Tess James

An old image of Mohanlal and Shobana, paired with a nostalgic melody, lured me back to Malayalam cinema after years away. I went to the theatre hoping to remember a story—one I could carry, tell, and feel. Instead, I left with silence and disbelief. It has been ages since that happened. It was Mother's Day, so I thought perhaps, it is a minor sacrifice. They say this is a film about honour killing. The irony is cruel. The story honours no one—not the audience, not the real stories it supposedly draws from, not even the cast who lent their bodies and time to this grand tribute to a once-great star. Most tragically, it dishonours Mohanlal himself, reducing his legacy to a hollow, mythic caricature propped up by brute force and borrowed reverence. Yes, the villain leaves a mark—his portrayal of tyranny is chilling. But nothing else stays. The film’s emotional thread is absent, the few moments of humour drowned in relentless violence. Women are brutalised, maimed, objectified—used as tools to prop up the hero’s rage. There is no law, no justice, no real-world logic, no heart. This is not storytelling. This is manipulation posing as cinema. The movie expects us to cheer, not feel; to revere, not reflect. I walked into the theatre with hope. I walked out with clarity. I no longer wish to witness a Malayalam film in theatres unless I can hold the remote—so I may pause, mute, or fast forward what no longer deserves my attention.