‘Thangalaan’ is a Fearless Reclamation of History and Identity of the Oppressed

Pa. Ranjith’s “Thangalaan,” now available on Netflix, stands as a monumental achievement, blending history, politics, and art into a compelling cinematic experience. Using the story of the Kolar Gold Fields as its historical foundation, the film transcends the typical “true story” narrative. It becomes something more powerful — a raw, unapologetic exploration of caste oppression, identity, and resistance. With unflinching honesty, “Thangalaan” shifts the lens through which the oppressed are viewed. No longer are they helpless victims waiting for saviors; instead, they are powerful agents of their own destiny, reclaiming their narratives in a way mainstream cinema rarely allows.

Visually and narratively, the film is daring. Pa Ranjith introduces elements of magical realism, a genre often misunderstood in Indian cinema, to elevate the story into the realm of fantasy and symbolism. Dreamlike sequences featuring the panther and the cobra are more than stylistic choices; they carry deep meaning. The panther serves as a nod to the Dalit Panther movement, symbolizing strength and resistance, while the cobra ties the narrative to the Nagavanshi lineage. The VFX, criticized for its lack of hyper-realism, is deliberately stylized. These sequences are surreal and symbolic, evoking the timeless struggles of the oppressed and creates an epic quality.

Aegan Ekambaram’s costume design adds another layer of authenticity, reflecting the film’s meticulous attention to detail. Wooden garlands, cotton fabrics, and tribal tattoos become more than visual choices; they are symbols of identity and defiance. Unlike mainstream films that tokenize Dalit culture, “Thangalaan” offers a humanizing portrayal, foregrounding their resilience, collective spirit, and joy. It captures moments of shared struggle, fleeting happiness, and fight for survival with sincerity, avoiding reductive tropes that reinforce marginalization. Scars, stained teeth, and rugged appearances become marks of struggle, not shame—defying systems that attempt to erase their existence.

Chiyaan Vikram delivers a career-best performance as Thangalaan, immersing himself completely into the role with raw intensity and remarkable depth, showcasing his unmatched versatility as an actor. Equally noteworthy is Arjun Prabhakaran’s subtle yet impactful supporting performance, which quietly elevates the narrative.

The character of Asokan, portrayed by Arjun Prabhakaran, stands out as one of the film’s most compelling character. Arjun’s nuanced and understated performance brings a crucial layer of symbolism to the story, as Asokan represents King Ashoka, the historical figure known for reviving Buddhism in India. This connection adds powerful thematic weight to the movie. His performance not only enriches the film’s symbolic storytelling but also ensures that Asokan becomes a key role in shaping the story’s ideological arc.

Both female leads are given significant screen time and are developed with enough depth to make their characters truly memorable. Parvathy, as Thangalaan’s wife, masters the body language and mannerisms of oppressed community women from the period, delivering a performance that feels raw and authentic. Malavika Mohanan, on the other hand, adds depth to the film’s symbolic and narrative elements as the sorceress leader of the Nagavanshi community.

Another interesting character is Pashupathy’s, a fascinating and tragic embodiment of the internalized oppression that caste society enforces on the marginalized. He attempts to mimic Brahminical customs, wearing the sacred thread and adopting their mannerisms, as if imitation could erase the caste boundaries etched into the very fabric of society. However, Brahminism, by its very design, denies this possibility. It isn’t a merit-based structure; it is a system rooted in birth and heredity, where one cannot “become” Brahmin through imitation or efforts. Pashupathy’s character and his actions become a socio-philosophical critique of identity under caste — where one is forced to seek validation through the very systems that dehumanize them. In trying to wear the sacred thread, he doesn’t just mimic the oppressors; he becomes a reflection of how deeply caste hierarchies fracture self-worth and dignity. His character reminds us that the greatest cruelty of caste lies not just in its physical restrictions but in how it distorts one’s perception of liberation itself—turning it into an illusion that remains forever out of reach.

Pa Ranjith extends his critique to systems of power, exposing both caste-driven Brahminism and exploitative Western capitalism. The film reveals how these seemingly disparate systems thrive on hierarchy, dehumanization, and control. The film makes a particularly sharp observation: the British, though they did not practice untouchability or view Dalits as inherently impure like the Savarnas, were not free of guilt. Their lack of caste prejudice did not prevent them from ruthlessly exploiting Dalits as laborers, treating them as disposable assets in their colonial pursuit of wealth. By juxtaposing these systems, “Thangalaa” tries to explain that both Brahminism and British colonialism, in their own ways, stripped marginalized communities of dignity, agency, and identity.

Ranjith repeatedly emphasizes the centrality of land, not only as a physical asset but also as a battleground for identity, power, and survival. In the village, land is a form of power — those who control it hold authority and dictate the rules that govern everyone around them. The landholders, by virtue of their ownership, establish and enforce the structures of control, positioning themselves as arbiters of the prevailing social order. For the oppressed, land becomes a site of perpetual labor. Their efforts do not translate into ownership or social mobility. Instead, they remain laborers—subjugated workers who earn a meager existence while the landholders benefit from their toil.

The absence of landownership is not merely a question of economics; it is a mechanism that reinforces the social hierarchies of caste, class, and power. Pa. Ranjith critiques this form of exploitation, where the labor of the oppressed is invisibilized, and their identity systematically stripped away, forcing them into a position of dependence. For the oppressed, to be a landowner is to have the agency to shape one’s future, to possess control over one’s life, and to determine the course of one’s community. By withholding ownership, the system ensures the continued subjugation of the laboring class, keeping them in a perpetual state of vulnerability and dependence.

When a group of people is oppressed, their identity is not taken all at once—it is chipped away, piece by piece, over generations. What once defined them is worn down until it becomes unrecognizable. The erosion runs deeper than the loss of culture or history; it strips away the very essence of who they were. All that remains are faint echoes — fragmented memories of a past that can no longer be touched, ghosts of ancestors whose voices have been silenced, and a history so blurred it feels more like myth than truth.

This systematic severing of identity is not just a historical injustice, but a calculated strategy of control. The oppressor understands that to dominate a people, they must first erase their sense of self. Without the knowledge of their past, without the connection to their heritage and culture, people become malleable, open to manipulation. When a community no longer recognizes its own roots, it becomes susceptible to adopting false narratives imposed by those in power. The oppressor can then define their worth, their history, their place in the world—essentially reshaping their very existence to serve their own agendas.

The deeper consequence of this is the destruction of the collective consciousness that binds a community together. Once people lose the memory of who they were, they are left adrift, disconnected from the cultural and moral foundation that gave them meaning. This disconnection leads to an internalized sense of inferiority, where the oppressed begin to believe that their erasure was justified, that their value lies only in how the world around them chooses to perceive them. It breeds a cycle of self-doubt and disempowerment, a quiet acceptance of the dominant narrative that frames them as less than human. Moreover, the erosion of identity isn’t just a psychological blow; it’s a social one. When people forget who they are, they also forget how to resist. Resistance is rooted in memory—the ability to recall the stories of those who fought, who struggled, who stood tall before them. When that collective memory is lost, the fight for justice becomes harder to sustain, the struggles of the past seem irrelevant, and the sense of solidarity fractures. This is why the oppressors aim not just to control, but to erase. When you disconnect someone from their roots, you leave them powerless. They are no longer a threat to the status quo because they no longer have the strength of their own history to draw upon. The loss of identity becomes a mechanism for maintaining the social and political hierarchy, ensuring that the oppressed remain in a state of perpetual subjugation. 

This cultural and psychological erasure, however, is not absolute. It is often met with subtle, quiet acts of reclaiming, fragments of identity that survive against the odds. But the damage done is deep, and the road to healing is long and painful. To reclaim one’s identity is to reclaim one’s humanity, to unearth the forgotten histories, the untold stories, and the roots that have been buried beneath layers of oppression. Only then can the oppressed rise again—not as the victims, but as the rightful inheritors of their own legacy and unapologetic in their existence.

While “Thangalaan” avoids clichés, certain moments feel rushed. The loss of Thangalaan’s daughter, a moment charged with heartbreak, could have been given more time to breathe, allowing audiences to connect more deeply with the grief of the characters. Similarly, the climactic scene where Thangalaan reclaims his land deserved a deeper exploration of the landlords’ reactions to amplify its thematic weight. These critical emotional beats, while powerful, would have resonated even more with a slightly extended runtime.

Despite this, “Thangalaan” remains uncompromising in its vision. It is a film that refuses to cater to mainstream sensibilities, instead demanding that audiences confront hard truths about caste, history, and oppression. Ranjith avoids portraying the marginalized through a lens of pity or condescension. Instead, Thangalaan, the protagonist, becomes symbol of collective resistance—a fighter whose struggles and victories reflect a greater battle for dignity and justice. Selva RK’s seamless editing keeps the narrative immersive and engaging, ensuring that the emotional weight of the story never falters.

In its entirety, “Thangalaan” is more than just a film—it is a cinematic roar, a reclamation of history that refuses to be forgotten. Pa Ranjith’s boldness lies in his refusal to compromise, both artistically and politically. Is the Indian audience ready for a film like this? Perhaps not. But history is kind to visionary art, and it is only a matter of time before “Thangalaan” is recognized as a landmark achievement in Indian cinema. In a decade, when people revisit this film, they will see it for what it truly is: a revolutionary work of art that dared to tell a story others would not.

Pa Ranjith has once again proven that empowering the oppressed is not just his theme but his genre. With “Thangalaan”, he delivers a revolutionary work of art—visually stunning, politically charged, and emotionally resonant. It challenges systems of power, gives dignity to erased histories, and repositions the marginalized as the heroes of their own story. In doing so, “Thangalaan” achieves its greatest victory: it is not just a story but a bold statement of reclamation, ensuring that the voices of the oppressed will echo for generations to come.

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Lokesh Bag is a writer, movie critic, and sketch artist. He has a graduate degree in Agricultural Entomology. An Ambedkarite, Bag has been creating meaningful conversations about caste, gender, and social issues. He has been published in The Quint and he often writes on various topics in tweet-chunks on Twitter/X for his fans. He believes in working towards a better tomorrow, one word at a time.