After Abbas is brutally killed (a scene so graphic it was heavily censored), Adhi hunts down Badra. There is no choreographed martial arts. There is just raw, animalistic rage. Adhi beats Badra to death with his bare hands, long after the man has stopped moving. When his subordinates pull him away, his face is covered in blood—but it's not clear whose blood it is.
The infamous "interrogation scene" where Kamal Haasan tortures a captured terrorist has no background score. All you hear is the drip of water, the crack of bones, and the sound of a man trying not to scream. It is uncomfortable. It is visceral. And it is terrifyingly real. This film single-handedly proved that silence could be more powerful than a 100-piece orchestra. Kamal Haasan delivers a performance that should be studied in film schools. There is no "heroism" here. His Adhi is a man running on fumes—bloodshot eyes, trembling hands, and a soul that is slowly rotting. Watch the scene where he calls his wife (played by Geetha) from a phone booth. He wants to tell her he loves her. He wants to come home. But all he can do is listen to her voice while maintaining his cover as a cold-blooded killer. A single tear rolls down his cheek, and he wipes it away angrily—angry at himself for still feeling.
Decades before OTT platforms normalized "dark and gritty" storytelling in India, Kuruthipunal was already there, standing alone in the 90s like a sore, bleeding thumb. And to this day, it remains arguably the finest film about state-sponsored violence ever made in Indian cinema. On the surface, the plot is a standard cat-and-mouse chase. Adhi (Kamal Haasan) is an IPS officer tasked with dismantling a brutal terrorist organization led by the sadistic Badra (Nassar). Along with his friend and fellow officer, Abbas (Arjun Sarja), they devise a plan to infiltrate the group.
Adhi goes undercover using the alias "Deva," but the mask begins to fuse with his face. To maintain his cover, he is forced to commit atrocities—watching innocent people get killed, participating in torture, and betraying his own moral compass. The film asks a deeply unsettling question: Can you fight a monster without becoming one?
But if you are ready for a film that will sit on your chest for days, that will make you question your own morality, and that showcases the absolute pinnacle of Tamil cinema's technical and acting prowess—then yes. Watch Kuruthipunal . Watch it alone. Watch it at night. And when it ends, sit in the dark for a while. You'll need it.
But failure at the box office does not erase legacy. Today, Kuruthipunal is regarded as a cult classic. It was India's official entry to the Oscars that year (though it was not nominated). It won the National Film Award for Best Feature Film in Tamil. And more importantly, it inspired a generation of filmmakers to take realism seriously. Re-watching Kuruthipunal in the current political climate is a sobering experience. The film does not take sides. It does not glorify the police or demonize the "other." Instead, it shows that violence corrupts everyone it touches. The terrorist and the counter-terrorist, by the end of the film, are mirror images of each other. Both are capable of cruelty. Both believe they are justified. And both drown in the same river of blood.
as Badra is the stuff of nightmares. No over-the-top villainy. No maniacal laughter. Nassar plays Badra as a calm, intelligent, utterly remorseless sociopath. His Tamil is chaste. His manners are almost polite. And that makes him infinitely more terrifying than any screaming villain. When he casually discusses killing children as a "logical necessity," you feel a chill run down your spine.
Sreeram uses shadows not as a gimmick, but as a psychological tool. Half of Kamal Haasan’s face is often shrouded in darkness, visually representing the duality of his character. The famous "mirror scene"—where Adhi stares at himself and sees a stranger looking back—is a masterclass in visual storytelling. No dialogue. Just a man, a mirror, and the horrifying realization that he has lost himself. In an era where background scores were loud and melodramatic, Kuruthipunal dared to be silent. Composer Mahesh (making his debut) understood that true tension comes not from music, but from its absence.