Rajini Gaang: A Wild Ride Through Tamil Cinema's Haunted HeartIn the neon-drenched underbelly of Chennai's bustling streets, where the line between laughter and screams blurs like monsoon rain on a windshield, Rajini Gaang (2025) bursts onto the screen as a audacious cocktail of comedy, horror, and heartfelt chaos. Directed by M. Ramesh Baarathi in his sophomore outing after a string of indie shorts, this Tamil flick—released on November 27, 2025—pays cheeky homage to the Superstar Rajinikanth while spinning a yarn of unlikely heroes battling spectral shenanigans.
Clocking in at a breezy 125 minutes, it snagged a solid 7.2 on IMDb within days of its debut, with BookMyShow user ratings tipping 3.8/5, buoyed by praise for its "non-stop laughs and legit scares." Critics on Times of India dubbed it a "middling horror ride with emotional undercurrents," but for fans of genre-bending Tamil fare like Pizza or Iruttu Arai Fila, it's a guilty pleasure that delivers more grins than goosebumps—though not without a few fumbles along the way.
At its pulsating core, Rajini Gaang follows the titular "gaang"—a ragtag quartet of Rajinikanth superfans who run a dingy video parlor in North Chennai. There's the wide-eyed dreamer Rajini Kiishen (played by the eponymous lead, channeling his inner Thalaivar with manic energy), who's convinced the Superstar's spirit possesses him during karaoke nights. His better half, Dwiwika (a vibrant debutante with comic timing sharper than a sickle), keeps the group grounded as the pragmatic voice of reason, moonlighting as a mehendi artist. Rounding out the crew are the bumbling Mottai Rajendran as the superstitious sidekick who's allergic to anything supernatural, and Munishkanth as the tech-savvy know-it-all whose gadgets always backfire hilariously. Cool Suresh pops in as their grizzled mentor, a retired cop with a penchant for conspiracy theories and endless loops of Baashha.
The plot kicks off when the gang stumbles upon an ancient cassette tape during a routine cleanup—labeled "Rajini Gaang: The Lost Cut"—purportedly a never-seen Rajinikanth reel from the '80s. But as they screen it in their ramshackle theater, the film doesn't just play; it invades. Shadows slither off the screen, whispers echo from the vents, and soon, the parlor becomes ground zero for a poltergeist pandemonium. Turns out, the tape is cursed, tied to a forgotten Rajini double who met a grisly end on set, his vengeful spirit now hell-bent on reclaiming unfinished glory. What ensues is a frantic 48-hour frenzy: exorcism attempts gone awry (cue a chicken-flying ritual that devolves into a food fight), chases through rain-slicked alleys with flickering streetlights, and meta nods to Rajini's iconic dialogues repurposed for ghostly one-liners. Baarathi's script, co-written with a nod to urban legends from Chennai's film folklore, weaves in subplots of personal redemption—Rajini's infertility woes mirroring the spirit's unfulfilled dreams, Dwiwika's hidden grief over a lost sibling—transforming slapstick into something surprisingly soulful.
Baarathi's direction is the film's secret sauce: a high-wire act balancing horror's tension with comedy's release valve. He draws from the Stree playbook—folklore-fueled frights laced with wit—but infuses it with Tamil masala flair. The first act zips like a autorickshaw in peak traffic, establishing the gaang's bromance with rapid-fire banter and sight gags (Mottai mistaking a possessed fan for a drunk uncle is gold). Post-interval, the horror dials up: dimly lit sequences in the parlor's basement, where cobwebs dance like angry serpents, evoke The Conjuring's intimacy without aping its excess.
Yet, the film's true genius lies in its emotional pivot—the spirit isn't just a villain; it's a tragic echo of faded stardust, forcing the gang to confront their own "cursed" lives. In a standout scene, Rajini Kiishen duels the ghost in a dreamlike montage synced to a remixed Chumma Debbai, blending fight choreography with heartfelt monologues on legacy and loss. It's these undercurrents that elevate Rajini Gaang from B-movie fodder to a sly commentary on fandom's double-edged sword: idolization as both salvation and shackle.
Visually, the film is a feast for the eyes, thanks to cinematographer Vignesh Rajan's kinetic lens. Shot on a shoestring in real Chennai locales—from the chaotic lanes of Sowcarpet to the eerie quiet of abandoned film studios—the palette shifts masterfully: vibrant Diwali hues for comedic beats give way to desaturated blues and greens for spectral scares, with practical effects (jittery wire work for ghostly levitations) outshining CGI bloat. Editor Praveen K.L. keeps the pace taut, cross-cutting between real-time hauntings and flashback reels to build disorienting dread. The score by newcomer Sean Roldan is a banger—synth-heavy tracks that riff on Rajini's era, like a horror-twisted Ullamellam, pulse with infectious energy, while subtle percussion mimics a heartbeat under siege. Production design by S. Ramakrishnan nails the '80s nostalgia: faded posters peeling like old skin, cassette tapes as talismans, turning the parlor into a time-warped shrine.
The cast steals the show, proving that ensemble chemistry trumps star power every time. Rajini Kiishen, a theater vet making his big leap, embodies the Superstar's swagger with self-aware charm—his wide-eyed terror during a jump scare is comedy gold, yet he nails the dramatic beats with raw vulnerability. Dwiwika, fresh from TV soaps, shines as the emotional anchor, her arc from skeptic to believer laced with poignant restraint; a quiet scene where she "mehendi's" a protective symbol on the gang's hands is tear-jerkingly tender. Mottai Rajendran and Munishkanth are reliable riot-mongers—the former's baldie panic attacks rival his Maari antics, the latter's gadget fails a nod to Andhadhun's absurdity. Cool Suresh brings gravelly gravitas, his cop-turned-mentor role a loving lampoon of Tamil patriarchs. Even the spirit, voiced and motion-captured by a surprise cameo (no spoilers!), adds layers of pathos to the poltergeist proceedings. It's a democratic delight—no one's phoning it in; they're all in the gaang.
That said, Rajini Gaang isn't without its creaks. The horror, while inventive, leans too heavily on tropes: creaky doors, flickering lights, and that overused "face-in-the-mirror" gag feel recycled from a dozen OTT horrors. Pacing sags in the third act, where emotional detours border on maudlin, diluting the thrills— a tighter 110-minute cut might've punched harder. Baarathi's ambition to blend feels occasionally uneven; the comedy-horror fusion works in bursts but stumbles when scares interrupt punchlines, leaving some sequences feeling like a mismatched double feature. Compared to polished peers like Romancham (which nailed found-footage frights with folkloric finesse), Rajini Gaang feels scrappier, its low-budget charm a double-edged sword—endearing yet evident in the occasional shaky VFX ghost trail. Feminist undertones in Dwiwika's arc are promising but underdeveloped, reducing her to the "strong wife" archetype at times. And while the Rajini worship is fun, it risks alienating non-fans with inside-baseball references that demand a Sivaji marathon prerequisite.
Yet, these nitpicks pale against the film's infectious spirit. Social media's ablaze: Twitter threads hail it as "the Rajini reboot we didn't know we needed," with memes of Mottai's exorcism fails going viral. Reddit's r/Kollywood calls it "a chaotic love letter to fandom, flaws and all," averaging 7/10 from early viewers. In a year dominated by spectacle-heavy blockbusters like Vettaiyan, Rajini Gaang reminds us of Tamil cinema's scrappy soul—where heart trumps polish, and a good laugh can exorcise any demon. Baarathi's got the gaang's back, proving small stories can summon big magic.
This isn't a séance but a summons: grab your popcorn, dim the lights, and join the haunt. Rajini Gaang doesn't redefine the genre; it remixes it with masti, mischief, and a whisper of melancholy. In Chennai's cinematic pantheon, this one's a fan-favorite phantom—elusive, entertaining, and eternally echoing.
Clocking in at a breezy 125 minutes, it snagged a solid 7.2 on IMDb within days of its debut, with BookMyShow user ratings tipping 3.8/5, buoyed by praise for its "non-stop laughs and legit scares." Critics on Times of India dubbed it a "middling horror ride with emotional undercurrents," but for fans of genre-bending Tamil fare like Pizza or Iruttu Arai Fila, it's a guilty pleasure that delivers more grins than goosebumps—though not without a few fumbles along the way.
At its pulsating core, Rajini Gaang follows the titular "gaang"—a ragtag quartet of Rajinikanth superfans who run a dingy video parlor in North Chennai. There's the wide-eyed dreamer Rajini Kiishen (played by the eponymous lead, channeling his inner Thalaivar with manic energy), who's convinced the Superstar's spirit possesses him during karaoke nights. His better half, Dwiwika (a vibrant debutante with comic timing sharper than a sickle), keeps the group grounded as the pragmatic voice of reason, moonlighting as a mehendi artist. Rounding out the crew are the bumbling Mottai Rajendran as the superstitious sidekick who's allergic to anything supernatural, and Munishkanth as the tech-savvy know-it-all whose gadgets always backfire hilariously. Cool Suresh pops in as their grizzled mentor, a retired cop with a penchant for conspiracy theories and endless loops of Baashha.
The plot kicks off when the gang stumbles upon an ancient cassette tape during a routine cleanup—labeled "Rajini Gaang: The Lost Cut"—purportedly a never-seen Rajinikanth reel from the '80s. But as they screen it in their ramshackle theater, the film doesn't just play; it invades. Shadows slither off the screen, whispers echo from the vents, and soon, the parlor becomes ground zero for a poltergeist pandemonium. Turns out, the tape is cursed, tied to a forgotten Rajini double who met a grisly end on set, his vengeful spirit now hell-bent on reclaiming unfinished glory. What ensues is a frantic 48-hour frenzy: exorcism attempts gone awry (cue a chicken-flying ritual that devolves into a food fight), chases through rain-slicked alleys with flickering streetlights, and meta nods to Rajini's iconic dialogues repurposed for ghostly one-liners. Baarathi's script, co-written with a nod to urban legends from Chennai's film folklore, weaves in subplots of personal redemption—Rajini's infertility woes mirroring the spirit's unfulfilled dreams, Dwiwika's hidden grief over a lost sibling—transforming slapstick into something surprisingly soulful.
Baarathi's direction is the film's secret sauce: a high-wire act balancing horror's tension with comedy's release valve. He draws from the Stree playbook—folklore-fueled frights laced with wit—but infuses it with Tamil masala flair. The first act zips like a autorickshaw in peak traffic, establishing the gaang's bromance with rapid-fire banter and sight gags (Mottai mistaking a possessed fan for a drunk uncle is gold). Post-interval, the horror dials up: dimly lit sequences in the parlor's basement, where cobwebs dance like angry serpents, evoke The Conjuring's intimacy without aping its excess.
Yet, the film's true genius lies in its emotional pivot—the spirit isn't just a villain; it's a tragic echo of faded stardust, forcing the gang to confront their own "cursed" lives. In a standout scene, Rajini Kiishen duels the ghost in a dreamlike montage synced to a remixed Chumma Debbai, blending fight choreography with heartfelt monologues on legacy and loss. It's these undercurrents that elevate Rajini Gaang from B-movie fodder to a sly commentary on fandom's double-edged sword: idolization as both salvation and shackle.
Visually, the film is a feast for the eyes, thanks to cinematographer Vignesh Rajan's kinetic lens. Shot on a shoestring in real Chennai locales—from the chaotic lanes of Sowcarpet to the eerie quiet of abandoned film studios—the palette shifts masterfully: vibrant Diwali hues for comedic beats give way to desaturated blues and greens for spectral scares, with practical effects (jittery wire work for ghostly levitations) outshining CGI bloat. Editor Praveen K.L. keeps the pace taut, cross-cutting between real-time hauntings and flashback reels to build disorienting dread. The score by newcomer Sean Roldan is a banger—synth-heavy tracks that riff on Rajini's era, like a horror-twisted Ullamellam, pulse with infectious energy, while subtle percussion mimics a heartbeat under siege. Production design by S. Ramakrishnan nails the '80s nostalgia: faded posters peeling like old skin, cassette tapes as talismans, turning the parlor into a time-warped shrine.
The cast steals the show, proving that ensemble chemistry trumps star power every time. Rajini Kiishen, a theater vet making his big leap, embodies the Superstar's swagger with self-aware charm—his wide-eyed terror during a jump scare is comedy gold, yet he nails the dramatic beats with raw vulnerability. Dwiwika, fresh from TV soaps, shines as the emotional anchor, her arc from skeptic to believer laced with poignant restraint; a quiet scene where she "mehendi's" a protective symbol on the gang's hands is tear-jerkingly tender. Mottai Rajendran and Munishkanth are reliable riot-mongers—the former's baldie panic attacks rival his Maari antics, the latter's gadget fails a nod to Andhadhun's absurdity. Cool Suresh brings gravelly gravitas, his cop-turned-mentor role a loving lampoon of Tamil patriarchs. Even the spirit, voiced and motion-captured by a surprise cameo (no spoilers!), adds layers of pathos to the poltergeist proceedings. It's a democratic delight—no one's phoning it in; they're all in the gaang.
That said, Rajini Gaang isn't without its creaks. The horror, while inventive, leans too heavily on tropes: creaky doors, flickering lights, and that overused "face-in-the-mirror" gag feel recycled from a dozen OTT horrors. Pacing sags in the third act, where emotional detours border on maudlin, diluting the thrills— a tighter 110-minute cut might've punched harder. Baarathi's ambition to blend feels occasionally uneven; the comedy-horror fusion works in bursts but stumbles when scares interrupt punchlines, leaving some sequences feeling like a mismatched double feature. Compared to polished peers like Romancham (which nailed found-footage frights with folkloric finesse), Rajini Gaang feels scrappier, its low-budget charm a double-edged sword—endearing yet evident in the occasional shaky VFX ghost trail. Feminist undertones in Dwiwika's arc are promising but underdeveloped, reducing her to the "strong wife" archetype at times. And while the Rajini worship is fun, it risks alienating non-fans with inside-baseball references that demand a Sivaji marathon prerequisite.
Yet, these nitpicks pale against the film's infectious spirit. Social media's ablaze: Twitter threads hail it as "the Rajini reboot we didn't know we needed," with memes of Mottai's exorcism fails going viral. Reddit's r/Kollywood calls it "a chaotic love letter to fandom, flaws and all," averaging 7/10 from early viewers. In a year dominated by spectacle-heavy blockbusters like Vettaiyan, Rajini Gaang reminds us of Tamil cinema's scrappy soul—where heart trumps polish, and a good laugh can exorcise any demon. Baarathi's got the gaang's back, proving small stories can summon big magic.
This isn't a séance but a summons: grab your popcorn, dim the lights, and join the haunt. Rajini Gaang doesn't redefine the genre; it remixes it with masti, mischief, and a whisper of melancholy. In Chennai's cinematic pantheon, this one's a fan-favorite phantom—elusive, entertaining, and eternally echoing.