‘Theatre’ Review: Sajin Baabu & Rima Kallingal Craft A Haunting, Poetic Tale Of Belief And Purity

Is what we see around us the real truth? Are myths merely stories, or mirrors reflecting our buried realities?

These are the haunting questions that linger in the mind long after watching Theatre: The Myth of Reality, the latest work from writer-director Sajin Baabu, known for his courageous explorations of female subjectivity and social morality.

Spoiler Alert:

Set in the remote, rain-soaked islet of Illikkal Thuruth, this film paints an unsettling, mystical portrait of two women, Meera (Rima Kallingal) and her mother Sharadamma (Sarasa Balussery), who live amid silence, superstition, and the slow decay of tradition.

The film opens with the simple rhythm of rural life, Meera climbing trees to pluck jackfruit, mangoes, pepper, and plantains. The camera by Syamaprakash M. S. moves with organic fluidity, capturing her grace and the tactile connection she shares with nature. Life flows through boats (vanjis) that ferry these homegrown goods to the riverside markets.

Meera’s life revolves around caring for her ailing mother, tending the crops, and living in the ancestral rhythm of the land. But beneath this earthy stillness, something wounded festers inside her, a repressed trauma from her teenage years, when a teacher’s betrayal scarred her psyche.

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Sajin Baabu reveals this not through flashbacks but through Meera’s hesitant body language, her silence, and the way she reacts to touch.

Near their home stands an ancient snake temple, once protected by their ancestors’ healers and snake-bite rescuers. Legend says Neelakanthan Vaidhyar, Meera’s grandfather, once treated Mahatma Gandhi himself from a snakebite, but his family was later cursed by the serpent gods for a ritual transgression.

Sharadamma still clings to this belief. Her faith is the family’s final anchor in a drowning world.

When Meera meets a man, an old lover from her past, near this very temple, their clandestine intercourse in the dark sanctum becomes a moment of carnal rebellion and spiritual desecration. The mother witnesses it, a haunting sequence lit only by flickering oil lamps, merging the sensual and the sacred.

It’s a taboo act that triggers a storm, not just moral judgment, but what the family believes to be divine wrath.

Soon after, while climbing a coconut tree, Meera is bitten by a rare insect. What starts as a minor wound becomes an excruciating skin infection, spreading rapidly across her body.

The same video of her climbing — shot by a vlogger (Dain Davis) — goes viral on social media, turning her into a digital spectacle.

As Meera’s health worsens, the vlogger begins a fundraising campaign, claiming to help her get a life-saving medicine worth ₹7 crore. Crowdfunding floods in. Yet, in this age of online empathy and voyeurism, her pain becomes content, her suffering commodified.

Theatre constantly dances between myth and modernity, between what we believe and what we exploit. On one side, there’s the superstition of snake curses and purity, and on the other, the hyperreality of digital charity and empathy.

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It’s a philosophical probe into how a woman’s body is policed, sanctified, and punished by systems of belief. Meera’s sexuality, her assault, her illness, everything is filtered through the lenses of purity and shame.

Her body becomes the site of both devotion and disgust. Her mother’s devotion becomes blind faith. Society’s compassion turns to cruelty once her “sin” is known.

Through Meera, Sajin Baabu, inspired by a true incident, revisits questions of chastity, consent, and societal voyeurism,  how even empathy becomes exploitative when filtered through the performative morality of social media.

Rima Kallingal delivers a restrained yet disturbing performance. She inhabits Meera’s silence and pain with understated precision — her performance is more physical than verbal.

However, at times, her emotional range feels overly measured, as if holding back from full breakdown, a creative choice that some may see as underplayed.

Sarasa Balussery as Sharadamma is deeply affecting — embodying the fierce tenderness and blind faith of a mother caught between love and myth.

Supporting turns by Dain Davis, Pramod Veliyanad, Ann Saleem, and Krishnan Balakrishnan lend authenticity to the ecosystem.

Technically, Syamaprakash M. S.’s cinematography is a triumph, using muted palettes, long static frames, and close-up textures of wet soil, skin, and firelight to create a sensorial experience.

Appu N. Bhattathiri’s editing maintains the film’s slow-burn rhythm, while Saeed Abbas’s music — especially the eerie “Mudiyaattupaattu” — adds a layer of ritualistic melancholy.

By the end, the film collapses the boundaries between myth and reality. Meera’s story becomes a theatre of contradictions — where ancient beliefs meet the digital age’s hollow empathy.

Premiered at the Eurasian Bridge International Film Festival, Yalta (2025), Theatre earned standing ovations for its haunting visual language. It went on to win two Kerala Film Critics Association Awards — Best Actress (Rima Kallingal) and a Special Jury Award (Pramod Veliyanad).

The film also sparked cultural discussion through its campaign #UnwrittenByHer, celebrating women who rewrite their destinies beyond societal confines.

Timeline Verdict:

Theatre: The Myth of Reality is not for casual viewing. It’s slow, meditative, and layered — demanding attention and emotional investment. But those who stay till the end are rewarded with a film that questions faith, exposes hypocrisy, and mourns the commodification of human pain.

Cast:

• Rima Kallingal
• Sarasa Balussery
• Dain Davis
• Pramod Veliyanad
• Krishnan Balakrishnan
• Mekha Rajan
• Ann Saleem

Crew

• Director: Sajin Baabu

• Writer: Sajin Baabu

• Producers: Anjana Philip, Philip Zacharia

• Cinematography: Syamaprakash M. S.

• Editing: Appu N. Bhattathiri

• Music: Saeed Abbas