The final stretch of Rao Bahadur is an absolute riot. The carefully constructed drama gives way to a series of delightful twists that are both entertaining and thought-provoking. It is here that director Venkatesh Maha gently pulls the rug from under the audience, forcing them to view the entire film from a fresh perspective. Telugu cinema lovers may remember a similar narrative flourish in his debut indie film, Care of Kancharapalem. While that film offered a deeply realistic portrait of a neighbourhood grappling with questions of gender sensitivity and social hierarchy, Rao Bahadur ventures into fantasy, lacing its psychological drama with touches of magical realism.

At its core, Rao Bahadur feels like a fable that begins, “Once upon a time, there lived an aristocrat in a mysterious palace that had seen better days...” Beneath that fairy-tale surface lies a conflict that is both universal and unsettling. When does social conditioning begin? How does it become so deeply ingrained? These are familiar questions, and a story about the weight of caste, class, colour, lineage and identity could easily have turned preachy. Instead, Maha keeps it engaging, trusting the story to carry the message rather than the other way around.

Venkatesh Maha presents the story in a form that borders on absurd theatre. At its centre is Ramappa Rao Bahadur (Satya Dev), an ageing aristocrat prone to hallucinations. His fragile grip on reality allows the narrative to slip effortlessly between mystery, fantasy and magical realism, and the screenplay makes the most of those possibilities.

At a time when “world-building” has become a filmmaking buzzword, Rao Bahadur demonstrates how every element of a fictional world, even its props, can propel the story. The result is an ambitious, playful film that rewards attentive viewers.

The palace, aptly named Bhuvanalayam, is a world unto itself. It is filled with secrets, and perhaps one film is not enough to uncover them all. Characters, from Rao to the househelp Achamma, are repeatedly shown peering through windows or narrow openings before entering a room, as though preparing themselves for what lies beyond. The walls seem to have ears, and so do the portraits of long-dead ancestors.

It is only fitting, then, that Rao likens himself to a caged bird longing to be free. Set against the decline of an aristocratic family, the story follows a man nicknamed the “man of miracles” for repeatedly surviving despite a terminal illness. Haunted by an unresolved question, his life unfolds in chapters.

Where perspectives matter

From the opening scene, Maha hints that perspective is everything. We first see Dr Narayanachari (Vikas Muppala) framed from the patient’s point of view, as though viewed from inside an open mouth. Similar visual flourishes recur throughout the film, quietly reinforcing its themes.

At times, Bhuvanalayam resembles a Sanjay Leela Bhansali set — minus the bejewelled dancers. Elsewhere, it transforms into a theatrical stage. In one standout sequence, Rao and Narayanachari engage in an extended conversation as shafts of light cut through the darkness of a cavernous room, evoking classical paintings. The discussion shifts hilariously from the present day to the Mahabharata, embracing the film’s delightfully eccentric tone.

Flashbacks reveal a younger Rao as a free-spirited aristocrat sporting a distinctly John Lennon-inspired look. The transitions between past and present are elegantly handled, particularly the chapter titled “Homecoming”. It is here that he meets the fiercely independent Renuka (Deepa Thomas), whose desire to live life on her own terms mirrors his own.

The romance unfolds with warmth, but also exposes its imbalance. Rao may rebel against the conventions of aristocratic life, yet the film continually asks who he really is beneath that defiance. Maha, even in a brief cameo, cleverly explores the invisible grip of social conditioning. Who would have thought ideas about caste, hierarchy and conditioning could be conveyed through song and dance?

There are portions when the film’s unconventional storytelling threatens to become self-indulgent, but it usually finds its rhythm again. More than once, I was reminded of John Berger’s Ways of Seeing for the way Rao Bahadur examines wealth, power and identity through a striking visual language while remaining accessible and entertaining.

Rohan Singh’s production design and GNS Shilpa’s costumes are integral to the film’s immersive world, while cinematographer Kartik Parmar shifts seamlessly between vintage tableaux and surreal dreamscapes. Ashwin Rajashekar’s sound design turns the mansion into a living, breathing character, and Smaran Sai’s score — blending Western orchestration with semi-classical influences — beautifully complements the narrative.

Ultimately, though, the film rests on Satya Dev’s shoulders, and he delivers one of his finest performances. He moves effortlessly between an exuberant, entitled aristocrat and a man battling psychological decline. Rao is rarely likeable, and Satya Dev embraces every shade of that complexity, never seeking the audience’s sympathy. Even beneath layers of prosthetics, he conveys the tragedy of a man trapped by his own past.

With only a handful of principal characters, the film gives each actor room to shine. Vikas Muppala lends warmth and restraint as Narayanachari, Deepa Thomas brings quiet strength to Renuka, and the actor playing Achamma leaves a lasting impression.

It takes courage to make a Telugu film that so confidently rejects the conventions of mainstream storytelling. Rao Bahadur has an original voice that is difficult to ignore. Yes, it occasionally indulges itself and can test patience. But it also entertains, provokes debate and lingers long after the credits roll. That, by itself, is worth celebrating. And while you are at it, do not miss the wonderfully absurd episode involving pumpkins and pumpkin vines — one of the film’s funniest surprises.