Director - Mari Selvaraj
Cast - Dhruv Vikram, Pasupathy, Ameer, Lal, Anupama Parameswaran, Rajisha Vijayan, Azhagam Perumal
Duration – 168 Minutes
 
There’s a moment in Bison where Dhruv Vikram, sweat-drenched and bruised, just runs — not for sport, not for survival, but because if he stops, he might just break apart. And that’s Bison in one shot: relentless, aching, and quietly on fire.

Now, if you thought this was just another sports drama with slow-motion kabaddi dives and a rousing underdog arc — think again. Mari Selvaraj isn’t here to give you a masala victory lap. He’s here to talk about the cost of existing when the world is rigged against you — and he does it with a kabaddi ball and a whole lot of metaphor.
 
Let’s get this out of the way: yes, the film is about kabaddi. But only in the way a forest fire is about trees. It’s the setting, not the story. At the center is Kitaan (played by a heartbreakingly restrained Dhruv), who just wants to play, to breathe, to live. But he’s constantly reminded — by his father, his community, the world — that for people like them, dreams don’t come cheap. They come with warnings, and bruises, and blood.
 
Selvaraj does something fascinating here. He tones down his usual visual flamboyance — fewer surreal flourishes, more grounded grime — and yet, the impact is just as sharp. Every scene has weight. Even silences feel like protest. There's a goat-slaughter scene (yes, a goat, and no, you won’t forget it) that punches harder than any kabaddi tackle ever could. You’re not just watching a movie. You’re witnessing a system unravel — and take people down with it.
 
And then there’s the cast. Dhruv Vikram is a revelation — not showy, not loud, just... present. It’s like he’s carrying generations of anger in his eyes and still trying not to spill any of it. Pashupathi as his father? Rough, wounded, tender. The man’s eyes do most of the talking, and you just listen. Rajisha Vijayan brings quiet fire. Anupama Parameswaran arrives, leaves, but you remember her. That’s the kind of film this is — even side characters feel like they have entire lives we’re not seeing.
The politics? Oh, they’re there. Loud, proud, and furious. But Selvaraj isn’t yelling. He’s asking you to sit with discomfort. To see the casual violence, the daily humiliations, and the systems that thrive on both. And yet, Bison never preaches. It just stares right back and dares you to look away.
 
Special shoutout to the music — Nivas K. Prasanna doesn’t give us songs as breaks; he gives us soundtracks to internal monologues. And Ezhil Arasu’s cinematography? Using black and white for the present and colour for memory? Genius. It’s like saying: the past had hope. The now… not so much.
 
Look, Bison isn’t trying to be everyone’s favorite film. It’s not a crowd-pleaser — though ironically, it’s Mari Selvaraj’s most “mainstream” work. It’s a film that leaves you a little unsettled, a little angry, and strangely… hopeful. Because it believes in change, even when it shows you just how hard-won that change has to be.

Go watch it. Not just for the kabaddi. Not just for Dhruv. But because cinema this honest and this urgent doesn’t come around often.