Okay. My brain is soup. Absolute soup.
Just finished Madharaasi on Netflix and I think I need to lie down in a dark room for a week. Or maybe rewatch it immediately. I don't know. My heart is still doing this weird little tap dance against my ribs.
Whoa.
Like, you think you know what you're getting into. A noir thriller set in Chennai. Rain, neon signs, a grizzled detective. Fine. Seen it. But this... this is something else. It's like the director took the city's soul, put it in a blender with some bad dreams and a bottle of cheap whiskey, and hit 'liquefy'.
I was on my couch, right? My ancient couch that groans every time I breathe. Had the lights off, phone on silent (a miracle, I know). And for two and a half hours, I was just... gone. Swallowed by the screen. The rain in that movie isn't just weather; it's a character. It's constantly weeping, or washing away evidence, or making the neon bleed all over the streets. My living room felt bone dry and pathetic in comparison.
There's this one shot. I can't get it out of my head. It's not even a big action scene. The detective, Karthik, is standing in an alley after a lead goes nowhere. It’s pouring. The camera just... holds. It's a static shot, looking down at a puddle. And floating in this dirty, rain-spattered water is a single, wilted jasmine mala. The kind you see everywhere in Chennai. And the neon sign from a "Tiffin Centre" across the street is reflecting in the water, turning the white jasmine petals this sickly, electric pink. It was so beautiful and so sad and it just screamed 'everything is lost but also still beautiful'. I literally paused Netflix. Just stared at that frozen image for like a full minute. What does that even mean? I don't know. But it’s in my head now. Rent-free.
And the plot twists. Oh my god. The plot twists. I physically jolted. My bowl of popcorn, which was resting precariously on my stomach, went flying. Little buttery kernels are probably still lost in the couch cushions, a little tribute to my shattered mind. The big reveal... that the woman who hired him... that she wasn't real? That she was a split personality? I saw it coming from a mile away, honestly. It's a classic trope. But the way they did it. The way the sound design went all muffled, like you're underwater, and the camera started spinning... it didn't feel like a clever trick. It felt like a sickness. Like I was inside his head when it broke.
I thought I loved that part, but now that I'm typing this... was it actually kind of dumb? The whole 'it was all a dream' or 'it was all in his head' thing can be such a cop-out. But here... it didn't feel like a cop-out. It felt earned. Because the whole movie was so subjective and weird from the start. So maybe it's not dumb. Maybe it's brilliant. I don't know. I'm not a critic. My brain feels like scrambled eggs.
There's this scene where he's chasing a ghost through the Triplicane market, and it reminded me of that time I got lost in the crowd near Marina Beach when I was like, seven. I remember grabbing onto a stranger's dhoti, thinking it was my dad, and the smell of jasmine and sweat and fried fish. It was terrifying. I started crying. Then this old lady bought me a balloon. A red one. I have no idea why that memory just surfaced. It has absolutely nothing to do with the movie. God, I'm tired.
And don't even get me started on the ending. It's not an ending. It just... stops. He's standing on a beach, the sun is rising, and he just smiles this tiny, broken smile. Cut to black. Roll credits. I was staring at the Netflix "Are you still watching?" my mouth hanging open. THAT'S IT? THAT'S ALL YOU GIVE ME? I need answers! What happened to his sister? Was any of it real?
But also, if they'd given me answers, would it have ruined it? Probably. The ambiguity is the whole point. The city has memories, but it doesn't tell stories straight. The movie is the same way.
I feel like I need to walk it off. But it's 3 AM. And it's raining outside. Which is perfect and also terrifying. I keep looking at the shadows in my hallway, expecting to see a flicker of movement.
Okay. I'm done. I can't think about this anymore.
8.5/10. My couch is now a sacred space.
- Ishaan