ULLOZHUKKU: A Quiet Reminder That Malayalis Are Masters of Storytelling
I am a great fan of Malayalam cinema. They seldom disappoint you.
I have watched almost all the Malayalam movies available on Netflix. Every film has been overwhelmingly satisfying. That’s why I always check whether a new Malayalam movie has been added to Netflix.
Recently, I noticed a movie called Ullozhukku.
I started watching it—but stopped after five minutes. It felt dull. Slow. Almost lifeless.
Then I received a message from my relative:
“This movie is very good. It’s more than a movie—it’s real life unfolding in front of you.”
That message made me go back.
This note is written after watching the full movie.
Ullozhukku carries all the hallmark features of good Malayalam cinema:
simple characters, but deeply natural acting;
a story that never stagnates, but keeps moving;
and twists that quietly flip the narrative upside down.
Coincidentally, I was reading a book called Story Smart, which looks at storytelling from a scientific perspective—how stories affect our brains, why certain narrative elements hit us harder than others, and how small revelations can completely alter our perception. Watching Ullozhukku while reading this book was an experience in itself.
This is a mature film, and watching it with children may feel uncomfortable.
At its core, the story is simple.
A boy and a girl in a village love each other. Suddenly, the girl’s family forces her into an arranged marriage—with a feeble, sickly, visibly unwell man. She is young, smart, and beautiful. The mismatch is painful to watch. Yet, the marriage happens.
There is no intimacy. Soon, the husband’s health deteriorates further. Hospitals become routine. The woman-Anju-ends up caring for him constantly, suppressing her own emotions, desires, and loneliness.
Deprived of affection, she eventually reaches out to her former lover, Rajeev. One day, she gives in to her feelings. She becomes pregnant. Shortly after, the husband Thomaskutty dies.
After the funeral, Anju decides to leave and live with Rajeev. She reveals everything—to her husband’s mother, Leelamma.
From this moment, the film transforms.
Leelamma explodes in anger.
“Don’t call me Amma,” she tells Anju.
From then on, Anju is treated differently. Coldly. Cruelly.
Her own parents find out. Her father slaps her.
She is broken.
Then comes a single line—from a seemingly insignificant character.
Leelamma’s sister, a nun from the village church, says during an argument:
“We got Thomaskutty married knowing everything.”
That sentence changes everything.
Anju begins to question: Knowing everything?
She digs deeper and discovers the truth—her husband had a brain tumour. He had undergone treatment before the marriage. Leelamma knew. She hid the medical records, believing the tumour was “removed” and there would be no issue.
This revelation is the soul of the film.
From this point, Anju changes.
Her posture. Her voice. Her resolve.
She becomes strong.
Her father, who once slapped her, softens.
Leelamma, who rejected her, begins to defend her.
Watching how one hidden truth reshapes every character’s behaviour was phenomenal. This isn’t just cinema—this is life. How often do we judge without knowing the full story?
I won’t reveal more. This is a film that deserves to be watched, not summarized.
The climax has a beautiful twist. I loved the ending.
I cried.
Not dramatic tears—but silent ones, rolling down my cheeks.
I watch films closely—expressions, silences, micro-movements.
Urvashi as Leelamma-what an actress. No drama. No exaggeration. She lives Leelamma.
Parvathy as Anju—wow. Every step, every pause, every word is perfectly measured.
I finished the movie overwhelmed—by the storytelling, by the performances, by the honesty.
Cinema, at its core, is about story and how you tell it.
Not about:
200-crore actors
1000-crore box office numbers
multi-crore audio launch spectacles
actors delivering hate-filled speeches against imagined enemies
pan-India fantasies
flying across the world to shoot a 3-minute song
importing North Indian actors for “market reach”
70-plus-year-old stars playing age-inappropriate roles
stale, rotten punch dialogues
lazy binaries—either hate Brahmins or glorify Dalits
I can go on.
Tamil cinema today is deeply infested with all of this.
I honestly doubt whether it will recover anytime soon. And by the time it does—if it ever does—I wonder how far Malayalam cinema would have climbed.
One thing is certain.
Malayalam cinema will continue to stand on story and characters.
Tamil cinema, on the other hand, seems content lying at the feet of 80-year-old men, still calling them Thalaivar, Thala, or Thalapathy.
And that-for me-is the real tragedy.
