Cheekatilo

The Weight of Whispers

In the cacophony of modern media, where trauma is often packaged as primetime entertainment, silence has become a radical act. Sharan Koppisetty’s *Cheekatilo* (2026) attempts to inhabit this silence, moving away from the hysterical noise of 24-hour news cycles into the intimate, claustrophobic world of audio storytelling. By positioning its protagonist not as a gun-toting detective but as a podcaster, the film seeks to replace the adrenaline of the chase with the empathy of the ear. It is a noble cinematic experiment that explores whether a thriller can exist without the scream, even if it occasionally forgets that a whisper, to be heard, must still possess a distinct frequency.



The film’s visual language is aggressively faithful to its title, which translates to "In the Darkness." Koppisetty and cinematographer Mallikarjun construct a world that feels perpetually underlit, where shadows are not merely an aesthetic choice but a suffocating narrative device. The transition of Sandhya (Sobhita Dhulipala) from a sensationalist TV anchor—bathed in the harsh, artificial glare of studio lights—to an independent investigator working in the gloom of her home is the film’s strongest visual metaphor. The camera often lingers on the negative space around her, suggesting that the truth she seeks is hidden in the obsidian corners of the frame. This is contrasted jarringly with the film’s grim signature: the pristine white jasmine flowers the killer leaves behind, a motif that corrupts a symbol of traditional purity into a totem of macabre violation.

At the heart of this murky landscape is Sobhita Dhulipala, whose performance is a study in restraint. She plays Sandhya not as a fearless crusader, but as a woman carrying the heavy, unspoken burden of collective trauma. The script demands she navigate a perilous emotional geography—balancing her own past wounds with the fresh grief of her friend's murder. Dhulipala excels in the moments of solitude, particularly when she is behind the microphone. Here, the film touches on something profound: the idea that the "true crime" genre, often criticized for exploitation, can be reclaimed as a vessel for witnessing. The tension in *Cheekatilo* arises not from car chases, but from the friction between the loud, patriarchal dismissal of women’s safety and Sandhya’s quiet, dogmatic insistence on being heard.



However, the film’s ambition is frequently undercut by a narrative architecture that feels too fragile to support its heavy themes. While the atmosphere is thick with dread, the procedural mechanics are surprisingly rote. The "cat-and-mouse" game with the antagonist relies on conveniences that strain credulity, and the supporting characters—including a largely decorative fiancé—often feel like cardboard cutouts rather than living inhabitants of this dark world. The script hesitates to fully plunge into the psychological abyss it teases, often retreating into safety just when it threatens to become truly disturbing.

Ultimately, *Cheekatilo* stands as a moody, if imperfect, meditation on the cost of truth. It is a film that understands the texture of fear better than the mechanics of suspense. While it may not deliver the visceral shocks of a traditional blockbuster, it succeeds in creating a somber space where the silenced are given a voice, however trembling that voice may be. In an era of loud cinema, Koppisetty offers a reminder that sometimes, the most terrifying things are those we can only hear in the dark.