Lokah Chapter 1: Chandra Review | A Masterclass In Worldbuilding & Franchise-Debuts

Directed by Dominic Arun and produced by Dulquer Salmaan, Lokah Chapter 1: Chandra (2025) introduces Kalyani Priyadarshan as Chandra, arguably Malayalam cinema’s first true woman superhero. Positioned as the opening chapter of the five-part Lokah Cinematic Universe, it arrives as a striking case study in worldbuilding and franchise-debuts in an industry often overcrowded by hollow remakes and formulaic sequels. What makes it stand apart is the unmistakable imprint of a woman’s voice in its writing—Santhy Balachandran who co-authors the screenplay with Arun, shaping both Chandra’s ferocity and the intricate mythos that surrounds her. Malayalam cinema signals not just regional dominance here, but an ambition that aligns itself against Hollywood’s global franchise models, matching them in scale and narrative sophistication. It also reunites Salmaan with Arun, Balachandran, Naslen, Kalyani Priyadarshan and Tovino Thomas who have previously collaborated with him over various projects.

The film greets us with fire and brimstone ripping through buildings, consuming everything in its path. The camera races through the chaos until it finds Chandra—our heroine, or better yet, our superheroine. Her arrival is staged with grandeur, gravitas, and grace. Within moments, we see her manoeuvre a near-impossible escape from inside a collapsing structure, relying on sharp instincts to survive. The shift from live action to title sequence animation unfurls as seamlessly as a video-game cut scene, announcing the film’s scale and vision with flair. Here, the boasting doesn’t ring hollow; it feels ambitious in a refreshing way, unlike the empty chest-thumping of certain big-budget spectacles (ahem! Kalki 2928 AD and Adipurush). This one marries spectacle with intent. On a reported budget of just 30 crores, it refuses to play small. The title card sequence alone feels iconic—the kind destined to linger. And at its centre is Chandra, swift, sharp, mysterious, who arrives at Bengaluru with a mission shrouded in secrecy.

This year has been marked by a wave of mythical vampire films, from Sinners (2025) to Sister Midnight (2024), culminating in Lokah Chapter One: Chandra. Unlike its contemporaries, its real triumph lies in its fidelity to character over spectacle. The myth here does not drown the story but enriches it, shaping figures who feel lived in rather than ornamental. As folklore increasingly intertwines with modern storytelling, the Lokah universe borrows from oral traditions familiar to Malayali audiences, the grandmother’s fables, yet sets them against grim realities like organ trafficking. Through Chandra—a century-old Kalliyankattu Neeli, one of Kerala’s yakshis—the film reframes the trope of the transgressive woman. Often vilified as witches, they emerge instead as autonomous, faith-restoring seekers of justice, unsettling a world already built on unjust terms.

Watching Kalyani Priyadarshan as Chandra and Durga C. Vinod (as younger Chandra) brings an unfamiliar, almost electrifying recognition of what it means for a woman to be the most dangerous presence in the room—armed with her own ideals, strengths, flaws, and a striking ability to kick through everything in her way. Rarely do women in mainstream cinema get to look up to other women as superheroine figures, but Lokah: Chapter 1 edges close to that fantasy. For once, a woman can feel the thrill men describe when they watch a Captain America or Superman film. In an initial scene where a local goon (Sarath Sabha) threatens her friend, Chandra’s punches land with speed, precision, moral weight, and a kind of unshakable coolness that instantly defines her. The background score echoing “Queen of the night, no saviour in sight” frames her not as a softened presence but as magnetic, grand, and unapologetically in charge. She isn’t watered down; she isn’t hyper-sexualised; she isn’t waiting for a man to rescue her. For the first time, a woman’s punches on screen ignite the gut with a heady mix of butterflies and the raw exhilaration of female rage steered exactly where it belongs. In another scene, Chandra is told that “she is the one God has chosen to fight for the helpless and the hunted.” It makes one wonder if the screen needs a supernatural woman to reclaim justice because the real world rarely allows its women the same power. She is called a witch, a vampire, even a terrorist at one point—because the foreigner is always the trespasser, and the different is always marked, feared, and watched. Yet in those moments, Chandra is nothing less than a spectacle, a saviour, and an icon. 

Arun’s Bengaluru doesn’t take itself too seriously as a premise. Its presence is etched in neon blues and reds. The frames lean toward a cyberpunk sheen with a touch of Wong Kar-Wai’s allure, making the city pulse like it belongs more to the night than the day. Chandra moves through it like the lone moon in a restless sky. In one scene that feels straight out of a Twilight (2008) romance, she rescues her neighbour Sunny (Naslen Gafoor), whom she barely knows, from an oncoming tempo—pushing him out of harm’s way before vanishing, leaving him shaken yet safe. From this moment, a curious friendship unfolds, layered with tension and humour. Sunny embodies the rare archetype of men who are at once intrigued and unthreatened, willing to admire a woman in command without the need to diminish her. His friends Naijil (Arun Kurian) and Venu (Chandu Salimkumar) fold into the narrative with comic relief and camaraderie, softening the edges of Chandra’s secrets while giving the trio’s story both levity and warmth.

Though it must be said, the film doesn’t linger on greys too carefully—like every superhero franchise, good and evil are drawn apart so the moral weight feels easy to process. Inspector Nachiyapa Gowda (Sandy) is the clearly carved out antagonist in this chapter with no redeeming qualities. The sort of man who cannot take orders from a woman, despises them for being out at night, and casually brands Bengaluru women as “sluts”. Writing a cop villain within the film is a bold political commentary by itself. “Men deal with men, no women needed,” he says, raised by a staunch patriarch (his late father) whom he worships. Nachiyapa carries an inflated sense of greatness, reaffirmed by the very genre this film speaks to—the kind where a male protagonist’s hollow rage is framed as heroism. What stands tall is this self-serving, woman-hating ego, underscored by a swaggering background theme as the “hero” kills, abuses, and still gets hailed as a messiah. Many films led by these bearded “alpha-men” resurface in memory, but Lokah: Chapter One Chandra turns every one of them inside out.

Cinematographer Nimish Ravi stages some of the year’s most striking action sequences, outclassing spectacles in films like War 2 (2025) and Coolie (2025). The camera jolts with every blow Chandra lands, then slices through space as she surges at supersonic speed. The transitions are equally audacious: in one moment, a salt bottle tipping over a black tablecloth dissolves into constellations in the night sky—a leap of imagination that feels plucked straight from an alt-artist’s mind. Editor Chaman Chakko matches this inventiveness, particularly in the pre-interval sequence, where a folklore narration frames Chandra as Neeli across decades while a fight sequence erupts around her. It’s cross-cutting at its finest, and among the most memorable in recent cinema. Just as the film seems to reach a peak, it raises the bar again, sustaining momentum across a demanding three-hour stretch without ever loosening its grip. Jakes Bejoy’s contribution is undeniable—the pounding, addictive techno score amplifies every frame, syncing seamlessly with the editing to keep adrenaline levels surging alongside the story.

The film’s weight rests on its characters, not the sheen of its VFX, though both are strong. Chandra—guarded yet tender, forges an unlikely alliance with Sunny and his team. What begins with her pulling them into trouble shifts when Sunny, initially passive, steps up with courage to revive her. Their relationship is marked by trials of trust, shaping them into each other’s greatest strength, and inevitably, each other’s weakness. Chathan (Tovino Thomas) embodies a sharp, magnetic magician-goblin figure, carrying an effortless charm that hints at an internal compass of right and wrong, even if it isn’t immediately visible beneath the cool exterior. The film treats cameos with clarity, positioning them as meaningful threads in the fabric of its worldbuilding, never reducing them to fleeting spectacles of glamour.

The Malayalam industry sustains its unmatched standard because its audience is relentless—quick to celebrate but just as quick to mock, forcing filmmakers to constantly question, adapt, and outdo themselves. A trope never survives too long, and a refined audience refuses to accept lazy storytelling. This is why even the biggest commercial entertainers arrive with a pulse, a voice, and a story that feels lived in. Lokah stands as proof. Overall, the first part of the franchise fuses myth with the contemporary world in a manner that may not be entirely unique, yet its execution is what gives it distinction. Instead of spiraling into chaos, it maintains a sharp sense of awareness, anchored firmly in the world it reflects, which is precisely why it feels grounded and convincing.