When a film about paranormal activity in real, lived-in spaces emerges, the first thing that strikes us is questions. The tried-and-tested way to dodge them is by throwing religion or folklore into the mix. Rahul Sadasivan’s Dies Irae stands out as a rare horror film that largely resists that shortcut. It raises questions, answers some, leaves a few to the imagination, and saves others for possible sequels.
Rohan (Pranav Mohanlal) is a wealthy architect who spends his days indulging in parties, women, alcohol, and every vice imaginable while his family lives abroad in the USA. One day, he stumbles upon the news of his former classmate Kani’s (Sushmitha Bhat) suicide. It was, by his own admission, a casual fling between them – one he ended like countless men his age, by vanishing without a trace. Wracked with guilt, Rohan visits her home. Things take a dark turn when, in a moment of careless curiosity, he picks up a hairclip from the dead girl’s dressing table — and something begins to follow him back.
Dies Irae’s premise isn’t the most shocking of all. There’s a mansion where Rohan lives. Instead of ornate locks and bats, we see a lift and high ceilings. True to his profession, the interiors are tastefully done. His lifestyle is modern and minimalistic. To help him around, there’s a housekeeper during the day. The watchman sleeps outside, and Rohan enjoys his solitude when the sun goes down. He speaks little. He socializes, though we never see a lively side of him, if one ever existed.
Between Rohan and his tidily set-up house, one fine day, we begin to hear the sound of a dancer’s chilanka (anklet), the clack of a hairclip, eerie shadows, and the disturbing rustle of the wind.
Enter Madhu (Gibin Gopinath), the son of a deceased (and devout) man known for his ways to handle the paranormal. A neighbour of Kani’s, Rohan meets him during his visit to her residence. What might have been a brief encounter turns into a shared investigation into Kani’s suicide. For Rohan, it’s an attempt to rid himself of the freaky visions that disturb his nights. For Madhu, it’s a search for answers to the inherited intuition that has troubled him long before Kani’s death. The rest of Dies Irae follows their journey as they unravel the roots of a mystery that grows darker with every step.
Sadasivan’s Dies Irae isn’t a body-horror or a creature film built to shock you with grotesque imagery. Here, the real hero isn’t Pranav Mohanlal. It’s the soundscape (Jayadevan Chakkadath, M R Rajakrishnan) and the original score (Christo Xavier). As they balance the film’s quiet, expansive atmosphere, we are steadily drawn into this world. Watch Dies Irae in an ordinary theatre with inferior sound, and you may not feel a thing. Though I’m not a fan of jump scares in general, Dies Irae has a bunch of them. However, they don’t feel forced. But they never let you relax either.
Furthermore, the cinematographer (Shehnad Jalal) seems to relish his craft, turning Rohan’s nights alone in that house into some of the most inventive and haunting visuals Malayalam cinema has seen this year. Together with editor Shafique Mohamed Ali, the technical crew seems to have had a blast here.
From a storytelling perspective, Dies Irae grows more engaging as the two men begin piecing together the scattered clues. Religion slips into the maze, as does the shadowy presence of a new figure. The threads start to come together, yet a few questions remain. What was truly going on with Kani? Who was she beneath the surface? Did she choose death, or was she driven to it? Does Rohan’s guilt run deeper than he admits? Sadasivan’s film builds toward a mind-bending pre-climax and an even stranger final scene, offering no closure — only the lingering chill of what might still be watching.
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As is the demand of any horror fare, Dies Irae requires a top-notch central act. It isn’t easy to project fear on screen without worrying about not looking ugly. Pranav Mohanlal dives deep into Sadasivan’s world and has a screen presence to die for. In a film filled with lengthy solo sequences, the actor shines in his own company. It’s not hard to spot his craft, whether he’s playing the drums like a maniac or staring sharply into the mirror. With fewer dialogues than his previous films, the actor’s physicality and fluid body language anchor his fiery turn.
Gibin Gopinath is terrific as he goes about his mundane life with his ailing mother, where his “gift” of intuition lies rusting. Madhu’s world is entirely different from Rohan’s, and the actor helps us ease into his lifestyle and mindscape.
Arun Ajikumar, who plays Kiran, is outstanding. It’s a rather chatty character in a quiet film, and the actor’s ability to change tone mid-conversation adds layers to what’s already there on paper. Jaya Kurup is crackling, delivering some of the film’s most chilling moments, whereas Sushmitha Bhat is omnipresent without being present.
Dies Irae isn’t without its minor hiccups. At times, you can’t help but question the logic of strength. A spirit can be powerful, but can its human counterpart overpower someone like Rohan, a man in the prime of his youth? And in today’s Kerala, can two people truly live in such complete isolation, sealed away in mystery?
That said, Sadasivan’s screenplay, which links the concept of Dies irae, the Latin hymn, is clever, and the antagonist who gradually emerges is a fascinating presence. Helped by top-tier production design (Jotish Shankar), editing, and visuals, the pre-climactic showdown is what renders the plot surprisingly humane. Dies Irae closes on a haunting note, hinting that this world still holds secrets untold — and I, for one, would be eager to return if Sadasivan chooses to expand it further.
Rating: ★★★★
