Muthayya is not just a film; it is a breath of unhurried life. Bhaskhar Maurya's feature is as simple as it is stirring, as quiet as it is profound. And what a rarity that is. There are many aspects that make this film endearing.

Director: Bhaskhar Maurya

Cast: Sudhakar Reddy, Purna Chander, Arjun Raj, Mounika Bomma

Streamer: ETV Win

Muthayya follows its titular character, a soft-spoken elderly man, played with tenderness by Sudhakar Reddy, who is a yesteryear theatre actor with an acre of land in a Telangana village. By day, he does odd jobs. By heart, he is a film buff, a man who never let go of his dream to act on the big screen. His only companion in this quixotic pursuit is Malli (Arun Raj), a young mechanic who indulges his friend’s wishes with a mix of humour, conflict and affection.

Together, they drink, quarrel, even fight in extended takes and also make reels on a phone, discuss cinema, and more. The plot is minimal, almost anecdotal. Muthayya once left for Hyderabad in his youth, tried his hand at making it in cinema, and came back with nothing but memories. Yet the dream persists. Now, aged and mocked by time, he wants to try once more. The film is less about whether he succeeds and more about what it means to try when the world has already written you off and your age is against you.

There are no villains here, no swelling background score to manipulate you into tears. What we get instead is something far more potent: a film that lets silence do the heavy lifting, that frames human faces like fragile truths, and that understands the dignity in simply existing with a longing heart.

Divakar Mani’s cinematography is marvellous in how little it draws attention to itself. Long, static shots allow conversations to bloom. There are no needless cuts or close-ups. The camera observes rather than intervenes, allowing us to feel like part of the quiet ache of its characters. Editor Sai Murali follows suit, letting moments linger until they begin to speak for themselves. The music by Karthik Rodriguez is sincere in its folk usage and calmly coexists with the performances.

In one of the film’s many poignant sequences, Muthayya and Malli shoot a video by the buffaloes and nature; the old man sings an old duet while the nature around stares, bemused. It is hilarious and heartfelt in equal measure, like watching someone just do what their heart wants without caring about any judgement. There’s a gentle satire in these scenes, but never mockery. Muthayya is not a joke to the film; he is its soul. When he stutters when trying to act in his self-funded film, the film doesn't mock him. His effort is more respected than any needless perfection.

The performances are a masterclass in minimalism. Sudhakar Reddy, known for Balagam, is even more lived-in here. His voice carries decades of disappointment, his eyes a kind of sacred foolishness that only dreamers possess. Arun Raj, as Malli, provides the perfect counterbalance as the impulsive and loudmouth youngster. Their chemistry feels so natural that it’s easy to forget the cameras were rolling. You get the sense that someone just called “action” during a real conversation.

What elevates Muthayya from a sweet slice of life to something close to poetry is its refusal to offer easy catharsis. In any other film, the climax would build towards a tear-jerking redemption arc. Here, when the old man finally sees his dream realised, the screen cuts to black. Just like that. There is no applause, no montage, no spoon-fed triumph. The film trusts you to feel the weight of that moment without it being spelt out. It is one of the most elegant creative choices in recent Indian cinema.

And yet, Muthayya is not without humour. In fact, it uses humour as a kind of armour, shielding its characters from the harshness of life. In one scene, what looks like a dramatic reveal flips gently into a comedy. These tonal shifts are handled with such grace that you barely notice the seams.

The dialogue, in the lilting Telangana dialect, flows like casual speech. It never tries to be clever. It just is. When Muthayya says, “Ippudu vayasu ayipaaye ra… ippudem jeththaa?” (“I have grown old, what will I do now?”), it lands with the weight of every person who has ever sat on a bench and wondered if their time has passed. It is moments like these where the film becomes more than a story. It becomes a mirror.

Muthayya is a deeply personal film. It is about the guilt of giving up on your dreams, the stubbornness of hope, and the quiet nobility of trying anyway. Its beauty lies in how it does not try to manufacture beauty. It simply captures life as it is: uneven, unsure, unfinished.

Bhaskhar Maurya, with remarkable restraint, has crafted a film that does not scream to be noticed but leaves a mark that will be hard to erase. In an era where even rural dramas are polished for urban consumption, Muthayya is unapologetically rustic and emotionally precise.

You do not walk away from it with a lump in your throat. You walk away thinking about your own dreams, the ones you shelved long ago, and you wonder, if only for a second, what it might mean to try again. And that is the kind of cinema that stays.