Pennum Porattum Movie Review: A wildly entertaining village satire with teeth

You walk into Pennum Porattum thinking you know what kind of film you are about to watch. It has premiered at the 30th International Film Festival of Kerala (IFFK), it is the directorial debut of actor Rajesh Madhavan, and it is a comedy. So you brace yourself for something clever, perhaps measured, maybe even a little self-conscious. What unfolds instead is a film that moves at breakneck speed, bursting with energy and intent. This is not a polite festival comedy. It is loud, restless, and wildly entertaining. In spirit, it plays like a full-blown commercial film, which only makes you wonder why it reached audiences through a festival rather than a wide theatrical release.

Director: Rajesh Madhavan
Cast: Raina Radhakrishnan, Rajesh Madhavan

The film opens with a brief prologue set in Pattada, a fictional village presumably in Palakkad. After a violent incident in the past, the villagers collectively give up their weapons, hoping to draw a clear line under whatever lead them there. The gesture appears final, until one knife slips to the ground unnoticed. A child picks it up and carries it away. The moment passes quickly, but it leaves behind a quiet unease. Violence, the film seems to suggest, is never fully renounced. It stays embedded in memory, waiting for the smallest provocation.

Decades later, Pattada is anything but peaceful. The story unfolds amid constant motion and confusion, occasionally slipping into the point of view of Suttu, a Dalmatian dog who has spent his life tied or caged in one form or another. Suttu’s perspective is central rather than decorative, surfacing at crucial moments and cutting through the noise of human behaviour with a clarity that feels instinctive rather than moralistic. As chaos takes over the village, the dog watches, reacts, and eventually chooses movement over confinement.

At the centre of the human conflict is Charulatha, a young woman who becomes the unwilling subject of a village-wide obsession. Kumar, a man from the same place, is at least honest with himself. He knows he does not love her, and he is clear that he has no intention of marrying her. What he seeks is nothing more than momentary gratification, the fulfilment of his lust. He reaches out through a private voice message. Charulatha responds immediately, calling out the absurdity of it and warning him not to repeat such behaviour. For her, the matter ends there. What she does not know is how that brief exchange begins to take on a life of its own. In Pattada, the incident travels not as fact but as rumour, reshaped by half-heard conversations and moral judgement, until it bears little resemblance to what actually happened. Assumptions harden into certainties. People rush to judgement, eager to take sides and quicker still to interfere. A personal matter becomes public business, and a small disagreement grows rapidly, pulling families and neighbours into it. Old bonds begin to give way. The chaos that follows comes not from panic, but from people convinced they are doing the right thing.

Running alongside this is the village’s response to Suttu. After years of frustration, the dog bites his abusive owner. The villagers quickly decide that he has turned rabid. What follows is a frantic hunt, with men armed and driven by their own sense of duty, convinced they are acting in the larger interest of the village. Here, the film’s satire lands with real force. Suttu, acting on instinct after prolonged cruelty, is labelled dangerous, while the humans, swept up in collective frenzy, grow increasingly unhinged, reinforcing one another’s certainties. Pennum Porattum makes its point clearly. The madness does not reside with the animal, but in how easily people abandon reason once a belief takes root.

Rajesh Madhavan handles all this with remarkable assurance. The scale is large, the canvas crowded, and the cast mostly made up of newcomers, yet nothing feels unwieldy. The film echoes the loud, satirical energy of Senna Hegde’s Thinkalazhcha Nishchayam, but Pennum Porattum firmly forges its own path. Pattada is a village of excess, where chaos piles upon chaos, and the pacing reflects that reality. From the opening scenes, the film barely pauses. Every sequence pushes the story forward, and there is rarely a moment to glance at the clock.

The casting is one of the film’s greatest strengths. The unfamiliar faces help create a world that feels lived-in rather than performed. Nobody appears to be acting in the conventional sense. They simply inhabit the space. The Palakkadan slang, delivered with striking authenticity by the ensemble, is a delight to hear, and there is humour embedded in the rhythms and cadences of the language itself. The actor playing Kumar’s mother, in particular, is a standout, her manic energy lending an unpredictable edge to the film’s humour. Even Suttu is integral to the storytelling, his physical presence grounding the satire in something tangible. The film also sneaks in a few surprise voice performances by prominent stars, a playful touch that quietly adds to its mainstream appeal without breaking the world it builds.

While shot at a frantic pace in its energetic exploration of chaos and village banter, impressively captured by cinematographer Sabin Uralikandy and judiciously edited by Chaman Chakko, Pennum Porattum also takes time to explore how control is often disguised as protection.Suttu is chained because he is supposedly being cared for, his confinement justified as concern. Charulatha, on the other hand, goes about her life largely unaware of how the village is speaking for her and about her, invoking decency and morality in her name. Both situations are treated with humour, but the point is never lost. When restriction becomes routine, it blends into everyday life and starts passing as care, until freedom itself begins to feel negotiable, an idea that was also explored effectively in the recent hit Eko.

If Pennum Porattum falters at all, it is in a subplot involving chickens that could have been streamlined. It lingers longer than necessary, but never undermines the film’s momentum or spirit.The final act is unexpectedly tender. Without giving too much a way, it arrives at a conclusion that feels both heartwarming and bittersweet. There is a sense of release, coupled with an awareness of what remains unresolved. The film closes on a note that feels earned, leaving you smiling, thoughtful, and quietly unsettled.

In the end, Pennum Porattum does not feel like the work of a first-time director. Writing something this chaotic is one challenge. Executing it with such precision, especially with a largely new cast, is another entirely. Rajesh Madhavan pulls it off with confidence and flair. What remains is a film that is funny, furious and deeply engaging, one that lingers long after the noise dies down.