Wrik Rana

Wrik Rana’s “Pyre” (2024) is one of those films that doesn’t just sit quietly in the background. It grabs you by the collar from the first frame. There’s this raw, almost feverish energy running through the whole thing—like everyone’s on edge, and you can feel it through the screen. The story hinges on a single day, but wow, what a day. A family, fractured by secrets and old wounds, gathers for a funeral. You know those awkward silences and sideways glances people throw at each other at family events? Multiply that by ten. Everyone’s got baggage, and nobody’s really sure how to put it down. Things start off slow, deceptively normal—somebody burns incense, there’s tea, a couple of tense phone calls. But the atmosphere is thick, like there’s something ugly lurking just beneath the surface. As the day crawls on, grievances bubble up. Old grudges—stuff you’d think people would’ve let go years ago—suddenly explode. The camera lingers on faces a little too long, making you squirm. There’s barely any music, which makes things feel even more real and uncomfortable. Honestly, it’s less about the plot and more about watching people unravel. It’s sad, funny in a dark way, and sometimes just painfully honest about how messy families can get. By the end, you’re not sure if anyone feels better, but you definitely know them a little more. That’s Rana’s style—nothing sugarcoated, just the gritty, awkward truth.