Disclaimer:
This review contains major spoilers. Read on only if you’ve witnessed Rishab Shetty’s divine storm in the theatre — or if you’re unafraid to walk into the jungle of belief, blood, and destiny with your heart open.
I. The Roar Returns: Introduction
When Kantara released in 2022, it didn’t just entertain — it enchanted. It reminded Indian cinema that our myths still breathe, our soil still sings, and our gods still dance among mortals.
Now, with Kantara: Chapter 1, Rishab Shetty doesn’t merely expand the universe — he deepens it. He reaches back into the 4th century — a prequel to the first film — and weaves a primal legend of devotion, land, and power.
I walked into the theatre expecting grandeur. I walked out feeling like I’d been to a temple. Not a modern one of marble and microphones, but the old kind — muddy floors, flickering oil lamps, and the echo of drums that sound like thunder rolling through your bones.
This isn’t a sequel chasing box office dreams. It’s a filmmaker returning to his roots with the confidence of an artist who knows the weight of his world.
And that world, my friend, is alive.
II. The Story: When Gods Took Sides
Set in 301 CE, long before the colonial greed of the first Kantara, Chapter 1 takes us to the origin of the Panjurli Daiva — the divine boar spirit that guards the land. Rishab Shetty plays Kaadubetta, a wild, untamed warrior who walks between man and deity.
The story unfolds in layers — part folklore, part history, part mythic dream. Kaadubetta is not a hero in the modern sense. He’s raw, angry, confused by the divine fire that consumes him. He stands between kings and gods, peasants and priests, trying to understand why violence and faith often wear the same mask.
There’s a haunting inevitability to it — we know where this leads, because we’ve seen the legend’s end in Kantara (2022). Yet, Chapter 1 makes the journey so hypnotic that the destination feels new.
I found myself whispering, “So this is where it began…” as the first Bhootha Kola chant erupted onscreen.
III. Rishab Shetty — The Mad Prophet of Kannada Cinema
Let’s get one thing out of the way — Rishab Shetty isn’t just directing; he’s summoning.
There’s something feral about his approach. In Kantara (2022), he merged devotion and cinema. Here, he dissolves the border.
As Kaadubetta, he’s volcanic — sweat-soaked, wide-eyed, trembling with divinity. His performance isn’t method acting; it’s ritualistic surrender. Every scream, every dance, every glare carries centuries of repressed rage.
Behind the camera, he crafts frames that feel carved, not shot. His command over silence is as powerful as his use of sound. One scene — Kaadubetta standing before a moonlit forest as drums echo faintly — made me realize how few directors today trust the power of atmosphere.
This isn’t a filmmaker showing off. It’s a believer channeling.
IV. The Cinematography: When the Forest Watches
Cinematographer Arvind S Kashyap returns, and good heavens — he outdoes himself.
Every frame of Kantara: Chapter 1 breathes with the density of mythology. The jungle is no longer backdrop — it’s character, conscience, and curse.
The color palette is all earth tones and embers — muddy golds, crimson fires, and the eerie blue of dawn that feels older than time. When sunlight filters through mist, you don’t see it; you feel it touch your skin.
Kashyap’s camera glides like a spirit — sometimes curious, sometimes judgmental. There’s a sequence where Kaadubetta wrestles a wild boar — not just an action scene, but a visual hymn. The handheld work there is pure chaos, yet somehow choreographed with divine geometry.
It’s cinema with muscle and mysticism.
V. The Sound and Music: The Divine Pulse
Composer B. Ajaneesh Loknath, take a bow — or rather, take a deep, reverent bow before your own creation.
The sound design in Chapter 1 isn’t mere background. It’s heartbeat.
The tribal chants, the drum beats, the eerie whisper of wind over ancient ruins — they don’t accompany the visuals; they summon them.
The Daiva performance sequence in the second act — easily one of the most transcendental moments in recent Indian cinema — rises entirely through rhythm.
As Kaadubetta’s body convulses in trance, the percussion grows wilder, until it stops abruptly — and in that silence, you hear faith itself exhale.
Ajaneesh’s score blends native instruments with minimalist orchestration. No grand violins or cinematic bombast. Just raw pulse, like the land remembering its gods.
I found myself closing my eyes just to listen.
VI. Editing and Rhythm: The Pulse of Time
Pratheek Shetty’s editing gives the film its meditative rhythm. The first half unfolds like oral tradition — slow, steady, patient. The second half becomes feverish, as if the narrative itself catches fire.
Transitions are seamless yet symbolic. Cuts follow breath, not plot. The editor knows when to linger, letting us absorb the spiritual texture of a moment.
The climactic montage — cutting between ritual dance, war, and cosmic imagery — is one of the finest editing achievements in modern Indian cinema. It collapses the boundary between myth and history until we no longer know which we’re watching.
That’s deliberate. That’s art.
VII. Symbolism and Myth: The Politics of the Sacred
Rishab Shetty doesn’t sermonize. He mythologizes.
But beneath the divine chaos, Kantara: Chapter 1 has teeth.
This is a film about land and legacy, about how faith can both protect and possess. The gods demand loyalty — but from whom? The kings invoke divinity to justify power — but for what?
Kaadubetta’s journey mirrors India’s eternal question: can devotion survive politics?
The answer isn’t simple. But the film never preaches. It simply shows, with the clarity of firelight on stone.
One shot — Kaadubetta offering blood to the deity while a ruler demands it from peasants — encapsulates centuries of our history.
VIII. Performances: Flesh, Faith, and Fire
The supporting cast is uniformly brilliant.
Sapthami Gowda, in a smaller but crucial role, brings grace and sorrow — her eyes speak of entire lifetimes.
Kishore is the embodiment of authority warped by fear. His voice is smoke and gravel.
The ensemble of villagers feels authentic — no acting, just living.
And then there’s Rishab. He doesn’t just play Kaadubetta; he becomes the bridge between the mortal and the divine.
I haven’t seen such raw conviction since Irrfan’s Maqbool or Nawazuddin’s Manjhi. It’s not performance — it’s possession.
IX. The Frames That Stay
Every great film leaves you with a few images seared into your memory. Kantara: Chapter 1 gives you many:
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Kaadubetta standing before a burning shrine, ash falling like snow.
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The Daiva mask reflected in rippling water.
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A child watching his father become god, terrified yet proud.
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The forest canopy opening during the final blessing — light falling like revelation.
These aren’t cinematic gimmicks. They’re spiritual imprints.
X. The Film’s Language: Earth and Poetry
The Kannada dialogues, rich in ancient idioms and folklore cadences, give the film its authenticity.
The writing never feels ornamental. When Kaadubetta speaks to the deity, it’s not literature — it’s lived experience.
One line still echoes in my head:
“The forest doesn’t remember names. It remembers deeds.”
That’s the soul of Kantara: Chapter 1 — humility before something larger than oneself.
XI. Technical Brilliance and World-Building
The production design by Vineesh Bangera deserves special mention. Every hut, weapon, and temple looks hand-built, not studio-made. You can smell the clay, the sweat, the incense.
Costume design, too, balances realism with grandeur — animal hides, natural dyes, handmade ornaments. Nothing feels “designed” — it feels inherited.
The VFX (subtle and seamless) enhance, never distract. The deity sequences use minimal digital enhancement, grounding the supernatural in tactile realism.
It’s myth made believable.
XII. Why It Matters
Kantara: Chapter 1 is not just a film; it’s cultural preservation in motion.
In an industry obsessed with remakes and algorithms, Rishab Shetty is carving space for the sacred.
It reminds us that cinema was always ritual — light projected in the dark, stories told in reverence.
For those who grew up with stories whispered by grandmothers, who know the smell of wet soil and the fear of breaking a village taboo — this film is homecoming.
XIII. The Music Album — More Than Soundtrack
Ajaneesh Loknath’s soundtrack deserves its own album of worship.
“Panjurli Patta” — the main theme — has already become a sensation online.
“Kola Karaga” mixes tribal percussion with soft flutes, symbolizing the duality of devotion and destruction.
In theatres, the sound mix is thunderous but textured — you feel every drumbeat reverberate through your chest.
This isn’t background score — it’s background soul.
XIV. Trivia Corner
Here are some fascinating nuggets about Kantara: Chapter 1:
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The film was shot in Udupi and Western Ghats over 120 days, during monsoon and post-monsoon seasons to capture authentic terrain.
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Rishab Shetty performed several real Daiva rituals (after proper permissions and guidance) for authenticity.
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The production employed over 800 local extras, many of whom are actual ritual performers.
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The Daiva costume worn by Shetty reportedly weighed over 25 kilograms, made with traditional wood, metal, and fabric.
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The script was refined with folklore scholars from Karnataka to ensure historical accuracy.
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The sound team used real field recordings from coastal temples — not studio re-creations.
That’s what gives Kantara its pulse — truth.
XV. Box Office and Reception
Released in early October 2025, Kantara: Chapter 1 has already broken records across Karnataka and Kerala, grossing over ₹400 crore worldwide in its first month.
Critics across India have praised its ambition and artistry, while fans have turned screenings into near-spiritual gatherings.
On social media, fans are calling it “a cinematic yajna” and “the rebirth of rooted storytelling.”
Internationally, the film premiered at the Busan Film Festival, where it received a 15-minute standing ovation.
It’s official: Rishab Shetty is no longer just a regional auteur. He’s a global storyteller with soil under his nails and fire in his eyes.
XVI. Comparison with the Original
If Kantara (2022) was a cry of faith, Chapter 1 is its origin hymn.
The earlier film blended thriller and folklore; this one goes fully mythic.
It’s slower, denser, more spiritual. Less plot, more pulse.
But together, they form a perfect circle — the alpha and omega of devotion.
Watching both feels like reading an epic — first its climax, then its genesis.
And that’s genius storytelling.
XVII. Final Verdict: Why You Must Watch
I’ll say it plainly — Kantara: Chapter 1 is essential cinema.
Not because it’s big, or loud, or successful — but because it’s sincere.
It’s the rare film that remembers why stories exist — to connect the human and the divine.
In an age of algorithms, it stands as handcrafted art.
You don’t just watch Kantara: Chapter 1 — you experience it. You walk into its forest and emerge a little more aware of your ancestors, your soil, your self.
If cinema were a ritual, this would be the offering.
XVIII. Epilogue: The Sacred Afterglow
As I left the theatre, I saw something rare — silence. No one rushed out. People just sat there, watching the credits roll over the image of the forest swaying in the wind.
That’s when I realized — Rishab Shetty hasn’t just made a film.
He’s reawakened something ancient in us.
And for that, Kantara: Chapter 1 deserves not just praise, but gratitude.
⭐ Final Rating: 4.8 / 5
🎬 Verdict: A soul-stirring prequel that transcends cinema — a divine, rooted, and fiercely original vision.