Echoes in the Wilderness: A Deep Dive into Eko (2025)In the misty embrace of Kerala's Idukki district, where fog clings to the hills like unspoken secrets, Eko unfolds as a haunting tapestry of loyalty, control, and the blurred lines between man and beast. Directed by Dinjith Ayyathan and penned by Bahul Ramesh—who also wields the camera—this Malayalam mystery thriller, released on November 21, 2025, marks the triumphant finale to Ramesh's "Animal Trilogy." Following the simian enigmas of Kishkindha Kaandam (2024) and the procedural shadows of Kerala Crime Files: Season 2 (2025), Eko swaps primates for a pack of rare Malaysian hounds, crafting a narrative that's as intellectually rigorous as it is viscerally immersive. With an IMDb rating hovering at 8.5 and widespread acclaim on platforms like Rotten Tomatoes—where critics hail its "poetry in motion"—this film isn't just a thriller; it's a philosophical howl into the void of human nature.
At its core, Eko: From the Infinite Chronicles of Kuriachan orbits the enigmatic disappearance of Kuriachan (Saurabh Sachdeva), a maverick dog breeder whose shadowy dealings with the Indian Navy and underground networks have left a trail of suspects and specters. The story opens in the remote hamlet of Kaattukunnu, a fog-shrouded borderland between Kerala and Karnataka, where an aging woman known as Mlaathi Chedathi (Bianna Momin) tends to her isolated existence alongside her steadfast companion, Peeyos (Sandeep Pradeep). Whispers of Kuriachan's past—a tapestry spanning World War II migrations, Naxalite hideouts, and Malayali diasporas in Malaysia and Singapore—draw a motley crew of searchers: a jaded investigator (Narain), a former associate (Vineeth), plainclothes cops (Binu Pappu and Ashokan), and even international operatives (Sim Zhi Fei). As timelines fracture and converge, the film probes not just "where is Kuriachan?" but "what is Kuriachan?"—a man whose life echoes the very dogs he bred: fierce, loyal, and perilously unpredictable.
What elevates Eko beyond genre conventions is its refusal to spoon-feed resolution. Ramesh's screenplay, a labyrinth of half-revealed motives and chronological sleights-of-hand, flirts with ignorance as much as enlightenment. Knowledge here is "a fragile thing," as one review astutely notes, where each clue feels like "a pinprick in the haystack." The narrative builds like a Korean thriller—slow, tense, grounded in hyper-realism—eschewing bombast for cathartic whispers. Influences from Bong Joon-ho's Memories of Murder or Park Chan-wook's vengeance tales linger in the air, but Ayyathan infuses it with a distinctly Malayalam eco-feminist pulse. Dogs aren't mere props; they're mirrors to human frailty. A pivotal sequence, where a character withholds food from the pack to assert dominance, crystallizes the film's thesis: "Feeding is a way of establishing ownership." Protection morphs into possession, loyalty into chains, and freedom into a feral illusion. This isn't subtext—it's the spine, extrapolated from canine behavior to dissect patriarchal controls, colonial legacies, and the quiet tyrannies of survival.
Visually, Eko is a masterstroke, courtesy of Ramesh's dual role as cinematographer. Shot extensively in Idukki's damp forests and fog-veiled trails, every frame pulses with tactile poetry. Light slices through mist like fractured memories, dimly lit rooms evoke half-remembered dreams, and the hounds' eyes gleam with an intelligence that rivals their human counterparts. Editor Sooraj E.S. weaves these elements into a propulsive rhythm, where silence amplifies dread—rustling leaves, distant howls, the creak of unseen footsteps. Mujeeb Majeed's score, a brooding swell of strings and percussion, doesn't underscore so much as it inhabits the wilderness, swelling emotions before the plot catches up. Art director Sajeesh Thamarassery's production design transforms Kaattukunnu into a character unto itself: a landslide-prone limbo where nothing is permanent, allegiances shift like soil, and the line between prisoner and pet dissolves in the rain-soaked earth.
Performances are the film's beating heart, raw and restrained. Sandeep Pradeep, fresh off Kishkindha Kaandam's triumph, anchors Eko with quiet ferocity as Peeyos—a man whose emotional honesty cuts deeper than any outburst. His eyes, welling in a heart-wrenching test of resolve, collapse the screen under their weight. Saurabh Sachdeva's Kuriachan is a shapeshifter, imposing yet elusive, evoking a Raghuvaran-esque gravitas that haunts even in flashback. Biana Momin, a Meghalaya native making her Malayalam debut, imbues Mlaathi with a steely vulnerability; her portrait-lit rituals summon a past that's equal parts tender and terrifying. The ensemble—Narain's world-weary sleuth, Vineeth's conflicted ally, and the foreign actors' grounded intensity—forms a web of idiosyncrasies, each arc layered with betrayal, greed, and resilience. It's a testament to Ayyathan's direction: he doesn't just cast; he forges a pack, where every snarl and submission interlocks.
Yet, for all its brilliance, Eko isn't flawless. The verbosity of Ramesh's dialogue, rendered in subtitle blocks, occasionally induces vertigo—like speed-reading a thriller's soul. Some stretches, particularly the explanatory flashbacks, leech the mystery, trading subtlety for clarity in a film that thrives on ambiguity. Compared to Kishkindha Kaandam's bruising emotional core—the nuanced monkey-man bonds that gave it a "big, beating heart"—Eko prioritizes intellectual intrigue over visceral pull. One critic laments it as "a forest tale that fails to resonate," too mysterious for its own good, a messy thriller where the sum feels less than its evocative parts. The suspension of disbelief required for human-canine power dynamics borders on the fanciful, and the multi-timeline sprawl might alienate casual viewers craving linear thrills. In a landscape of gore-fests like Marco or Animal, Eko's restraint is revolutionary, but it demands patience—a slow burn that singes only if you linger.
Still, these quibbles fade against the film's immersive triumph. Twitter buzz calls it a "masterpiece," with fans bowing to the Kishkindha team's alchemy: "Superbly written, beautifully shot, outstandingly directed." Reddit threads echo this, dubbing it a "spiritual sequel" to its predecessor, a Nolan-esque mind-bender lost in the wilderness. For cinephiles weary of formulaic violence, Eko is a sensory journey: chilling moods, thrilling revelations, unforgettable visuals that linger like fog. It probes deeper questions—who owns whom in a world of disguised protections?—while delivering a mystery that's as rewarding as it is rewatchable. In Bahul Ramesh's trilogy closer, the echo isn't just the title; it's the reverberation of stories that refuse to be tamed.
This isn't an exhaustive autopsy but an invitation: venture into Kaattukunnu. You might emerge questioning your own leashes. Eko doesn't just entertain; it howls for reflection, proving Malayalam cinema's wild heart beats fiercest in the underbrush.
At its core, Eko: From the Infinite Chronicles of Kuriachan orbits the enigmatic disappearance of Kuriachan (Saurabh Sachdeva), a maverick dog breeder whose shadowy dealings with the Indian Navy and underground networks have left a trail of suspects and specters. The story opens in the remote hamlet of Kaattukunnu, a fog-shrouded borderland between Kerala and Karnataka, where an aging woman known as Mlaathi Chedathi (Bianna Momin) tends to her isolated existence alongside her steadfast companion, Peeyos (Sandeep Pradeep). Whispers of Kuriachan's past—a tapestry spanning World War II migrations, Naxalite hideouts, and Malayali diasporas in Malaysia and Singapore—draw a motley crew of searchers: a jaded investigator (Narain), a former associate (Vineeth), plainclothes cops (Binu Pappu and Ashokan), and even international operatives (Sim Zhi Fei). As timelines fracture and converge, the film probes not just "where is Kuriachan?" but "what is Kuriachan?"—a man whose life echoes the very dogs he bred: fierce, loyal, and perilously unpredictable.
What elevates Eko beyond genre conventions is its refusal to spoon-feed resolution. Ramesh's screenplay, a labyrinth of half-revealed motives and chronological sleights-of-hand, flirts with ignorance as much as enlightenment. Knowledge here is "a fragile thing," as one review astutely notes, where each clue feels like "a pinprick in the haystack." The narrative builds like a Korean thriller—slow, tense, grounded in hyper-realism—eschewing bombast for cathartic whispers. Influences from Bong Joon-ho's Memories of Murder or Park Chan-wook's vengeance tales linger in the air, but Ayyathan infuses it with a distinctly Malayalam eco-feminist pulse. Dogs aren't mere props; they're mirrors to human frailty. A pivotal sequence, where a character withholds food from the pack to assert dominance, crystallizes the film's thesis: "Feeding is a way of establishing ownership." Protection morphs into possession, loyalty into chains, and freedom into a feral illusion. This isn't subtext—it's the spine, extrapolated from canine behavior to dissect patriarchal controls, colonial legacies, and the quiet tyrannies of survival.
Visually, Eko is a masterstroke, courtesy of Ramesh's dual role as cinematographer. Shot extensively in Idukki's damp forests and fog-veiled trails, every frame pulses with tactile poetry. Light slices through mist like fractured memories, dimly lit rooms evoke half-remembered dreams, and the hounds' eyes gleam with an intelligence that rivals their human counterparts. Editor Sooraj E.S. weaves these elements into a propulsive rhythm, where silence amplifies dread—rustling leaves, distant howls, the creak of unseen footsteps. Mujeeb Majeed's score, a brooding swell of strings and percussion, doesn't underscore so much as it inhabits the wilderness, swelling emotions before the plot catches up. Art director Sajeesh Thamarassery's production design transforms Kaattukunnu into a character unto itself: a landslide-prone limbo where nothing is permanent, allegiances shift like soil, and the line between prisoner and pet dissolves in the rain-soaked earth.
Performances are the film's beating heart, raw and restrained. Sandeep Pradeep, fresh off Kishkindha Kaandam's triumph, anchors Eko with quiet ferocity as Peeyos—a man whose emotional honesty cuts deeper than any outburst. His eyes, welling in a heart-wrenching test of resolve, collapse the screen under their weight. Saurabh Sachdeva's Kuriachan is a shapeshifter, imposing yet elusive, evoking a Raghuvaran-esque gravitas that haunts even in flashback. Biana Momin, a Meghalaya native making her Malayalam debut, imbues Mlaathi with a steely vulnerability; her portrait-lit rituals summon a past that's equal parts tender and terrifying. The ensemble—Narain's world-weary sleuth, Vineeth's conflicted ally, and the foreign actors' grounded intensity—forms a web of idiosyncrasies, each arc layered with betrayal, greed, and resilience. It's a testament to Ayyathan's direction: he doesn't just cast; he forges a pack, where every snarl and submission interlocks.
Yet, for all its brilliance, Eko isn't flawless. The verbosity of Ramesh's dialogue, rendered in subtitle blocks, occasionally induces vertigo—like speed-reading a thriller's soul. Some stretches, particularly the explanatory flashbacks, leech the mystery, trading subtlety for clarity in a film that thrives on ambiguity. Compared to Kishkindha Kaandam's bruising emotional core—the nuanced monkey-man bonds that gave it a "big, beating heart"—Eko prioritizes intellectual intrigue over visceral pull. One critic laments it as "a forest tale that fails to resonate," too mysterious for its own good, a messy thriller where the sum feels less than its evocative parts. The suspension of disbelief required for human-canine power dynamics borders on the fanciful, and the multi-timeline sprawl might alienate casual viewers craving linear thrills. In a landscape of gore-fests like Marco or Animal, Eko's restraint is revolutionary, but it demands patience—a slow burn that singes only if you linger.
This isn't an exhaustive autopsy but an invitation: venture into Kaattukunnu. You might emerge questioning your own leashes. Eko doesn't just entertain; it howls for reflection, proving Malayalam cinema's wild heart beats fiercest in the underbrush.