isn’t a euphemism nor is it a case of hip-hop fabulism. He has direct experience trafficking women.
“It was for a short amount of time,” he says, while conceding that he was active long enough to inflict lasting damage on the women funneled into his “stable.”
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“Having daughters would make you rethink the whole situation,” he says. “I’ve seen a bigger picture now.” These may sound like limp platitudes, but on “Son of a Bitch,” Shy sounds like the most spiritually tortured ex-trafficker in hip-hop history. (Suga Free with a conscience? All jokes aside, their rapping styles are very similar.)
Watts had always functioned as a second home for Shy, and at some point he moved there permanently. In retrospect, Watts was the best place he could’ve gone. Shy’s identity is bound up, almost inextricably, with this close-knit community of 35,000. Would there be a ShyBelligerent if he still were mooning around Compton?
Watts functioned as a second home for ShyBelligerent and at some point he moved there permanently. His identity is bound up, almost inextricably, with the community.
(David McGriff)
Shy’s adopted home is fertile ground for rap talent. He currently lives in the low-slung, lemon-hued Nickerson Gardens apartment complex and identifies intensely with the place. In his X bio, Shy introduces himself as an unsigned artist from Nickerson Gardens. His free agency is a geographic catastrophe, and also an A&R failure, says Paul.
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“I’m surprised TDE hasn’t snatched him up,” Paul says, referring to Top Dawg Entertainment, the prestigious label whose roster — Kendrick Lamar, Jay Rock, Schoolboy Q — descends on Nickerson every year for a Christmas jamboree and toy drive.
Therein lies a critical action verb: snatch. Shy is forever snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. He has talent, emotional courage, great sonic instincts (his beat selection is top-notch). But he often seems like an accident waiting to happen. “It’s a Ugly Come Up” is so feral, so brazenly uninhibited, that Schoolboy Q’s “Blue Lips” seems almost family-friendly by comparison.
Any major label would try to soften Shy’s rough edges — and who wants that? Certainly not him. For all the doubt and pain Shy has endured in his 30 years, for all the catastrophic blows to his psyche, he stands by his music. It’s his one source of self-esteem, self-efficacy and pride.
“I’m a musical genius,” he says flatly. Maybe that’s hyperbolic, maybe not, but his dramatic genius isn’t up for debate. In matters of using hip-hop to dramatize human hurt, there’s no question ShyBelligerent is as great as he says he is.
Well, that’s a wrap. As I look back on my two-decade tenure at Variety, I’m incredibly proud of the 2,000-plus reviews that the publication (and you, my readers) have entrusted me with. It’s the greatest privilege any film critic could ask for. And yet, I can’t shake the responsibility of what I refer to as my “guilt list”: all the films I’ve seen, but didn’t have the time to review. Most critics don’t have this problem. They have clear-cut assignments, which they fulfill in time for a film’s release. At an industry paper like Variety, however, we endeavor to cover as many films as humanly possible, from Hollywood blockbusters to relatively obscure art films and indies. And because that mission matters to me, I don’t forget the ones that slip through the cracks.
Maybe it was something I saw at a festival, but couldn’t get around to, like György Pálfi’s dialogue-free “Hen” (which ranks right up there with Cannes sensation “Eo,” but never got the same critical attention) or Jack Begert’s smart, self-questioning Sundance orphan “Little Death,” which radically pivots from jaded industry cynicism to something more life-affirming midway through. Or else a movie looking for distribution that just might have found a home if I’d only had time to review it, such as Ari and Ethan Gold’s resonant, one-shot “Brother Verses Brother,” a Linklater-esque walk-and-talk gem that shadows the pair around San Francisco. I bear the responsibility of not covering these and so many odd outliers, from fringe offerings like “Abruptio,” a serial killer thriller made entirely with puppets, to Andy Warhol’s “San Diego Surf” (thought lost until 2012), in which Taylor Mead takes an enthusiastic interest in SoCal water sports.
I reckon I have time to scratch just one of these oversights off my guilt list before leaving, and so I find myself circling back to an earnest little movie called “Marianne,” whose squeaky-wheel director, Michael Rozek, has been pestering me on X for more than a year. Rozek, who felt compelled to make his first feature late in life, describes the project as a “revolutionary one-woman film,” starring my all-time favorite actress, Isabelle Huppert. So after several frustrated attempts, I finally made time to watch it (since Rozek claims a release is coming later this year).
Looking elegant as ever, Huppert appears with script in hand, half-reading, half-reciting a long, self-important monologue, written by Rozek. It’s not so much a performance as a run-through, shot in several long takes in which the camera zooms, wobbles and repositions itself while she speaks. Alas, English is not Huppert’s native language, and though gravitas comes easy, the red-headed actress makes strange pauses and even stranger gestures, which can be disconcerting. Huppert reacts to the text as it leaves her mouth, when we ought to believe that these words are hers (or “Marianne’s”) to begin with.
How Rozek convinced the courageous French star to do this, I can only imagine, but accepting such an assignment is the kind of fearless act we’ve come to appreciate from Huppert, who’s played a demented disciplinarian in “The Piano Teacher” and a woman excited by assault in “Elle” — risky roles few would even consider, much less embrace. A few years back, I managed to catch Huppert onstage. She was performing “Mary Said What She Said,” an avant-garde one-woman show directed by Robert Wilson, which she has toured around the world. I can only assume Rozek must have seen this as well, since it was around the time he made “Marianne” (three years ago now), and yet, he opted not to emulate it.
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In that piece, Huppert “played” Mary Queen of Scots (in the sense that she “plays” a character named Marianne in “Marianne,” making no attempt to embody or otherwise become a different person). The French star moved energetically back and forth, up and down the stage — it was a positively calisthenic performance — as she delivered her lines in double time. I’m no expert on Brecht, but this seems like a classic example of the “alienation effect,” whereby audiences are intended to be made aware of the theatrical artificiality of the experience.
Rozek mischievously seeks something similar. Huppert spends most of “Marianne” seated on an expensive blue couch with his script in her hands, holding what’s meant to feel like a one-way conversation with the audience — more of a lecture, really, as “Marianne” represents Rozek’s manifesto about what is “real” in a medium where every creative choice is constructed. Plots aren’t real. Stories aren’t real. Lord knows reality TV isn’t real.
“Wake up!” Huppert screams at one point, looking directly into the camera. “Be real!”
Who is Rozek chiding exactly? And who exactly does this indignant idealist suspect is “suppressing” his film? (That’s the word he keeps using on X to describe a dynamic in which buyers aren’t swarming to release Rozek’s tedious disquisition on all that’s wrong with the film industry today.) There’s no such conspiracy. The truth is, nobody cares. He might as well carve it up into 30-second clips and share it on TikTok. Responding as someone who found “Marianne” too pedantic to watch through to the end until now — but who identifies with many of Rozek’s frustrations — I would argue that cinema can achieve much nobler goals than “realism.”
Consider this: A photograph captures whatever appears directly in front of the camera, but it’s still composed, excluding whatever exists beyond the frame. It’s far more difficult to create something expressionistic — that is, an entirely stylized alternate reality — that audiences still find engaging, relatable and emotionally true. Picture Jean Cocteau’s “Beauty and the Beast,” the best of Tim Burton’s films or anything brought to life from scratch by brilliant animation artists. That should be the goal: achieving some kind of communion between the audience and whoever they’re watching on-screen. That’s what Rozek (in his “revolutionary” way) imagines he’s offering with “Marianne.” But it’s also what the most bottom-line-minded studio execs most want when attempting to make a hit popcorn movie.
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About midway through, Huppert-as-Marianne says, “Some will say, ‘This is not a film. This is a play.’” Why is Rozek being so defensive? Audiences aren’t as dumb as the film implies — certainly not the ones who’d seek out and watch something as nontraditional as “Marianne.” Neither are distributors and other would-be backers, any of whom can see that such a project, while not without merit, stands no chance of financial success (budgeted at an estimated $350,000, it will be lucky to break even). “Marianne” is a film, just not a very good one — it’s nowhere near as effective as Julian Rosefeldt’s “Manifesto,” in which we sit riveted as a shape-shifting Cate Blanchett recites a range of world-changing treatises, from Karl Marx to Dogma 95. The validity of his argument aside, Rozek may as well be screaming into the void.
I don’t recall Martin Luther complaining, after nailing his 95 theses to the Castle Church door, that a bidding war didn’t immediately break out among publishers to reprint his grievances. “Marianne” means well, but comes from a place of profound naivete. It’s meant to get audiences thinking about what they watch — the “content” they consume — by raising awareness of what film can be. But it hasn’t figured out the carrot that will entice them to hear its message. If even a die-hard Huppert admirer like me has trouble getting through it, why would a casual cinephile bother?
“They think that you need to escape,” Huppert says, “to forget … your pain.” The royal “they” in this case are “the suits” who call the shots and hold the purse strings. Rozek believes that he’s on to something new when he suggests that if the film industry would only “help you get to the bottom of your pain, instead of numb it,” they’d have people lining up to pay. Sounds great, but movies don’t work that way, and “Marianne” isn’t well written enough — not performed with sufficient conviction — to prove otherwise.
Sure, it can be demoralizing for intelligent adults to investigate what’s available at their local megaplex and see only prequels, sequels, spinoffs and superhero movies. But tens of thousands of films are made each year, and quite a few of them break the rules, defy conventional narrative expectations and smack us deep in our souls. To repeat Bergman (as paraphrased in the film), the greatest filmmakers capture life in a reflection. Film is a looking glass — a role it plays quite literally here when the scene changes and Huppert reads the “love chapter” from I Corinthians into the mirror.
In its most profound moments, “Marianne” alludes to mortality, to “real life.” But it doesn’t dare suggest what others have (here I’m thinking of Kubrick at the end of “Eyes Wide Shut”), that movies may illuminate life, but they can’t replace it. Now, I say this as someone who’s spent nearly as many hours in the dark vicariously sharing the lives of others — imaginary people, no less — as I have engaging with real people: In order to succeed as a revolutionary act, “Marianne” must achieve the kind of cathartic epiphany Rozek refers to, but ultimately fails to deliver. It needs to serve up an insight that hasn’t already occurred to us, rather than a Holden Caufield-callow attack on phoniness. Alternately, at any point, Huppert could interrupt herself, stare the audience straight in the face and advise them to turn off, walk out and experience the world.
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That, my dear Marianne, is what it means to get real.
In a widely anticipated outcome that felt like a long-overdue coronation, Paul Thomas Anderson won the top honor at Saturday’s Directors Guild of America Awards for his Thomas Pynchon-inspired political thriller “One Battle After Another.” The ceremony was held at the Beverly Hilton Hotel in Beverly Hills.
It was the director’s first DGA win after two prior nominations, in 2008 for “There Will Be Blood” and in 2022 for his San Fernando Valley reminiscence “Licorice Pizza.”
Speaking at the podium after receiving the award from last year’s winner, “Anora” director Sean Baker, a humbled Anderson thanked the guild, mentioning recent EGOT winner Steven Spielberg, sitting in the audience right in front of him. “It reminds me, being in this room, of ‘Close Encounters,’ ” Anderson said. “We’re all brought here for a reason — some cosmic thing brought us to this room. It was that call to the mountain. It’s that feeling that we all love making s— and we need to do it.”
Anderson also devoted much of his speech to remembering his first-assistant director Adam Somner, who died from thyroid cancer in November 2024. “May you be blessed with the relationship I had with him,” the director said, “and if you have one already, hold them close and remind them that you love them.”
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True to tradition, the evening was both a celebration of achievements in directing and an occasion for much pro-guild testifying — from nominees, winners and Christopher Nolan, presiding over his first ceremony as DGA president. “We are the best at what we do,” Nolan said, touching on last year’s 40% dip in DGA member employment with a note of solidarity and urgency. “We are the storytellers. We are the people who have to innovate.”
All five nominees for theatrical feature film are invited to give a speech during these annual awards, with the eventual winner speaking twice. Guillermo del Toro, up for his personal take on “Frankenstein,” saluted Nolan: “I love saying ‘President Nolan’ because it’s so good to say ‘President’ with a good word after it,” he cracked to hearty applause. (The joke was echoed by several podium speakers.)
Ryan Coogler, a DGA nominee for “Sinners,” thanked the guild for his health insurance and mentioned his longtime dream — not of filmmaking but of joining a union, like some of the adults in his life growing up.
“Lately I’ve been learning about alchemy, “ said Chloé Zhao, representing “Hamnet,” her domestic drama about the grief-stricken family life of William Shakespeare. “You need fire and you need a chalice. To me, that fire is my creativity. It’s my birthright to create. And that chalice is the community that holds me.”
Indicating the respect the DGA commands among actors, several A-listers attended the ceremony to introduce their directors: Leonardo DiCaprio for Anderson, Jacob Elordi for Del Toro and Timothée Chalamet, the latter celebrating his “Marty Supreme” director Josh Safdie with sincerity and gentle deprecation. “I don’t think Josh will ever be ‘institutional,’ ” Chalamet said. “I think Josh will forever be an insurgent filmmaker and I don’t think the world would be right otherwise.”
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An Oscar victory path is now clear for Anderson, previously nominated for the academy’s directing honor three times, for “There Will Be Blood,” “Phantom Thread” and “Licorice Pizza,” but never a winner. Twenty of the last 23 recipients of the DGA’s top prize have gone on to take the Oscar for directing.
Here is a complete list of the night’s nominees, with winners in bold:
Outstanding directorial achievement in theatrical feature film
Paul Thomas Anderson, “One Battle After Another” (Warner Bros. Pictures) Ryan Coogler, “Sinners” (Warner Bros. Pictures) Guillermo del Toro, “Frankenstein” (Netflix) Josh Safdie, “Marty Supreme” (A24) Chloé Zhao, “Hamnet” (Focus Features)
Michael Apted Award for outstanding directorial achievement in first-time theatrical feature film
Charlie Polinger, “The Plague” (Independent Film Co.) Hasan Hadi, “The President’s Cake” (Sony Pictures Classics) Harry Lighton, “Pillion” (A24) Alex Russell, “Lurker” (Mubi) Eva Victor, “Sorry, Baby” (A24)
Outstanding directorial achievement in documentary
Mstyslav Chernov, “2000 Meters to Andriivka” (PBS) Geeta Gandbhir, “The Perfect Neighbor” (Netflix) Sara Khaki and Mohammadreza Eyni, “Cutting Through Rocks” (Assembly Releasing) Elizabeth Lo, “Mistress Dispeller” (Oscilloscope Laboratories) Laura Poitras and Mark Obenhaus, “Cover-Up” (Netflix)
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Outstanding directorial achievement in dramatic series
Amanda Marsalis, “The Pitt,” “6:00 P.M.” (HBO Max) Liza Johnson, “The Diplomat,” “Amagansett” (Netflix) Janus Metz, “Andor,” “Who Are You?” (Disney+) Ben Stiller, “Severance,” “Cold Harbor” (Apple TV+) John Wells, “The Pitt,” “7:00 A.M.” (HBO Max)
Outstanding directorial achievement in comedy series
Seth Rogen and Evan Goldberg, “The Studio,” “The Oner” (Apple TV+) Lucia Aniello, “Hacks,” “A Slippery Slope” (HBO Max) Janicza Bravo, “The Bear,” “Worms” (FX on Hulu) Christopher Storer, “The Bear,” “Bears” (FX on Hulu) Mike White, “The White Lotus,” “Denials” (HBO Max)
Outstanding directorial achievement in limited and anthology series
Shannon Murphy, “Dying for Sex,” “It’s Not That Serious” (FX on Hulu) Jason Bateman, “Black Rabbit,” “The Black Rabbits” (Netflix) Antonio Campos, “The Beast in Me,” “Sick Puppy” (Netflix) Lesli Linka Glatter, “Zero Day,” “Episode 6” (Netflix) Ally Pankiw, “Black Mirror,” “Common People” (Netflix)
Outstanding directorial achievement in movies for television
Stephen Chbosky, “Nonnas” (Netflix) Jesse Armstrong, “Mountainhead” (HBO Max) Scott Derrickson, “The Gorge” (Apple TV+) Michael Morris, “Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy” (Peacock) Kyle Newacheck, “Happy Gilmore 2” (Netflix)
Outstanding directorial achievement in variety
Liz Patrick, “SNL50: The Anniversary Special” (NBC) Yvonne De Mare, “The Late Show With Stephen Colbert,” “Julia Roberts; Sam Smith” (CBS) Andy Fisher, “Jimmy Kimmel Live!,” “Stephen Colbert; Kumail Nanjiani; Reneé Rapp” (ABC) Beth McCarthy-Miller, “SNL50: The Homecoming Concert” (Peacock) Paul Pennolino, “Last Week Tonight With John Oliver,” “Public Media” (HBO Max)
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Outstanding directorial achievement in sports
Matthew Gangl, 2025 World Series – Game 7 – Los Angeles Dodgers vs. Toronto Blue Jays (Fox Sports) Steve Milton, 2025 Masters Tournament – Augusta National Golf Club (CBS Sports) Rich Russo, Super Bowl LIX – Philadelphia Eagles vs. Kansas City Chiefs (Fox Sports)
Outstanding directorial achievement in reality / quiz & game
Mike Sweeney, “Conan O’Brien Must Go,” “Austria” (HBO Max) Lucinda M. Margolis, “Jeopardy!,” “Ep. 9341” (Syndicated) Adam Sandler, “The Price Is Right,” “10,000th Episode” (CBS)
Outstanding directorial achievement in documentary series / news
Rebecca Miller, “Mr. Scorsese,” “All This Filming Isn’t Healthy” (Apple TV+) Marshall Curry, “SNL50: Beyond Saturday Night,” “Written By: A Week Inside the SNL Writers Room” (Peacock) Susan Lacy and Jessica Levin, “Billy Joel: And So It Goes,” “Part Two” (HBO Max) Alexandra Stapleton, “Sean Combs: The Reckoning,” “Official Girl” (Netflix) Matt Wolf, “Pee-Wee as Himself,” “Part 1” (HBO Max)
Outstanding directorial achievement in commercials
Kim Gehrig (Somesuch), “You Can’t Win. So Win.” – Nike | Wieden+Kennedy Miles Jay (Smuggler) Spike Jonze (MJZ) Andreas Nilsson (Biscuit Filmworks) Steve Rogers (Biscuit Filmworks)
Raj B Shetty in ‘Rakkasapuradhol’.
| Photo Credit: Anand Audio/YouTube
The runtime of the Raj B Shetty-starrer Rakkasapuradhol mirrors the film’s highs and lows. At two hours and seven minutes, you expect a taut thriller. Director Ravi Saranga’s film is far from that. There are portions that unfold more slowly than they should. Yet, the film accelerates before it’s too late for a good finish, ensuring the film isn’t needlessly long.
The first half tries its best to keep our curiosity intact, but it’s not easy to guess the story’s deceptive turns. A small town is jolted when women start disappearing. Dead bodies are found to make things worse. The villagers fear it’s the doing of Kolli Devva (Torch Ghost). There is also a perverted teacher (Gopalakrishna Deshpande) and a temple priest (B Suresha), who is revered as a deity by the locals.
Rakkasapuradhol (Kannada)
Director: Ravi Saranga
Cast: Raj B Shetty, Gopalakrishna Deshpande, B Suresha, Swathishta Krishnan, Archana Kottige
Runtime: 127 minutes
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Storyline: When Shiva, an arrogant, drunkard cop, enters Rakkasapura, a series of unnatural manhunts begins
In the middle of these dramatic episodes is Inspector Shiva (Raj) who is introduced as a wacky, alcoholic cop. Again, it’s easy to guess that his lax discipline will never come in the way of the crucial case in front of him. Till the plot kicks in, he is the archetypal cool cop hiding his brilliance behind the facade of an arrogant and drunken officer.
Rakkasapuradhol gets its act together when the director dives into the crucial details of the case. It gets engaging and never loses focus when the inspector begins to unearth shocking details about the murderer. The thriller gets an extra layer when it deals with the mental disorder of the protagonist. Shiva is schizophrenic, and how this psychological aspect becomes integral to the plot pushes Rakkasapuradhol to a flourishing finish.
ALSO READ: ‘Valavaara’ movie review: Sutan Gowda’s debut feels like a warm hug
The film would have benefited from a deft handling of the episodes that build towards the big reveal. The loud background score is a drawback. There is something alluring about atmospheric thrillers set in rural regions. Cinematographer William David transforms the pleasing backdrop into something unsettling to indicate the impending danger.
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Rakkasapuradhol is a thriller that punches above its weight. More importantly, it gets the job done after a shaky start.
