Vikram
Aadi Saikumar
Vikram
Overview
When a meteor crashes into the highly superstitious village of Shambhala in the 1980s, strange supernatural events unfold, forcing an atheist scientist to face an ancient horror-one that science can't explain or escape.
Cast
Reviews
✦ AI-generated review
Faith in the Blast Radius
There is a peculiar texture to the recent wave of Indian folk horror—a rough-hewn, tactile quality that suggests the soil itself is hostile. If films like *Kantara* or *Virupaksha* re-established the village as a site of ancient, slumbering power, Ugandhar Muni’s *Shambhala* attempts to drop a literal celestial object into that powder keg. Released in the dying breath of 2025, the film is less a creature feature and more a collision of epistemologies: the sterile, linear logic of 1980s science crashing violently against the circular, blood-soaked conviction of rural superstition. It is an imperfect but deeply sincere work that asks what happens when our instruments of measurement fail to detect the frequency of our fears.
Director Ugandhar Muni, in his sophomore effort, wisely chooses the 1980s as his temporal canvas. This pre-digital era allows for an isolation that feels genuine; there are no smartphones to break the tension, only the static of radios and the hum of Geiger counters. The visual language of the film oscillates between the beige, clinical detachment of Vikram (Aadi Saikumar), a geologist and devout atheist, and the deep, saffron-and-shadow palette of the village of Shambhala.
When a meteor—referred to by locals with terrified reverence as the *Banda Bhootham* (Stone Ghost)—crashes into the earth, Muni uses the event not just as a catalyst for jump scares, but as a metaphor for the intrusion of the unknown. The cinematography by Praveen K. Bangarri captures the suffocation of the village, where fog seems to cling to the characters like guilt. While the film’s ambition occasionally outpaces its budget—evident in some jarringly artificial CGI moments—the practical atmosphere, aided by Sricharan Pakala’s nerve-shredding score, creates a palpable sense of dread that renders technical flaws forgivable.
At the heart of this atmospheric pressure cooker is Aadi Saikumar’s Vikram. It is a relief to see a performance that resists the gravitational pull of the "mass hero" archetype. Vikram does not punch the supernatural into submission; he attempts to dissect it. His journey is one of dismantling—the slow erosion of his arrogance as his scientific framework proves inadequate against a horror that weaponizes the human psyche.
The narrative cleverly intertwines the external threat with the concept of *Arishadvargalu* (the six passions of the mind), suggesting that the evil in Shambhala feeds not on flesh, but on moral corruption. The horror here is intimate. When villagers begin to turn on themselves, it is not merely possession; it is an amplification of their own suppressed vices. This adds a layer of tragic inevitability to the violence, elevating the film above a standard slasher.
Ultimately, *Shambhala* stands as a testament to the enduring power of the "rational outsider" trope, breathing new life into it by refusing to offer easy answers. While the third act stumbles slightly under the weight of exposition, forcing a resolution that feels somewhat rushed compared to the slow-burn buildup, the film succeeds in its primary mission. It reminds us that there are corners of the human experience that cannot be graphed or calculated. In the crater left by the meteor, Muni finds a space to explore the fragility of belief, proving that sometimes, the scariest thing isn't what falls from the sky, but what was already waiting in the dark.
There is a peculiar texture to the recent wave of Indian folk horror—a rough-hewn, tactile quality that suggests the soil itself is hostile. If films like *Kantara* or *Virupaksha* re-established the village as a site of ancient, slumbering power, Ugandhar Muni’s *Shambhala* attempts to drop a literal celestial object into that powder keg. Released in the dying breath of 2025, the film is less a creature feature and more a collision of epistemologies: the sterile, linear logic of 1980s science crashing violently against the circular, blood-soaked conviction of rural superstition. It is an imperfect but deeply sincere work that asks what happens when our instruments of measurement fail to detect the frequency of our fears.
Director Ugandhar Muni, in his sophomore effort, wisely chooses the 1980s as his temporal canvas. This pre-digital era allows for an isolation that feels genuine; there are no smartphones to break the tension, only the static of radios and the hum of Geiger counters. The visual language of the film oscillates between the beige, clinical detachment of Vikram (Aadi Saikumar), a geologist and devout atheist, and the deep, saffron-and-shadow palette of the village of Shambhala.
When a meteor—referred to by locals with terrified reverence as the *Banda Bhootham* (Stone Ghost)—crashes into the earth, Muni uses the event not just as a catalyst for jump scares, but as a metaphor for the intrusion of the unknown. The cinematography by Praveen K. Bangarri captures the suffocation of the village, where fog seems to cling to the characters like guilt. While the film’s ambition occasionally outpaces its budget—evident in some jarringly artificial CGI moments—the practical atmosphere, aided by Sricharan Pakala’s nerve-shredding score, creates a palpable sense of dread that renders technical flaws forgivable.
At the heart of this atmospheric pressure cooker is Aadi Saikumar’s Vikram. It is a relief to see a performance that resists the gravitational pull of the "mass hero" archetype. Vikram does not punch the supernatural into submission; he attempts to dissect it. His journey is one of dismantling—the slow erosion of his arrogance as his scientific framework proves inadequate against a horror that weaponizes the human psyche.
The narrative cleverly intertwines the external threat with the concept of *Arishadvargalu* (the six passions of the mind), suggesting that the evil in Shambhala feeds not on flesh, but on moral corruption. The horror here is intimate. When villagers begin to turn on themselves, it is not merely possession; it is an amplification of their own suppressed vices. This adds a layer of tragic inevitability to the violence, elevating the film above a standard slasher.
Ultimately, *Shambhala* stands as a testament to the enduring power of the "rational outsider" trope, breathing new life into it by refusing to offer easy answers. While the third act stumbles slightly under the weight of exposition, forcing a resolution that feels somewhat rushed compared to the slow-burn buildup, the film succeeds in its primary mission. It reminds us that there are corners of the human experience that cannot be graphed or calculated. In the crater left by the meteor, Muni finds a space to explore the fragility of belief, proving that sometimes, the scariest thing isn't what falls from the sky, but what was already waiting in the dark.