Tamil cinema has a storied history of hyperlink thrillers—films that weave multiple narratives into a cohesive tapestry of suspense and revelation. Nirangal Moondru (Three Shades), released on November 22, 2024, is director Karthick Naren’s latest stab at this genre, following his acclaimed debut Dhuruvangal Pathinaaru (2016). Starring Atharvaa Murali, R. Sarathkumar, and Rahman, this crime thriller promises a night of chaos, redemption, and introspection. With a vibrant technical palette and a talented ensemble, it aims high—but does it deliver the emotional and narrative punch to match its ambition? Let’s dive into this colorful yet uneven journey.
The film unfolds over a single night, intertwining the lives of three men, each representing a shade of human nature—black, white, and gray. Vetri (Atharvaa) is a drug-addled aspiring filmmaker whose script, his life’s work, has been stolen, plunging him into a spiral of rage and substance abuse. Vasanth (Rahman) is a respected schoolteacher whose daughter Parvathy (Ammu Abhirami) goes missing, unraveling his composed exterior. Selvam (Sarathkumar) is a corrupt cop with a tough exterior, navigating a personal vendetta against a politician’s spoiled son while grappling with his strained relationship with Vetri, his son. A fourth thread follows Sri (Dushyanth Jayaprakash), a lovestruck student obsessed with Parvathy, whose amateur investigation sets the plot in motion. These stories collide in a web of cause and effect, exploring themes of fatherhood, failure, and redemption.
The first hour of Nirangal Moondru is a masterstroke. Karthick Naren wastes no time establishing his characters, each introduced with a distinct visual style that mirrors their inner turmoil. Vetri’s world is a psychedelic haze of neon lights and disjointed cuts, reflecting his drug-fueled descent. Vasanth’s scenes are muted and grounded, hinting at a man clinging to normalcy amid chaos. Selvam’s arc is shot with a gritty realism, his swagger masking a deeper complexity. Cinematographer Tijo Tomy and editor Sreejith Sarang craft a sensory feast, while Jakes Bejoy’s pulsating score—arguably the film’s MVP—elevates the tension. The buildup to the interval is gripping, with a cleverly staged sequence that ties the threads together, leaving you hungry for answers.
Atharvaa delivers a standout performance as Vetri, channeling raw frustration and vulnerability. His hallucinatory sequences, drenched in vivid colors and surreal imagery, are the film’s most captivating moments—think Tamil cinema’s answer to a Gaspar Noé fever dream. Sarathkumar, as Selvam, brings a commanding presence, effortlessly slipping into the skin of a morally ambiguous cop. His scenes crackle with intensity, especially when his tough façade crumbles to reveal paternal guilt. Rahman’s Vasanth is subtler but no less effective, his quiet despair anchoring the film’s emotional stakes. Dushyanth and Ammu Abhirami hold their own, though their roles feel more functional than fleshed out. The ensemble works in harmony, making the characters’ intersections feel organic—at least initially.
Where Nirangal Moondru falters is in its second half. The promising setup unravels into a predictable resolution that leans heavily on familiar tropes—revenge, betrayal, and a last-minute twist that doesn’t land as hard as intended. The screenplay, so tight in the first hour, becomes indulgent, lingering too long on Vetri’s trippy escapades and Selvam’s vendetta. Vasanth’s arc, which could’ve been the emotional core, gets sidelined, reducing his pain to a plot device. The film’s meta-commentary on cinema and plagiarism—Vetri’s stolen script mirroring Karthick Naren’s own rumored struggles—feels forced, lacking the depth to resonate. By the end, the technicolor explosion of emotions fizzles into a muted black-and-white whimper.
Technically, the film is a triumph. The visuals pop with a bold three-color motif—red, blue, and green—symbolizing the protagonists’ shades. Bejoy’s music doesn’t just support the narrative; it drives it, from eerie ambient tracks to adrenaline-pumping beats. The editing keeps the non-linear structure coherent, though it can’t mask the pacing issues post-interval. At 122 minutes, the runtime feels justified in the first half but drags as the story loses steam. The production design, from cramped interiors to shadowy streets, enhances the thriller vibe, making every frame a visual treat.
Thematically, Nirangal Moondru aims to dissect the human psyche—how good, bad, and ugly coexist within us. It’s most compelling when exploring fatherhood: Selvam’s neglect versus Vasanth’s devotion, and Sri’s search for a father figure in his teacher. Yet, these ideas don’t fully bloom. The writing prioritizes style over substance, leaving the emotional payoff shallow. Critics have been lukewarm, with ratings averaging 2.5 to 3.5 out of 5, praising the craft but lamenting the lack of soul.
Box-office-wise, Nirangal Moondru had a modest run, overshadowed by bigger Diwali releases like Amaran. Its U/A certification and November release suggest a niche appeal, likely finding a second life on OTT platforms. For fans of Karthick Naren, it’s a step up from his recent misfires (Maaran, anyone?), signaling a filmmaker still wrestling with his voice. But for those expecting a taut, twisty thriller with lasting impact, it’s a mixed bag.
In the end, Nirangal Moondru is a dazzling puzzle that doesn’t quite fit together. It’s a film you admire for its ambition and artistry—those trippy visuals and that killer score—but struggle to love for its heart. If you’re a sucker for style and don’t mind a narrative that prioritizes flair over feeling, it’s worth a watch. Just don’t expect it to linger in your mind like the shades it so vividly paints.
