Thudarum: Writer K R Sunil On How The Story Was Born
Twelve years ago, a man stood quietly outside the Kodungallur police station, his gaze fixed on a vehicle parked nearby. That fleeting image never left writer K R Sunil. Over time, it morphed into something larger—a character, a story, a possibility. That man, whom Sunil named ‘Shan face’, became the beating heart of Thudarum, a film that has emerged not just as Mohanlal’s grand comeback, but as a rare triumph of writing, performance and cinematic soul.
In Thudarum, director Tharun Moorthy, known for Operation Java and Saudi Vellakka, takes Sunil’s long-nurtured idea and turns it into a film of precision and poignancy. At its core is Shanmughan, a gentle taxi driver from Ranni, whose prized possession is his old black Ambassador. When the car is impounded, it unravels his quiet life, pushing him into an emotional whirlwind. What unfolds is not a hero’s journey, but a layered tragedy driven by the kind of deep character work Malayalam cinema used to be proud of.
Mohanlal plays Shanmughan with rare restraint and fire—free from mannerisms, stripped of star image. This is his finest performance since Oppam, shifting seamlessly between silence and storm. In the second half, his transformation from a resigned man to one blazing with righteous anger is a masterclass in internal acting.
Sunil’s original vision, carried in solitude for over a decade, found its path through Ranjith, Mohanlal, Antony Perumbavoor, and finally Tharun, whose rewriting breathed new structure into the script. “Tharun stepped in not as a colleague, but as a brother,” wrote Sunil, reflecting on the emotional release of watching Mohanlal and Shobana perform scenes he’d carried in his heart for years.
The craft is impeccable—Jakes Bejoy’s haunting score never overwhelms, and Shaji Kumar’s camera paints metaphors with rain-soaked roads and forest trails. Shobana brings grace in a brief but powerful role, while Prakash Varma leaves a lingering menace that refuses to fade.
But the true magic of Thudarum lies in its soul. It doesn’t chase twists or spectacle. It leans into emotion, identity, and systemic apathy. It trusts the audience to sit with silence, to feel discomfort, and to empathise. That trust is rare.
Thudarum is a film born from patience and persistence—from the face of a stranger, to the heartbeat of a story, to the screen. As Sunil puts it, this is their collective journey in the black Ambassador. The destination is cinema of the finest kind.
