The first 20 minutes of Sookshmadarshini may be used as a textbook to learn the art of writing a setup. Writers Athul Ramachandran and Libin TB are preparing their viewer for a film that falls into an unusual genre but instead of rushing towards the plot, they take their time to focus on establishing their protagonist: Priyadarshini (Nazriya), a 20-something mother who admits to feeling bored of domesticity. She lives in a regular middle-class neighbourhood, filled with regulars who know everything about each other.

It’s not fair to call Lijin Jose’s Her, written by Archana Vasudev, an anthology. On the surface, these are the stories of five women taking place across five households in and around Thiruvananthapuram. The timelines are jumbled and these stories are set across different genres with at least one comedy, one satire and parts you can broadly call drama, each with its own mood and theme. Yet you feel conflicted by the thought of calling it an anthology because it never stops feeling like a unified whole, with the narrative smoothness of a well-written feature film (it’s edited by Kiran Das).

There couldn’t have been a more fitting title for the film that Sorgavaasal has turned out to be. When translated, it could be read as “At Heaven’s Gate”. This isn’t merely ironic, given how almost the entire film is set within the walls of a high-security prison. But the idea of being at arms length from heaven, as close as you are far, gives Sorgavaasal the illusion of it taking place in some sort of a purgatory. For some inmates, this idea of heaven is the day they’re released back into the outside world. For others, the exit sign points only towards death. But then there’s the third kind, like the man they all lovingly call ‘Cooker’ (Balaji Sakthivel), whose belief falls somewhere in between. When Parthi (RJ Balaji, as never seen before) cooks a delicious meal for the inmates, he asks Cooker why this isn’t the norm. Cooker replies, “If you start enjoying the food you’re being served here, you will feel no need to leave.”

In one of the many interesting segues in Rajkumar Periasamy’s Amaran, an officer talks to Major Mukund Varadarajan (an earnest Sivakarthikeyan) about the Kashimir women these officers refer to as “half widows”, stuck in perennial conflict as they wait for their husbands to return, unsure if they’re still alive. This is explained in a rush, as though someone is reading aloud a Wikipedia entry, but one can still make a connection between these women and the film’s narrator,

Amal Neerad and his co-writer Lajo Jose (whose story this film is based on) know how far to push the unreliable narrator trope. Not only is their protagonist Reethu (Jyothirmayi in her return) suffering from both retrograde and anterograde amnesia, but we’re seeing the film through her perspective for the most part. What makes this film even more complex is how quickly we get the feeling that we cannot rely on the people Reethu relies on to make sense of her chilling universe.

Journalist-turned-director T. J. Gnanavel doesn’t seem to care much for any sort of filmmaking subtleties. It’s as though he enjoys dialling up the volume knob to underline his already-dramatic writing, and doesn’t let you rest until you feel the full weight of a scene’s emotions. This was obvious in the way he didn’t stop by just showing you a police officer dragging a beaten-up Manikandan K. into the back of a police jeep in Jai Bhim (2021).