While Mari Selvaraj’s Bison delves into the brutal, ancestral weight of caste oppression through the journey of a young kabaddi player, Dude channels Gen Z energy to confront caste-based violence with style, wit, and social conscience.
Published Oct 26, 2025 | 12:33 PM ⚊ Updated Oct 26, 2025 | 12:34 PM
Posters of Bison and Dude.
Synopsis: Tamil Deepavali releases Bison and Dude delves into caste opressions. While Bison delves into the brutal, ancestral weight of caste oppression through the journey of a young kabaddi player, Dude channels Gen Z energy to confront caste-based violence.
This Deepavali, Tamil cinema sparks a conversation on caste with two striking releases: Bison and Dude. While Mari Selvaraj’s Bison delves into the brutal, ancestral weight of caste oppression through the journey of a young kabaddi player, Dude channels Gen Z energy to confront caste-based violence with style, wit, and social conscience.
Together, the films show how Tamil cinema challenges systemic inequalities, each in its own cinematic language.
“Caste is not just a social hierarchy; it is a system that inflicts trauma and violence on its victims,” wrote Thenmozhi Soundararajan in The Trauma of Caste. Her observation captures how deeply caste shapes lives, far beyond mere social positioning.
In Bison, Kittaan’s journey embodies this lived reality. His body, labour, and identity are marked by systemic oppression; he faces physical exploitation, social marginalisation, and emotional trauma imposed by the caste hierarchy. The violence he endures is structural, embedded in a society that categorises and controls him.
Kittaan’s experiences echo Soundararajan’s argument: caste is not abstract or symbolic; it is a daily, brutal reality that shapes choices, relationships, and selfhood.
As Nina Simone famously said, “An artist’s duty, as far as I’m concerned, is to reflect the times.” Mari Selvaraj stands as such an artist, reflecting his people, his land, and the collective grief of his community—while allowing them to breathe, dance, and live in his films.
Mari’s cinema is remarkable not only for what it says, but for how it says it. Like Terrence Malick’s The Tree of Life (2011), which wove childhood, grief, and the cosmos into a symphony of light and silence — “There are no words. Just light, movement, and memory”— Mari’s frames flow like verses of a cinematic poem.
In world cinema, resistance often finds its voice not in slogans but in poetic imagery, where defiance becomes a visual and emotional language. Mari carries this tradition forward. His dreamlike frames are rooted in reality: Blue-painted dogs as emblems of silenced loyalty, trains wailing over barren fields, runners fleeing oppression rather than chasing victory.
Animals — pigs rooting in muddied honour, horses galloping through monsoon fury — become symbols of the oppressed, reflecting Dalit protagonists’ quest for liberation. Sweeping aerial shots of indifferent landscapes remind us of a society that watches cruelty from above, detached and complicit.
Even desire in Mari’s films is radical. It is punished yet resilient — blooming in stolen glances, sweat-soaked triumphs, and acts of love that defy lineage. Mari transforms personal scars into collective anthems, each echoing like the beat of a parai, confronting audiences with the beauty and brutality of marginalised lives.
Bison arrives as a fiery offering to southern Tamil Nadu’s soil, steeped in kabaddi, rage, and resilience. At its heart is Kittaan, a young kabaddi player crushed between caste politics and personal dreams. Inspired by real-life Arjuna Awardee Manathi Ganesan, Mari’s narrative portrays an athlete torn between faith, fate, and fury.
While traditional sports dramas explore locker-room rivalries or personal sacrifices, Mari digs deeper. Like Pa Ranjith’s Sarpatta Parambarai, which examined boxing culture and its politics, Bison exposes the caste wounds and inherited injustices of the southern heartland.
When Dhruv Vikram’s Kittaan asks, “Why should I leave this village? Why won’t they let me play? Why do the sins of our fathers stop me from living and loving?” Pasupathi’s quiet reply, “Because that’s our fate, son,” lands like a punch to the chest.
Pasupathi, a broken father, carries the weight of generations—fighting, falling, praying, and howling with helpless rage. His performance is a masterclass in restraint and ruin.
In one unforgettable scene, a bus journey becomes a bloodbath over something as trivial as a goat urinating on a rival’s leg. Mari stages this with terrifying precision, showing that violence in this land is never sudden — it simmers through generations of silence.
Here, caste dictates not just marriage, but where one sits, what one eats, and whether one can play a sport. Kittaan’s rise highlights the near-impossible struggle of breaking invisible walls.
His victory isn’t personal—it’s ancestral. When he storms the kabaddi court, every muscle and tear carries the grief of fathers, the defiance of sons, and the dreams of countless boys once told “No.”
While Bison foregrounds the oppression faced by Dalits, it is crucial to recognise that much of the dominant caste’s behaviour around power and prestige is tied to caste. Even seemingly personal actions cannot be fully separated from caste dynamics.
Mari’s cinema breathes through symbolism. Animals in his films are not props; they are the land’s soul: The dog in Pariyerum Perumal, the horse in Karnan, the pig in Maamannan and the bull in Bison.
Each creature embodies defiance — the silent scream of the subaltern. Even love carries an earthy fragrance, with flowers and fallen petals creating tender poetry amid violence. Dhruv Vikram, expressing everything through his body, becomes a living metaphor — a Maadan whose silence roars louder than words.
At a recent press meet, a journalist’s question, dripping with caste prejudice, attempted to challenge Mari, yet he responded with quiet resolve: “Your life is different from mine. I can’t satisfy everyone. I am a citizen of this country. I have the right to tell the stories that affected me, my father, and my grandfather — and I will tell them until my last breath.”
This powerful retort encapsulates the essence of Bison — an ancestral cry, an unflinching archive of pain passed down through centuries of caste oppression.
The journalist’s audacity reflects the entrenched hierarchical mindset that continues to provoke and question Mari’s narratives. Yet, Bison stands as a testament to his unwavering commitment to storytelling that amplifies the lived experiences of the marginalised.
Through its raw portrayal of systemic injustice, the film not only confronts caste prejudice but also asserts Mari’s right to reclaim and retell his community’s history, undeterred by those who seek to silence him.
Yet, one question lingers — why does Mari repeatedly cast “fair-skinned” Malayali heroines? Because fairness has long been associated with purity and higher status, while darker skin is stigmatised — a prejudice rooted in colonial legacies, caste hierarchies, and modern media bias.
Tamil cinema at large has normalised such casting choices, perpetuating stereotypes and disconnecting films from the lived reality of the people. While commercial pressures exist, socially and politically conscious cinema must confront aesthetic hierarchies.
Dismantling oppression means confronting all forms of systemic bias, including the illusion of fairness as beauty. Only then can Tamil cinema truly reflect the diversity, strength, and resilience of its people.
Yet, this issue extends beyond Mari. This question shouldn’t be directed only at Mari. The issue of casting fair-skinned heroines is systemic — every director, producer, and gatekeeper in the Tamil film industry shares responsibility for upholding these biased norms.
On the other hand, we got to experience “Dude“, directed by debutant Keerthiswaran and starring Pradeep Ranganathan in his third cinematic outing, which has taken the box office by storm this Deepavali.
This Gen Z-centric movie has ignited theatres with its vibrant mix of contemporary aesthetics and a hard-hitting social message against caste-based killings.
However, while the film has been lauded for its stance on social issues, it has also faced criticism for dialogues that perpetuate slut-shaming and objectification, raising questions about gender sensitivity in modern cinema.
Born into a world of digital technology, social media, and instant connectivity, Gen Z is reshaping cinema into a visually striking and instantly shareable medium. Their lives, marked by heightened awareness of mental health and personal identity, are reflected in films that portray their struggles with anxiety, depression, and the pressures of online culture.
Unlike the idealised heroes of previous generations, Gen Z characters are complex, vulnerable, and deeply relatable. They confront pressing issues like systemic inequality and career uncertainty while embracing fluid approaches to gender, sexuality and relationships.
Dude captures this ethos, blending vibrant aesthetics, experimental storytelling, and “Instagrammable” moments that resonate with Gen Z’s social media-savvy lifestyle.
At its core, Dude weaves a narrative that balances the playful, carefree nature of Gen Z with a powerful message against caste oppression. The film’s ability to entertain while delivering a socially relevant message has earned it widespread applause.
A viral meme circulating online encapsulates its impact: “Those who chose to ignore Mari Selvaraj’s film and supported Dude instead have now faced criticism even from Dude’s own director.”
This underscores how Dude cleverly subverts expectations, using its Gen Z appeal to confront caste-based violence head-on.
During a recent success meet for Dude, director Keerthiswaran addressed the film’s impact and its place in Tamil cinema’s legacy of social commentary. He said , “People are saying that this film has sparked a lot of discussions and addressed issues that haven’t been spoken about before. But this isn’t new in Tamil Nadu. Many great people have come before us. One such great person, Periyavar (Periyar), has spoken about these issues extensively. We are merely following in their footsteps.”
Keerthiswaran also revealed that the film’s climax was influenced by a real-life tragedy. During the shooting, the death of Kavin, a victim of caste-based killing, shook the team. In response, they incorporated a dialogue in the climax to pay tribute to the fight against caste oppression.
This commitment to addressing systemic issues through cinema highlights Keerthiswaran’s social conscience, a quality that has been widely welcomed by audiences and critics alike.
Despite its progressive stance on caste, Dude has drawn criticism for dialogues that promote slut-shaming and objectification. Keerthiswaran has defended these elements, arguing that they reflect the realities of society and the dynamics of male-female friendships among Gen Z.
However, this justification has not been acceptable.
Such dialogues risk normalising harmful behaviours, including verbal assaults and the male gaze, which contribute to real-world injustices against women.
In an era where gender inclusion and sensitivity are paramount, Dude’s missteps in this area are significant. While the film’s social message against caste oppression is commendable, its failure to address gender dynamics with the same nuance undermines its progressive credentials.
For cinema to truly resonate with Gen Z’s values of inclusivity and equality, it must strive to challenge all forms of systemic harm, including those rooted in gender.
As Gen Z continues to redefine cinema, films like Dude must evolve to reflect the generation’s commitment to inclusivity and justice across all fronts. By doing so, they can truly capture the spirit of a generation that demands authenticity, relatability, and accountability in the stories they consume.
In conclusion, Dude is a cinematic triumph that resonates with Gen Z’s sensibilities while continuing Tamil cinema’s legacy of social commentary.
Yet, its flaws remind us that even the most well-intentioned films must strive for greater gender sensitivity to fully embody the values of the generation they represent.
As Keerthiswaran himself acknowledeged, the path forward lies in following the footsteps of great reformers, those who fought not just against caste but for a world free of all oppression.
(Views are personal. Edited by Muhammed Fazil.)
