Abhrajit Bhattacharyya

Abhrajit Bhattacharyya's "Pyre" (2024) isn’t your typical, run-of-the-mill film—it’s more like a gut punch wrapped in cinematic poetry. Set in a small town that feels both claustrophobic and endless, the story orbits around a young couple whose love is basically a ticking time bomb thanks to the suffocating grip of tradition and caste. The characters, god, they’re written so raw you can almost smell the sweat and fear on them. The film kicks off with the couple on the run, dodging angry family members and neighbors, the whole world seemingly out to stomp on their happiness. Bhattacharyya doesn’t waste time sugarcoating anything. Every frame oozes tension, like something’s always about to snap. You get these long, heavy silences where the actors do more with a glance than most can with a soliloquy. There’s this constant sense of dread, almost like the land itself is complicit in the violence. The way the film handles caste—it’s brutal, unflinching, almost uncomfortable to watch at times. But that’s kind of the point, right? The visuals are gorgeous, but not in a way that lets you relax. Even the prettiest scenes have an edge, like beauty’s just another trap. Honestly, "Pyre" isn’t for someone looking for a light night at the movies. It gets under your skin, gnaws at you. It’s a slow burn, but when it hits, it hits hard. By the end, you’re left with more questions than answers, and maybe that’s exactly what the filmmaker wanted.