Vilayath Buddha (Malayalam)
Vilayath Buddha arrives with the weight of legacy. This is the third in Prithviraj Sukumaran’s unofficial “ego-clash trilogy”, after Driving Licence and Ayyappanum Koshiyum, both brought to life by director Sachy — who had also dreamed of adapting Vilayath Buddha. After Sachy’s death in 2020, the responsibility of honouring that vision fell to debutant Jayan Nambiar, one of Sachy’s protégés. And to Jayan’s credit, despite the film’s unmissable flaws, he treats the material with the kind of earnestness that tells you this film mattered long before the cameras rolled.
Based on GR Indugopan’s acclaimed novel, Vilayath Buddha builds its world around a single, almost mythical presence — a rare, superior sandalwood tree that stands in the courtyard of one of our protagonists, Bhaskaran Master (Shammi Thilakan). Sculptors apparently wait years for wood like this; it is the kind said to be perfect for carving a Buddha. So in the picturesque landscape of Marayoor, this tree becomes the axis around which two very different men spin into conflict.
When the film begins, Bhaskaran bears the moniker ‘Thoovella’ (pure white) Bhaskaran. It’s a reputation he has claimed for himself as a retired schoolteacher and the panchayat president, a position that he plans to retain as elections loom close. That’s until it all collapses in one night, when a humiliating accident shakes that identity to its core. His once expansive world begins to fold inward, and the sandalwood tree becomes entwined with his sense of self, his fears, and his increasingly desperate attempts to reclaim a dignity he feels slipping away.
This is when Double Mohanan steps into the picture. Prithviraj plays the former student of Bhaskaran’s and a gifted poacher who knows the Marayoor forests like an extension of his own body with full-bodied swagger. Bhaskaran’s Vilayath Buddha tree draws him with an intensity that feels almost spiritual. He offers a generous price, only to receive an emphatic “no” from his former teacher, and that sets the stage for the friction between them.
It’s only halfway through the film that the two characters’ paths genuinely intersect in this manner, but once they do, the story becomes a dance of wills. Two men circling each other with stubbornness, wounded pride, and, beneath all of it, a thin thread of recognition and affection.
The film is undeniably made with heart, yet several stretches, especially some emotional subplots, don’t always land with the force they aim for. Certain portions wander, certain transitions feel uneven, and a few ideas never fully bloom despite the care with which they’re presented in a runtime that runs a bit too long at nearly three hours. Even so, the sincerity is unmistakable, and it keeps you invested as the film slowly finds its pulse.
Shammi Thilakan is easily the soul of the film. He plays Bhaskaran as a man shrinking from his own downfall yet clinging, sometimes to a deranged degree, to his one act of rebellion. His expressions and on-screen presence are at times even a striking echo of his father, the legendary Thilakan.
Prithviraj, meanwhile, is entirely in his comfort zone as Mohanan, a larger-than-life mass-hero role that he leans into with ease. The darkened skin tone and rugged styling instantly recall the pan-Indian Pushpa phenomenon — another story of a sandalwood smuggler from the Telugu heartland. The film even tips its hat to that cultural moment with a little scene where Mohanan and his partner Chaithanya (Priyamvada Krishnan) watch Pushpa in a theatre.
The ‘mass hero’ energy, however, is not always subtle, and not always necessary, in a film that otherwise thrives on lived-in realism. The deliberate attempt to sensationalise the character for box-office appeal occasionally feels forced, with a scene or two treading a thin line between surreal and simply unconvincing.
One of the film’s pleasant surprises is Priyamvada as Chaithanya. This is a woman who, as Gen Z would put it, absolutely matches Double Mohanan’s crazy, and sometimes even outdoes it. She’s fiery and stubborn, and Priyamvada is magnetic in the role. Her chemistry with Prithviraj’s Mohanan is one of the more standout aspects of the film. The film also has a strong supporting cast comprising Anu Mohan, Rajashree, and Pramod Veliyanad.
When the film stays closest to its literary roots, Jayan’s sensitivity as a director shines through. The world-building is textured, the characters feel lived in, and the forest becomes a character in its own right, with Arvind Kashyap and Renadev’s cinematography bringing out the rugged beauty of Marayoor. Jakes Bejoy’s music is one of the film’s biggest strengths. His score lifts entire sequences and often becomes the emotional spine the screenplay leans on.
Vilayath Buddha is far from flawless. Much like its fabled sandalwood, it shows knots and scars. But it remains anchored by some strong performances and a sincere vision.
Disclaimer: This review was not paid for or commissioned by anyone associated with the film. Neither TNM nor any of its reviewers have any sort of business relationship with the film’s producers or any other members of its cast and crew.