Malayalam Cinema, Take a Bow — Again!!

Malayalam Cinema, Take a Bow — Again : My quick take on Mohanlal’s “Thudarum” (Jio hotstar)

Some thrillers entertain. A few grip you. But Thudarum? It burrows into your soul like a quiet regret or an unforgettable love. It doesn’t just unfold — it seeps, like monsoon rain into the red earth of Kerala, soaking you in emotion, silence, and suspense.

Set in the damp embrace of God’s Own Country, where every raindrop feels like it carries a secret, Thudarum doesn’t shout for your attention. It draws you in, gently — and then refuses to let go. Much like Drishyam, its spiritual predecessor, this film doesn’t rely on spectacles or stunts. Instead, it whispers truths, hides pain in plain sight, and builds a slow-burning tension that eventually ignites into a masterful blaze.

If Drishyam was about a desperate father who became an unlikely master of deception, Thudarum feels like the reckoning — as if Georgekutty’s ghost wandered into another life, only to meet his mirror image in a steely nemesis. Inspector George, played with chilling precision by Prakash Verma, could well be the unflinching law that Georgekutty never had to face — a man of poise, patience, and latent peril. It’s almost poetic: the manipulative mind of Drishyam meeting a mind just as sharp, but armed with authority and intent. The hunter becomes the hunted, and the lines between guilt, grief, and justice blur once more.

At the centre of this tale is not just a man or a mystery — but a car. A black Ambassador Mark I, as stoic and storied as the protagonist himself. What might be scrap in another film becomes a relic of love, loss, and longing here. That’s the genius of Tharun Moorthy, the director — nothing is mere prop; everything is purpose. The rain, the roads, the silences between lines — all breathe life into the narrative like unseen hands of destiny.

Yes, the first half meanders, like a boat gently drifting in backwaters — unhurried, almost too still. But give it time. That slowness is a smokescreen. A lull before the thunder. Because when the second half arrives, it charges forward — full throttle — and the film transforms into a gripping, edge-of-seat experience that makes you forget to blink.

Mohanlal, having momentarily lost his footing in ambitious yet ill-fitting experiments like Barroz and the overcooked fantasy of Empuraan, finds his way back home — to the craft of pure, instinctive acting. Here, he sheds the weight of grandeur and slips into the skin of a man you believe, feel for, and root for. No digital wizardry, no mythical posturing — just raw, rooted humanity. Watching him is like witnessing a veteran return to his raga after a long detour — restrained, resonant, and utterly moving.

And then there’s Shobana, who lights up every frame with that quiet, undying grace she’s known for. When these two stalwarts come together, it’s cinematic alchemy. From the haunting melodies of Manichitrathazhu to the tender turbulence of Thenmavin Kombathu, and the quiet dignity of Pavithram, Mohanlal and Shobana have long shared a screen language that transcends dialogue. Their chemistry in Thudarum crackles with unspoken intimacy, as if every glance carries the weight of a thousand memories. It’s not just warm — it sizzles, in the way only two legends with shared history can ignite the screen. Watching them here is like witnessing two seasoned dancers return to their stage — in perfect rhythm, with hearts speaking louder than words.

But the real surprise is Prakash Verma as Inspector George. Chilling in his calm, unsettling in his precision — he doesn’t just inhabit the frame, he commands it. Reminiscent of KN Singh’s old-school menace, he doesn’t need raised voices or swinging punches to unnerve you. A stare, a pause, a shift in tone — that’s all it takes. At times, he overpowers the frame so completely, even stalwarts like Mohanlal seem to orbit around his controlled fury.

Every technical aspect — from the rain-soaked cinematography to the atmospheric background score — is stitched into the storytelling with needlepoint precision. Nothing here is excess. Even the elements — the ever-drizzling sky, the moss-covered walls, the worn-out Ambassador — feel like characters in the story, breathing life and meaning into every frame.

And then, there’s the name. Thudarum — “to be continued.” Apt, isn’t it? Because stories like this don’t end with the credits. They continue in your head. In your heart. In hushed conversations and solitary reflections. Much like Drishyam, Thudarum doesn’t leave you. It haunts you. It walks beside you in the rain and stalks you afterwards.

Don’t be surprised if whispers of a Hindi remake soon hit the airwaves — Ajay Devgn, hope you’re listening. But can it truly capture the ache, the atmosphere, the artistry? That remains to be seen. For now, Malayalam cinema reminds us once again that when other industries are busy churning out Jats and Thug Lifes, they’re sculpting stories with soul — quietly, confidently, masterfully.

Take a bow, gentlemen. You haven’t just made a film. You’ve carved out a legacy. One that, true to its name, will Thudarum — continue — in thought, in admiration, and in the echo of every silent sigh it leaves behind.