Kantara The Legend: Chapter 1 Review | A Feast For The Eyes, Yet Emotionally Elusive

Rishab Shetty, who startled Indian cinema with Kantara (2022)—a heady blend of myth, ritual, and earthy realism—returns with a prequel that dares to stretch across centuries to peek back into its supposed history. If the first film was rooted in a village’s folklore, this chapter seeks to build an entire civilisational memory, sprawling across the reign of the Kadamba dynasty, the Bangra kingdom, and the forest dwellers who dare to challenge it. Kantara: Chapter 1 plunges into the heart of where the first film left off—with Shiva watching his father’s mystical presence vanish into the forest.

From this quiet rupture, the prequel dives headlong into origins: the enigma of Shiva’s father, the tribal lore of Kantara, and the shadowy Brahmrakshas. The spectacle is audacious, sometimes bordering on overkill, and yes, the first half can feel like a test of patience—but just when you think the ambition might topple itself, the climax grabs you by the throat and reminds you why this world sticks.

Shetty proves once more that he can play on scales rivaling Bahubali (2015) or Ponniyin Selvan (2022) , yet one can’t help asking: does sheer scale translate to storytelling mastery? The answer hovers unsure, in a haze of fire, forests, and tribal chants. Berme, also played by Shetty, explains to his mother that business is survival elevated into achievement for the marginalised. His decision to revolt, to demand economic fairness and the right to trade, becomes the spine of this film. Yet unlike Kantara, which married intimate storytelling with grand (though problematic) mythology, Chapter 1 often feels like a visual thesis statement mounted on a colossal canvas.

We witness Berme and his people entering Bangra to uncover the kingdom’s secrets—wealth, weaponry, mastery over iron, and the cutthroat politics of trade. The markets explode with life: Arab and Portuguese traders hawking forest produce at inflated rates, chariots rumbling through the dust, Kanakavathi (Rukmini Vasanth) catching Berme’s eye with curiosity and fascination. If Kantara (2022) was about the human wound beneath ritual, Chapter 1 sometimes resembles an extravagant tapestry where individual threads blur into the pattern.

This is both its triumph and its trouble. The sheer scale is undeniable—Shetty stages tribal marches, feudal disputes, and ritualistic dances with thunderous force. But the narrative quickly crowds itself: feuds pile upon feuds, subplots jostle for attention, and humour (much of it reminiscent of the first film) undercuts momentum. A jaw-dropping chariot sequence spins into chaos with breathtaking scale, Ajaneesh Loknath’s music rattles the auditorium with its tribal chants and percussive rhythms, and Arvind Kashyap’s camera turns forests, fire, and stone into near-mythic landscapes.

Kantara worked for audiences, despite its ideological limitations because Shiva, the flawed, hot-headed hero, carried the burden of myth with the weight of his own human contradictions. His possession by the Daiva was cathartic because it was terrifying, yet strangely tender in its depiction of vulnerability turned into ferocity. By comparison, Berme feels more like a carefully carved idol than a living-breathing heart. His courage is monumental, his revolt essential, but his emotional complexity thins. Do we cheer for him as a character, or as a cultural symbol? Shetty’s choice to position Berme as a near-mythic hero is bold, but it also risks leaving viewers unmoved where they should be undone.

The humour, meanwhile, remains a mixed bag. At its best, it feels like an aspect that might appeal to regional audiences. At its worst, it clogs the narrative with filler, creating pauses that dilute intensity. Several actors from Kantara return in different roles, with little explanation of lineage. Is this reincarnation? Ancestry? Or simply cinematic shorthand, a way to remind us of echoes across generations? Where Chapter 1 regains its magic is in its treatment of myth.

The film expands on Guliga and Daiva, not as supernatural jumpscares but as forces stitched into community life. It explores how belief systems, oral traditions, and ritual performances shape collective memory. Gods do not descend as cheap spectacle here; they loom as moral riddles. The film even dares to close on the old saying about divine manifestations ensuring Dharma, offering explanation without suffocation. For a story rooted in faith, this restraint feels refreshing.

Chapter 1 defies the three-act blueprint, taking its time building a mythical world where forests breathe, shadows threaten, and Berme’s close-ups give audiences goosebumps. Vinesh Banglan and Dharani Gangeputra’s production design grounds the spectacle; Pragathi Shetty’s costumes, chariots, and weapons insist the universe is lived-in. Ajaneesh Loknath’s score—tribal signals, chants, percussion—feels organic, weaving action, ritual, and fear.

Compared to Kantara, where catharsis defined stakes, Chapter 1 dazzles in scope but flirts dangerously with spectacle over depth. Tribal portrayals feel authentic; and the casting mostly works: Gulshan Devaiah delights as the ferocious antagonist and Jayaram holds his ground pretty well. Arvind Kashyap’s cinematography turns tension into a sort of war-drama poetry. Shetty’s aura remains compelling while the finale doesn’t echo the original’s audacity. Audience opinions will definitely be split—some dazzled by the set design and Shetty’s polished muscles; others noting the pale emotional thinness. Yet when alignment strikes, the riot of colour, ritual, combat, and dialogue grips in several places. Chapter 1 is simultaneously spectacle, meditation, and celebration of folklore. For Kannada cinema, it is a triumph—but the writing remains curious yet largely lukewarm.