Court: State vs A Nobody Review

Court opens inside a small, stuffy courtroom where the accused, Chandu (Harsh Roshan), a depressed-looking young man, awaits his sentence. The prosecuting lawyer looks pleased, confident that the judge will impose a hefty prison term under one of the most stringent sections of the Indian Penal Code: POCSO (Protection of Children from Sexual Offences). Against the far wall, Chandu stands in silence, seemingly resigned to his fate. The son of a watchman and a high-school dropout working odd jobs, he was once ambitious - irreverent, even. But spending over 70 days in judicial remand without bail have robbed him of that spark, reducing him to the one thing he feared becoming: a nobody.

Ram Jagadeesh's courtroom drama is a searing examination of what happens when a law designed to protect against the most heinous crimes - sexual assault against children - is weaponized to trap innocent people in life-altering judgments. Through a series of methodical, sharp, and occasionally theatrical arguments, advocate Teja (Priyadarshi) becomes our guide to a courtroom where justice is fragile and far from guaranteed.

Chandu is fighting a string of cases including one under the notorious POCSO - all filed by Mangapathi (Sivaji) on behalf of his 17-year-old niece Jabili (Sridevi). Mangapathi, a well-connected businessman, is not a concerned uncle standing up for Jabili. Instead, he is a terrorizing presence in Jabili's household. Regressive and controlling, he holds an iron grip over his family, so much so that even Jabili's mother (Rohini Molletti) and grandfather (Subhalekha Sudhakar) remain powerless in his shadow.

For a debut director and writer, Ram Jagadeesh displays an impressive command of storytelling, skillfully using our own prejudices to shape and reshape our emotional connection to the characters. When we first see Chandu on the eve of sentencing, it's easy to judge him. With his unkempt mop of hair and a cheap plaid shirt hanging loosely off his lanky frame, he fits the image of the arrogant young troublemakers we see in media stories - boys who, we assume, have finally been put in their place. It's not hard to imagine the horrors he might have inflicted on Jabili.

But as the narrative rewinds to the months leading up to the trial, the gaps in our understanding begin to close. What emerges is the most overlooked part of Chandu's story: context. The real aggressors and victims come into focus, dismantling our assumptions. And as the truth comes closer to the light, we find ourselves eagerly hoping for deliverance.

Ram Jagadeesh is acutely aware that his message - and yes, this is very much a social message film, albeit a well-crafted one - can only resonate if we are fully invested in the characters. With an unhurried pace, he dives into Jabili and Chandu's love story, which begins with a playful prank call and blossoms into a sweet, innocent romance that's easy to root for. Crucially, we meet these two before they are reduced to the labels of "victim" and "accused".

This section of the film, filled with moments of flirtation, casual hangouts, and even a song, could have easily felt like an unnecessary detour from the main plot. Yet, it's so well-written, beautifully shot and edited, and brought to life by the effortlessly charming performances of Harsh Roshan and Sridevi Apalla who are destined for a bright future in the industry, that it becomes essential. The emotional payoff in the film's extended back half is all the more powerful because we've come to care deeply about these kids.

Mangapathi is brought to life with excruciating authenticity by Sivaji. It is hard not to tense up when he storms into a room, hurling insults and ultimatums at his terrified family. One of the film's most compelling scenes, which reflects the sharp screenplay, takes place at his younger niece's birthday party. The family already seems on edge, greeting him with hunched postures as if he were a VIP. When a shadow crosses his face at the sight of the birthday girl, the tension deepens. As viewers, we are left guessing what could possibly have set him off.

The answer comes in a chilling outburst. He disapproves of the ten-year-old's sleeveless dress. Crestfallen, the girl is forced to leave her meal and change into something "modest", and only then is the party allowed to continue. It is a jaw-dropping display of misogyny disguised as protectiveness, perfectly capturing Mangapathi's oppressive grip on his family.

Sivaji is remarkably good at embodying this character's toxicity. Whether it is the constant fidgeting with his numerous gold rings or the venomous glare he casts around the room, every gesture speaks volumes. He is not just aware of the humiliation he inflicts; he savours it, with the chilling delight of a psychopath.

To counter a man like Mangapathi, who stands as a symbol of a rotten system, the story introduces Teja, a young assistant lawyer who is smart enough to question the system yet detached enough to feel like a fair arbiter of Chandu's fate. Teja's character becomes even more compelling because of his insecurities and doubts, which stem from his desire to follow in the footsteps of his mentor, the respected Mohan Rao (Saikumar).

Saikumar as Mohan Rao may not be the most inspired casting choice for the busy, senior lawyer who delivers a heartfelt pep talk when Teja is at his lowest point, but the warmth of Saikumar's reliable presence is a welcome sight. There is an argument to be made that someone with his charisma and commanding grasp of diction might have made a stronger lawyer to argue Chandu's case. Yet, casting Priyadarshi as Teja ultimately feels like the right choice.

Where Saikumar might have dominated the screen with assertive monologues, Priyadarshi, who balances nervousness with quiet determination, is a more effective mouthpiece for the film's message. It is satisfying to watch a man who, while no match for Mangapathi's sheer force of personality, uses smart logic and unwavering conviction to slowly unravel the showboating prosecutor Damo, Mangapathi's co-conspirator, who is played with flamboyant arrogance by Harsha Vardhan.

Court is by no means subtle storytelling, but it manages to weave in several themes that are both thought-provoking and deeply satisfying to unpack. Beyond exposing the loopholes in the POCSO Act, the film highlights the nexus of power that corrupt lawyers, policemen and businessmen like Mangapathi create and wield against their enemies.

Perhaps the film's most astute observation is its indictment of the adults in the room - parents and elders who are quick to jump to conclusions about their children's behaviour, trusting their own worst biases instead of simply asking them the truth. This idea comes to a head in a powerful courtroom scene where Jabili's mother takes the witness stand. She is questioned about an "incriminating" video showing Jabili and Chandu entering a room together. When Teja asks her a simple question - did you ask Jabili what happened in the room? - she is dumbfounded to realize that she never did.

Through a combination of tight storytelling and compelling performances, Court stands out as a shining example of a social drama that is as entertaining as it is educational. The film isn't without its flaws - like a judge who feels more like an acquiscent observer, too willing to follow the plot's demands, or a case that lacks moral ambiguity, failing to challenge the audience the way courtroom dramas like Juror #2 or Anatomy Of A Fall do. Yet, within the cinematic landscape of Telugu courtroom dramas, Ram Jagadeesh's film is a satisfying, memorable work that reaffirms our faith in the enlightening power of good filmmaking.