Chinna (2023) Review

From the very beginning, the atmosphere in Arun Kumar's Chinna is one of impending doom. The threat of sexual assault hangs low over the small town where Sundari lives with her overworked mother and her overprotective uncle Eshwar, whom she calls Chinna. The abandoned temple on the outskirts has become a hotspot for rape. The police are on alert, but so far they've turned up empty. Meanwhile, all that Eshwar can do to keep his niece safe is to be by her side at all times. He never leaves their house gate unlocked. He drops her off and picks her up at school, and is never minute late to do so. But the threat never recedes - it only takes a single misstep for Sundari to become prey.

At nine years old, Sundari is the picture of innocence - lanky, pigtailed, bespectacled, and with a fondness for magic pens and dyed baby chicks. On her way to school, a yellow water bottle hangs on her neck like a giant pendant. Academically, she isn't very bright. But she is nevertheless well-schooled in the precariousness of her safety as a young girl. When her friend Munni suggests secretly heading off to the edge of town to spot wild deer, she agrees at first, but then jumps off the auto at the last minute and runs back to safety, some primal fear tugging at her. Alas, Munni isn't so lucky. At school, the next day, Munni is dead-eyed and silent. At the slightest nudge, she breaks into tears. The worst has happened.

Director-writer Arun Kumar constructs a singularly terrifying town of predators. Munni isn't the only girl assaulted. Lust seems to carry like a virus, devouring young children who are easily distracted by phones and video games. The atmosphere in the town is so tense that even an innocent interaction with a child gets misinterpreted and good men get thrashed.

Chinna is, in some ways, reminiscent of last year's movie Gargi, a story of a man wrongly accused of sexual assault. While Gargi was told from the side of the accused, Chinna is told from the side of the victim. In both stories, perhaps deliberately, the focus is not on the victim or the crime - gruesome and final as it is - it is rather on its impact on the kin. Gargi goes to great lengths to vindicate her wrongly-accused father. Chinna is ready to murder the predators.

Necessarily then, Chinna takes on the air of a horror movie. Still frames and ominous music suffuse the screenplay. Chinna's love interest Sakthi, played with a spooky edge by Nimisha Sajayan, holds a secret of her own that adds to the tense atmosphere. By the second half, however, the scenes become less authentic and more affected.

Take the scene where a family member - a man - is helping a mother change a diaper of her daughter who has just been rescued from sexual assault. The girl, misinterpreting his actions, beats him limply. He is devastated at this loss of innocence - the girl is like his own daughter - but rather than leave the room, he stays on and cries, while the girl is clearly not yet comfortable in his presence. Instances like this, where the script chooses to dramatize instead of showing restraint, mar the experience of the film.

The inner world of Eshwar/Chinna is the focus. He must accept that some part of Sundari is now lost to him - the little girl that cuddled beside him at night will now see him not only as her uncle, but as a man. Siddharth effectively conveys the complicated emotions of Chinna in these heart-breaking scenes. The anchor of the film, though, is Sahasra Sree, the girl who plays Chitti/Sundari. Her goofy face is almost unrecognizable by the end as she becomes catatonic and completely undone by her circumstances.

Chinna the movie suffers from moments of unfocus, like the extended sequence about Eswar and Sakthi's budding love. And there are times it indulges in creating the "shock factor", which ruins its authenticity. After a mismanaged second half, it is only in the final frame that it regains its focus and ends on a memorable image.