Tusshar Sasi

It’s often said that if men were the ones to menstruate or give birth, the rules of the world would have been entirely different. Much has been written about women’s strength and multitasking abilities. Hindi cinema itself coined the famous line, “Woh stree hai, woh kuch bhi kar sakti hai.” But can we step aside from these mock-consolations for a moment and ask why women need such reaffirmations in the first place? Director Suparn S. Varma’s Haq is a harrowing tale of a woman who reaches the highest court of the nation seeking what is rightfully hers as a wife, a mother, and a woman.

When a film about paranormal activity in real, lived-in spaces emerges, the first thing that strikes us is questions. The tried-and-tested way to dodge them is by throwing religion or folklore into the mix. Rahul Sadasivan’s Dies Irae stands out as a rare horror film that largely resists that shortcut. It raises questions, answers some, leaves a few to the imagination, and saves others for possible sequels.

Senna Hegde’s Avihitham opens with the tagline “Made in Kanhangad.” Where is Kanhangad? And what makes anything made there special, let alone a film? For those who discovered Malayalam cinema during the lockdown, the state might seem like a uniform patchwork of modern ideas and shared sensibilities. Avihitham, which examines adultery, is steeped in its local dialect, landscape, and cultural texture. It can very much amuse someone from Kerala’s Kottayam or Kollam despite never being a utopia. What remains universal here, though, is the social morality that thrives on exposing a “fallen woman,” teaching her a lesson, and eventually discarding her.

Indian folklore is full of mythical beings. Some shapeshift, some have terrifying fangs, some are into blood-sucking, and almost all of them fly. In some mythology-linked stories, these beings that once appeared in novels and comics are now popular again as superheroes, following in the footsteps of their Western counterparts. In Aditya Sarpotdar’s Thamma, the creature community in focus is of the vetaals who reside deep within the jungles. They have a large army of both good and evil individuals who are sworn to either protect or destroy the human race.

In recent years, Malayalam cinema has produced several police stories that look beyond their heroic surface. From the era of Suresh Gopi’s Bharath Chandran IPS, the template has shifted to more grounded portrayals, with filmmakers exploring the brutal, vulnerable, and helpless sides of police officers. Ratheena’s Paathirathri belongs to this newer breed, focusing equally on the personal lives of its cops. Set in Anakkara, a village in Kerala’s Idukki district, the film revolves around an unforeseen event that takes place at midnight.

Imagine two women in a lonely house with a large yard that benefits no one else. Would the authorities care about their two votes? In Sajin Baabu’s abstractly titled Theatre: The Myth of Reality, this is how a discussion unfolds among locals in Kerala’s backwaters as they talk about the isolated lives of a spinster named Meera (Rima Kallingal) and her mother Sharadamma (Sarasa Balussery). Their lifestyle is peculiar and far removed from the mainland. In the agriculture-based ecosystem they’ve built for themselves, the duo is surrounded by a serpent temple (kaavu) where a prayer must be performed every day.

It’s 2025, and Bollywood is still peddling the trope of two youngsters pretending to be lovers just to make their exes jealous. Shashank Khaitan’s Sunny Sanskari Ki Tulsi Kumari is a remake of a remake of a hundred other remakes. And no, it’s not a spoiler to say Sunny will end up with Tulsi. So how do you sell it? Shoot a string of glossy music videos and hope nobody notices the lack of effort.

There’s a long stretch, or one that feels long, in Neeraj Ghaywan’s Homebound, where the leading men, Shoaib (Ishaan Khatter) and Chandan (Vishal Jethwa), aren’t talking to each other. They’ve fought; one hit the other over a competitive exam result where millions appeared for a thousand odd vacancies. Shoaib is Muslim, Chandan is Dalit, both from the working class with zero privileges. And once the men reunite, it is as if sunshine returns to the film. That is the power of screen friendships, I guess. Thanks to my newfound obsession with Sholay, I could not help drawing an unlikely parallel: this duo is the Jai–Veeru of our times.