Daksath Movie Review: An incisive tale of rebellion against silencing powers

We have already seen the exploration of culture and rebellion in the Karavalli region through films like Ulidavaru Kandante, Kantara, or Garuda Gamana Vrishabha Vahana. Joining this list is Aneesh Poojary Venur's Daskath, which doesn’t try to break new ground, but doesn't shy away from exploring the themes further. 

Director: Deepak Rai Panaje

Cast: Yuva Shetty,Naveen Bondel, Deekshith K Andinje,
Mohan Sheni, Bhavya Poojary, Chandrahas Ullal, Yogish Shetty,
Neeraj Kunjarpa, and Mithun Raj

Incidentally, the makers of Daskath, which already made waves during its release in Tulu, have released the film in Kannada in the hopes of reaching a wider audience. This village drama doesn’t center on a single villain, but instead, it explores how abuse of power becomes ingrained in daily life, offering a story of resilience, hope, and the quiet strength required to resist oppression.

Gnapaala (Yuva Shetty) isn’t a caricatured villain but a chillingly familiar figure. Dressed in a stiff white shirt, mouth stained red from betel nut, and perpetually simmering with rage, he mirrors the kind of oppressive authority found in villages across Karnataka. He doesn't need an elaborate reason to turn violent; if a bird dirties his bike or a dog barks at the wrong moment, it’s enough. He doesn’t speak of justice or ideals—he only craves control, demanding silence from everyone around him.

Standing against him are four young men: Shekhara (Deekshith), who burns with passion but lacks patience, Keshava (Mohan), torn between duty and frustration, Baadu, whose love for Gunapaala’s daughter Baagi (Bhavya Poojary) clouds his judgment, and Deepu, the voice of reason. They aren’t revolutionaries. They’re just young people reacting to the injustice around them.

Their rebellion centers on a single thing: a signature—“daskath.” But in this world, a signature isn’t just ink on paper. It represents approval, identity, and permission—things that corrupt systems routinely withhold from the powerless.

Unlike Kantara, which weaved folklore and mysticism into its narrative, Daskath stays grounded in harsh realism. There’s no divine intervention here. What you see is life as it is: rough, unfair, and uncertain. Cultural elements like Daiva worship and Hulivesha appear, but only in the background—as subtle reminders of a heritage slowly being eroded by politics and greed.

What sets Daskath apart is its refusal to offer a neatly wrapped ending. You wait for justice or revenge—but what you get instead is compromise, disappointment, and ambiguity. The villain may remain untouched. The system may persist. This isn’t lazy writing; it’s a deliberate reflection of how things unfold in real life. Not every story ends with a resolution.

Aneesh Poojary displays maturity as a filmmaker. He doesn’t force emotion or preach. He allows the story and characters to breathe, trusting the audience to engage with the narrative without heavy-handed tricks.

The casting is another strength. Each actor feels like a natural fit for the fictional village of Kepula Palke. No one feels out of place. The supporting cast, in particular, brings authenticity, making the village feel lived-in and real. The music, rich in local sounds and layered percussion, elevates scenes that might otherwise feel slow.

Still, Daskath isn’t without flaws. It tries to address multiple social issues—caste, land ownership, cultural erasure—which makes certain threads feel rushed or underdeveloped. Some characters don’t fully evolve, and the pacing dips in the middle. But maybe that’s part of the message: in villages, not every story is tied up neatly. Problems linger. Endings are messy.
Daskath doesn’t aim to be the next Kantara or a grand rural epic. It’s quieter, but braver. It rejects spectacle and tidy conclusions. It challenges the romanticised image of rural life. And in doing so, it just might be the most honest and daring story to come out of the region in recent years.