Words like “mandala,” “sacrifice,” and “secret cult” are often tossed into the mix when a new program is released, and you either expect a mind-blowing experience or a gorgeously shot disaster.
Gopi Puthran, the director of Mardaani 2, flirts dangerously with both in her Netflix series Mandala Murders.
The show is at a crossroads; one direction goes to an engrossing thriller that defies genre convention, while the other leads to a philosophical rabbit hole.
The result is an ambitious but imperfect mashup that combines elements of occult noir, crime procedural, and fever dream, all of which are stitched together with dust, blood, and a dash of half-baked particle physics.
With a crime straight out of a horror folktale—a decapitated body floating subtly in a village pond—Mandala Murders, which takes place in the fictional town of Charandaspur, begins with a series of ritualistic killings that transport us back decades, from post-Independence India to a particularly ominous present.
The gory, meticulously planned crimes are connected to a covert cult known as Ayastha Mandala that dates back to the 1950s. These extreme spiritualists hold that Yast is a malevolent deity who requires death in exchange for requests being granted.
However, this is not merely a murder mystery; rather, it is an extensive eight-episode story in which no timeline is holy, no history is too strange, and no metaphor is left uncovered.
A suspended Delhi Police officer with a troubled history and a stern look that seldom leaves his face is Vikram Singh (played by Vaibhav Raj Gupta).
Rea Thomas (Vaani Kapoor), a shrewd but emotionally fragile CIB officer, comes to Charandaspur to unravel the escalating pattern of gruesome killings, and Vikram, who has been away from home for years, ends up becoming an unlikely companion.
Due to her unresolved trauma, Rea is not only pursuing a murderer but also a violent heritage that is deeply ingrained in the town’s mentality.
A priest who appears to know more than he admits, a psychic who communicates with shadows, a machine that grants wishes but asks thumbs in return, and Ananya (Surveen Chawla), a power-hungry local politician with a hidden past, are also hiding in this gloomy world.
The series never fully achieves musical harmony, despite its potential. The ambient intensity is undeniable from a visual standpoint.
A setting distinctly Indian and myth-infused is created by eerie trees, dusty alleys, and old texts sealed in secrecy.
From the hauntingly sterile interiors of the cult’s secret sanctum to the faded colors of flashback scenes that anchor the show’s historical components, there is ambition in the details.
Up until the script becomes overly stretched, even the cinematography tries to keep you on edge, and it succeeds.
Mandala Murders attempts to construct a massive narrative tapestry with each episode, incorporating themes such as trauma, caste, patriarchy, societal degradation, spiritual longing, and scientific ambition.
However, what starts as a multi-layered narrative quickly becomes complicated. The program often becomes mired in its time-switching plot, resulting in scenes where suspense gives way to bewilderment.
Characters are intriguingly introduced, but they quickly disappear without any meaningful resolution. Though not thoroughly examined, motivations are alluded to. The show has already switched to another topic by the time you get your bearings in the first one.
Nevertheless, Vaibhav Raj Gupta gives Vikram a remarkable sense of stillness. Every time the series appears to be getting out of control, his performance keeps it grounded.
This series marks Vaani Kapoor’s OTT debut, and she’s a mixed bag. The emotional beats frequently seem undercooked, even though she maintains her composure and plays the role of a police officer with quiet rage.
She does better in her brief dual role as physicist Nandini, who oddly makes an appearance as part of a plot twist, than she does as Rea, who is still a little too distant to be entirely likable. Ananya’s arc is left hanging just when it begins to get fascinating, despite the simmering tension that Surveen Chawla creates for her.
The primary issue with Mandala Murders is not its ambition but rather its lack of self-control. The mandala is used as a metaphor of order, chaos, sacrifice, and belief in the series, which strives for profundity. However, the script is so full of ideas that only a few are given room to breathe. Then there is the blood.
Body horror isn’t avoided in the show. With clinical, almost fetishistic perfection, torsos without heads, heads without bodies, severed thumbs, and sewn limbs are all paraded in front of the audience.
It shocks at first. However, overuse—not just of violence, but of style over substance—causes it to numb over time.
Nevertheless, there’s something about the outright foolishness of it all that captures your interest. The program tosses curveballs with an almost laudable conviction, whether it’s a politician haunted by her past, a child ensnared in ritualistic bloodlust, or a machine that grants wishes (at a gruesome cost). A little land. Others don’t. But the audacity is still there.
Ultimately, Mandala Murders is more about what’s happening than it is about whodunit. After creating an engaging universe, it tries to make it too meaningful and fails.
This could have been a truly memorable film with a shorter runtime, a more focused storyline, and fewer side plots. As it stands, it’s an intriguing jumble that is constantly smeared with blood and questions, occasionally wonderful, and frequently annoying.
