Four generations of men. The oldest one is hundred and one years old, the youngest one barely out of his teens.
Four generations of men. One cannot control his lust. One cannot control his drinking. One cannot control his greed. The youngest one cannot control any of these.
Four generations of men. All three sons hate their fathers. All three fathers betray their sons.
Four generations of men. No one likes to be like his father. But the apple does not fall far from the tree.
Four generation of men. They abhor and try to run away from each other. But their fates are interwined. Their vices bring them together. And in doing so, they prove that they are their father’s sons.
Four generations of men. The oldest one dies and all hell breaks loose.
Four generation of men. In the end, one loses his life, one loses his son, one loses his dream and one loses his innocence.
Four generation of men. Their story flows like poetry on the screen. Without background music or melodramatic scenes, without accomplished actors or exaggerated mannerisms. But with a dollop of sardonic humour, served with of matter-of-fact storytelling, awash with beautiful cinematography, kept on leash by airtight editing and a deft touch of finesse behind the camera. And actors who are more natural than the lush green fields they are shot against.
Four generations of men. And a triumphant celebration of the magical power of cinema.
That is ‘Thithi’ for you.