Mithya Movie Review: A haunting portrait of belonging and childhood trauma
Mithya(3.5 / 5)
Films handling themes such as love and its emotional struggles are commonplace. Mithya is one of the few films that navigates into the pain and discomfort of growing up in adolescence. The film is a quiet, yet, deeply affecting portrayal of a displaced child struggling to make sense of a world that feels alien. It does not offer easy resolutions, nor does it romanticise trauma. Instead, it invites us into the fractured psyche of an 11-year-old boy, forcing us to confront the raw, tangled emotions that come with grief, anger, and reluctant acceptance.
The film doesn’t wait much to show Mithun / Mithya (Athish Shetty) overburdened with the loss of grief of being brought from Mumbai to Udupi. This sensitive portrayal of his struggle captures a boy torn between a past he cherishes and a future he refuses to embrace. More than just a coming-of-age story, it is a tale of deep-seated trauma, misplaced anger, and the slow, painful journey toward acceptance, crafted by writer and director Sumanth Bhat.
Having lost both parents, Mithya is uprooted from Mumbai and placed under the care of relatives. But Udupi’s coastal world feels alien to him. Though he is told this is his new habitat and home, to him it’s simply a place he is thrown into. He’s okay living with his aunt (Roopa Varkady), uncle (Prakash Thumminad), and their daughter Anu. However, the presence of the three-year-old Vandana triggers emotions he can’t fully come to grips with. Vandana, too, like him, is adopted into this home. Her presence acts as a constant reminder to Mithya that he cannot have a lot of things in life under his control.
Sumanth Bhat stays true to his storytelling, using the plot as a vehicle to explore his protagonist. Fleeting interactions and contemplative silences shape Mithya’s journey, his thoughts unfolding organically.
One of the few bright spots in Mithya’s new world is his friendship with Kishan. Through Kishan, Mithya experiences moments of joy—riding bicycles, exchanging videos, and engaging in the mischief peculiar to his age. These little joys give him momentary happiness but don’t let him embrace the new normal. He feels pangs of separation from his family as he gets mocked for riding a ladybird by those with whom he is trying to make friends.
Athish Shetty’s performance as Mithya is compelling. He doesn’t just inhabit the role; he makes you care about him, share his small victories, and understand his struggles. He remains true to the character, making you feel his turmoil. Another poignant moment comes with his uncle, who tries to reach out. He has wholeheartedly welcomed Mithya and wants to consider him as his son. He attempts to bond and guide him, using various methods to correct his mistakes. But Mithya, who is wounded by the loss of his parents, is not ready yet.
Amidst the chaos, Mithya finds himself in a court case and lands in a shelter home. There, he meets a mentally challenged boy and wonders if he speaks Marathi. These spaces show Mithya yearning for some kind of touch with his happy past. His time at the shelter becomes a turning point, forcing him to confront difficult truths about himself and why people are trying to take him back to Mumbai.
Sumanth, as a director, tests his protagonist at every turn, unveiling Mithya’s psyche through quiet observations. Mithya constantly searches for answers—especially about why Vandana was adopted. This question gnaws at him, as he feels his own existence is something decided by others, not by him.
The film beautifully uses nature—the relentless rain, the swaying trees, the still waters—to mirror Mithya’s turbulent emotions. His anger and grief culminate in an explosive moment, where guilt, revenge, and deep-seated pain collide. But it’s only through this destruction that he finds a path toward healing. With the camera as a silent witness, the boy’s internal struggle plays out in raw, unspoken tremors. The film is slow but never forces proximity, allowing grief to take its course—often twisting into a misplaced rage.
Bhuvanesh Manivannan’s editing ensures a crisp, episodic flow, pushing us into the next moment without lingering too long. Midhun Mukundan’s music is sparing yet evocative, while Shreyank Nanjappa’s sound design anchors us in the protagonist’s world, making the film a sensory experience as much as a narrative one.
The last stretch of Mithya is about acceptance, and it’s heart-wrenching. You’re in for shocking surprises—ones that demand immense heart, a will to let go, and the courage to embrace a new reality. It’s a delight to wait and watch if Mithya shifts and quietly surrenders to the life he once fought against.
Mithya is grounded and doesn’t accommodate dramatic shifts. It neither sugarcoats trauma nor offers easy answers. Instead, it portrays the slow, aching process of healing—of a boy struggling to make peace with his past and find a future he can call his own. The film’s strength lies in its ability to make the audience feel every ounce of Mithya’s pain, his anger, and ultimately, his reluctant acceptance of life as it is. It’s a deeply human story—one that lingers long after the screen fades to black.
Even after travelling across film festivals for over two years, Mithya’s protagonist still tugs at your heart, making you want to reach out, understand, and connect with his emotions. While it is a film about a child, it’s not just a children’s film. It carries an emotional weight that will connect with audiences of all ages, leaving them charged with its raw, unfiltered portrayal of grief and growth. It’s a film that stays with you—an invitation to confront the parts of ourselves we often choose to ignore.