Thanthapperu (Life of a Phallus) Movie Review: Unflinching study of masculinity among marginalised lives

Premiered in the International Competition at the 30th International Film Festival of Kerala, Unnikrishnan Avala’s Thanthapperu (Life of a Phallus) opens by looking back at a dark chapter in history, but it does so without haste. The film settles into its world gradually, allowing its rhythms and spaces to take shape in their own time. It never pushes for attention, and that quiet confidence becomes one of its defining strengths. There is a strong sense of lived time in the images, as if the film has been allowed to grow organically rather than being shaped to a fixed design. The film begins with a prologue set during the Emergency period, when forced sterilisation drives carried out by the state violently disrupted the lives of marginalised communities. Brief but unsettling, this opening establishes a historical wound that continues to echo through the film.

Director: Unnikrishnan Avala

Cast: Bellakkariyan Maneesh, Chincina Bhamini, Poochappara Mani, Jeo Baby

Set among the Cholanaikkan community of Kerala, often described as Asia’s last surviving cave dwellers, Thanthapperu follows Nari Monchan, a young man struggling to live up to the expectations placed on him as a husband, a son and a man. With only a handful of women left in the community, marriage becomes less about companionship and more about possession. Nari has a wife, Bella, but his life with her is ruled by suspicion rather than affection. He fears abandonment so deeply that he ends up pushing her away, clinging to customs that grant him authority while denying her emotional warmth.

What Unnikrishnan gets right, and what makes the film stand apart, is the gaze. This is not a film that exoticises or explains the Cholanaikkans for easy consumption. Instead, their lives unfold naturally through everyday labour, shared laughter, small conflicts and long silences. The forest is not romanticised; it is simply where life happens. Traditions are shown not as rigid monuments but as practices that are followed, questioned and sometimes resisted from within.

This sensitivity owes much to co-writer Vinod Chellan, who belongs to the community nu. The film avoids the traps of token representation or issue-driven storytelling. There are no grand speeches or self-conscious metaphors. Even when the film unsettles you, it does so with restraint. The discomfort comes from recognising patterns of power and cruelty that feel uncomfortably familiar, even in a setting far removed from urban life.

The performances deepen this sense of authenticity. With the exception of filmmaker Jeo Baby in a brief supporting role, the cast is drawn almost entirely from the Cholanaikkan community, most of whom have never acted before. Yet their presence on screen never feels tentative. Movements, expressions and reactions carry the weight of lived experience. Over time, the line between character and person seems to blur, making the film feel less staged and more observed.

At its core, Thanthapperu is a film about masculinity and how easily it curdles into control. Across cultures, patriarchy may take different forms, but its core remains recognisable. Nari’s behaviour towards Bella is driven not by strength but by fear. His constant need to assert dominance, to question her loyalty and to police her body exposes how fragile his sense of manhood truly is. Masculinity here is not only a source of power but also a burden, trapping men within codes they are terrified to break.

The title sharpens these ideas. Thanthapperu, meaning father’s name, points to the obsession with lineage and inherited pride. The English title, Life of a Phallus, extends this further, tying manhood to the male body and its perceived sexual role. Desire becomes a site of conflict. Bella’s needs are dismissed as violations of custom, while male authority remains unquestioned. The film’s feminist politics emerge through such moments, not as slogans but as lived realities. Women are expected to uphold tradition while being denied agency within it.

History continues to shape the film’s emotional landscape. The legacy of the Emergency period is not treated as a footnote but as a force that still structures lives. The skewed gender ratio, the anxiety around fertility and Nari’s own identity crisis are all tied to this past. When he discovers uncomfortable truths about his lineage, the film draws a painful parallel between political erasure and personal collapse.

Visually, the film is held together by Mohammed A’s sensitive cinematography. The forest landscapes are filmed with care, the camera staying close to bodies moving through difficult terrain. The sound design and the background score further enhance the mood without overpowering the images, creating an atmosphere that feels immersive and grounded.

There are moments where the writing slightly over-explains, repeating ideas the film has already communicated through image and action. These instances stand out precisely because the rest of the film is so assured. Thankfully, they are few and do not disrupt the film’s emotional rhythm.

In the end, Thanthapperu stays with you because it feels made with care. Its balance of politics, intimacy and observation is never forced, and its people are allowed to remain complex and contradictory. Shaped by patience, the film leaves behind a sense of trust, and an invitation to reflect on ideas of power and identity that reach far beyond its setting.