The Banality of Evil in the Borderlands
In the landscape of Indian cinema, where the “superstar” often eclipses the “actor,” Mammootty stands as a defiant anomaly. At 74, an age where many contemporaries rest on the laurels of nostalgia or succumb to fan-service caricatures, he continues to seek out the uncomfortable, the dark, and the morally ambiguous. His latest outing, Kalamkaval, directed by debutant Jithin K. Jose, is a testament to this relentless pursuit of reinvention. Produced by Mammootty Kampany, this 2025 action-thriller is not a celebration of heroism but a clinical dissection of a predator. It is a film that asks us to sit in the passenger seat with a monster, listening to vintage Tamil melodies while the air grows heavy with the scent of impending doom.
The Premise: A Game of Shadows
The narrative framework of Kalamkaval is structurally deceptive. While marketed as an investigative thriller, it abandons the “whodunit” trope almost immediately. The audience is not invited to solve a puzzle; they are invited to witness a tragedy. The film introduces us to Stanley Das (Mammootty), a middle-aged man living a seemingly innocuous life in Nagercoil. He drives an old Honda Accord, cherishes his family, and exudes the mundane energy of a government employee or a small-time businessman.
However, beneath this veneer of normalcy lies a terrifying compulsion. Stanley is a serial killer who preys on vulnerable women—widows, divorcees, and those deemed “past their prime” by societal standards. His weapon of choice is not a gun or a knife, but trust, followed by the silent lethality of cyanide or strangulation.
Parallel to Stanley’s grim procedural of death is the procedural of justice led by Inspector Jayakrishnan, known in police circles as “Nath” (The Owl). Played with grounded intensity by Vinayakan, Nath is introduced investigating a communal riot in Kerala sparked by an inter-faith elopement. This investigation, initially unrelated, pulls at a loose thread that unravels a tapestry of missing women stretching across the Kerala-Tamil Nadu border. The film is divided into eight chapters, a stylistic choice that lends a literary, almost fable-like quality to the grim events, tracing the inevitable collision between the Owl and the Rat.
The Anatomy of a Killer: Mammootty’s Performance
The crown jewel of Kalamkaval is undeniably Mammootty. Portraying a character inspired by the real-life serial killer “Cyanide Mohan,” Mammootty strips Stanley Das of any cinematic vanity. There is no attempt to make the killer “cool” in the traditional sense, yet there is a magnetic, terrifying charisma to his actions. He embodies the “banality of evil”—the idea that a monster doesn’t look like a monster; he looks like your neighbor.
Mammootty’s performance is defined by stillness and a disturbing grace. The screenplay allows him to embrace a certain femininity in his method; poisoning, historically associated with female killers in literature, becomes his tool of power. He towers on the margins of the screen, his physical dominance juxtaposed with the tender, almost intimate way he dispatches his victims. He doesn’t kill with rage; he kills with the satisfaction of an artist completing a sketch. The scenes where he sketches his victims in red ink, or blows smoke rings with a look of satiated calm, offer a glimpse into a psyche where murder is not a crime, but a biological necessity.
The actor’s ability to switch between the loving husband and the cold-blooded predator is seamless, making the horror more palpable. When he tells a lover, “What gives the greatest pleasure is killing a human being,” it is delivered not as a villainous monologue, but as a casual confession, making it infinitely more chilling.
The Hunter: Vinayakan’s Restrained Brilliance
If Stanley Das is the chaos hiding in the quiet, Inspector Jayakrishnan (Nath) is the order struggling to emerge from the noise. Vinayakan delivers a performance of remarkable restraint. In a genre that often demands cops to be loud, brash, and trigger-happy, Nath is observant and methodical. He is a man who understands the system’s limitations and the weight of the badge.
The chemistry between the protagonist and antagonist is psychological rather than physical for most of the film. Vinayakan portrays Nath as a man weary of the world’s rot but unwilling to look away. His investigation is not fueled by adrenaline but by a dogged refusal to let the truth remain buried. The nickname “Nath” (Owl) fits him perfectly; he is the silent watcher in the night, the predator of the predator. When the two finally share screen space, the tension is electric, not because of flying fists, but because of the clash of two unstoppable forces—one driven by compulsion, the other by duty.
Stylistic Realism and Technical Mastery
Jithin K. Jose’s direction is confident, eschewing the noise of commercial cinema for a “stylistic realism.” The film breathes. It takes its time. The camera, wielded by cinematographer Faisal Ali, lingers on the mundane—bus stops, lodge rooms, public washrooms—transforming these everyday spaces into sites of horror. The lighting is muted, often relying on practical sources, creating frames that feel heavy with dampness and unspoken secrets.
The soundscape is equally vital. Mujeeb Majeed’s score is a masterclass in subtlety. Instead of overwhelming the viewer with orchestral swells to dictate emotion, the music bubbles under the surface. The use of vintage Tamil songs, particularly tracks like Nilaa Kaayum Velicham, acts as a leitmotif for Stanley’s madness. The nostalgia of the music clashes violently with the brutality of the on-screen actions, creating a cognitive dissonance that unsettles the viewer. The sound design emphasizes the ambient—the strike of a match, the rustle of paper, the footsteps in an empty hallway—building tension through sensory immersion.
The Narrative Architecture: Strengths and Weaknesses
The screenplay, co-written by the director and Jishnu Sreekumar, deserves credit for its refusal to sensationalize. The violence is rarely graphic; the horror lies in the implication and the aftermath. However, the film is not without its structural flaws. The pacing, particularly in the second act, can feel sluggish. The transition from the communal riot investigation to the serial killer hunt, while thematically linked through the victimization of women, takes time to coalesce.
Furthermore, the film’s “chapters” structure, while aesthetically pleasing, sometimes disrupts the narrative flow. A significant critique lies in the portrayal of the victims. While the film attempts to highlight the vulnerability of women in a patriarchal society—women who are ignored by their families and the law—it struggles to give them agency. They exist primarily to die, to serve as plot points for the killer’s tally and the cop’s investigation. Unlike the web series Dahaad, which explored similar themes but deeply humanized the victims and critiqued the caste and gender dynamics at play, Kalamkaval often leaves the women as two-dimensional sketches, quite literally in Stanley’s notebook.
The film acknowledges this critique through a statutory warning about violence against women, but one wishes the script had allowed the female characters—played by capable actors like Rajisha Vijayan and Shruti Ramachandran—more three-dimensionality beyond their victimhood.
A Comparative Lens: Cyanide Mohan and Cinematic Predecessors
The shadow of the real-life Cyanide Mohan case looms large over Kalamkaval. The modus operandi—luring women with promises of marriage and killing them with cyanide pills disguised as contraceptives—is lifted directly from reality. However, the film deviates to explore the internal world of the killer.
Cinematically, it draws comparisons to Anurag Kashyap’s Raman Raghav 2.0 in its exploration of the symbiotic relationship between the cop and the killer. Yet, where Kashyap’s film was gritty, feverish, and chaotic, Kalamkaval is cold, clinical, and precise. It lacks the raw, visceral energy of Raman Raghav but replaces it with a brooding atmospheric dread that is uniquely Malayali. It shares DNA with films like Munnariyippu, where Mammootty previously explored the mind of a convict, proving that he is often at his best when he is at his worst.
The Verdict
Kalamkaval is not a film for those seeking the instant gratification of a mass masala entertainer. It is a slow-burn procedural that demands patience. It is a film that respects the intelligence of its audience, refusing to spoon-feed answers or manufacture cheap thrills.
Jithin K. Jose has delivered a debut that is technically sound and visually striking, even if the writing occasionally sags under the weight of its own restraint. The climax, while practical, lacks the emotional crescendo that the buildup promises, leaving the viewer with a sense of quiet unease rather than cathartic release.
However, the film is essential viewing for two reasons: the atmosphere and the acting. Vinayakan solidifies his status as one of the most versatile actors working today, providing the perfect counterweight to the lead. And Mammootty… Mammootty is a force of nature. In Stanley Das, he has created a villain who will haunt the viewer long after the credits roll—not because he is a monster, but because he is so terrifyingly human.
CINEMA SPICE RATING: ★★★★ (4/5)
