Vishal Menon

There was a time in Tamil cinema when films like Revolver Rita may have been considered “cool”. This must have been around the early 2010s, when the first generation of Tamil filmmakers graduated from the Broadband Downloads School of Modern Cinema. Of course, they all cultivated their tastes with modern classics, but somewhere down the line, films of Tarantino and Guy Ritchie became the most important names in their taste-making. Revolver Rita, in all fairness, appears to be a film that was found in one of the old Seagate hard disks of that era.

In Sivaranjani’s Victoria, the most striking moment has more to do with a sound, rather than visuals. It feels like just another day at Victoria’s (Meenakshi Jayan) beauty salon when we hear this, as she waxes the arms of a customer. Until then, we see Victoria maintaining a happy face through it all, as she tries to manage the crowd at the salon with the worries of having to elope with her non-committal boyfriend. But each time Victoria tugs at a waxing strip in her hurry to remove them, the sound we hear is that of slaps falling on Victoria, along with the voice of a man shouting. Until that moment, we see bruises on her face, but the film doesn’t quite explain their origin. And with the sound of each waxing strip getting pulled, we listen in on the taunts being hurled at Victoria for her decision to marry outside of her religion. For women like her, the salon is therapy.

For a film named after the most fragrant sub-species of sandalwood, there’s a lot of talk about the stench people are forced to live with in Jayan Nambiar’s Vilayath Buddha. The most obvious of these stories belong to Bhaskaran (Shammi Thilakan), the out-of-work politician who cannot reverse his reputation, after he gets caught visiting the neighbourhood sex worker. Then there’s the stench Chaithanya (Priyamvada) wants to get rid off of her for being termed this sex worker’s daughter. She has no identity outside of her mother’s occupation and she fears she too will be seen as one. Then of course is the story of Double Mohanan (Prithviraj), the sandalwood smuggler, who will forever remain a thief to everyone in the hill station of Marayur.

When we meet Aneesh (Roshan Mathew) and Anjana (Zarin Shihab) for the first time, Aneesh refers to this ex-girlfriend of his as… Anjana. They’re meeting after seven long years, after their respective heartbreaks, and yet through their easy comfort, we begin to feel like “Anjana” is still too formal a name for Aneesh to be calling her. It’s the easiest name to shorten to Anju and yet, by the end of this meeting, when we realise Anish’s Anjana has now become Anju again, we cannot remember when this shift happened.

“Ghosting” is not a term one should ever have used casually when you’re in the same room as director Rahul Sadasivan. Not only does this modern master of horror look at the word differently but he’s also capable of writing an entire screenplay based on how he understands this piece of Gen-Z lingo. This understanding is especially relevant given how he’s made another film about three people just like he did with Bhoothakalam and Bramayugam. And If Bhoothakalam used depression as its central theme to discuss generational trauma passing on from grandmother to grandson, Bramayugam used its three central characters to talk about class and caste divide systemic to Kerala.

There are several ways in which Praveen K gets you to think — and then rethink — the de facto norms of a serial-killer thriller. At about the 20-minute mark in Aaryan, the film has already revealed everything we usually wait to be told in stories of this genre. Not only does the setup end with the film plainly telling us the identity of the serial killer, but it also concludes with this person being given the biggest punishment imaginable. With the whodunit element taken away, Aaryan gets the rare chance to focus on the reasons why a person decides to become a serial killer, and the unique modus operandi that has the entire force running from pillar to post.