When Nightmares Become Entertainment

Lokah transforms Kerala’s most dreaded figures into blockbuster thrills. But in the process, are we betraying their mythic power?

Once, they lurked in whispers. The Yakshi waiting under a banyan tree, the Odiyan prowling in shadows, the mischievous Kuttichathan hiding in plain sight. These were Kerala’s nightmares—tales that travelled from mouth to mouth, fuelled by fear as much as belief. But now, with Lokah, they’ve leapt from folklore to film reels, reimagined in Dolby sound and widescreen spectacle. The question is unavoidable: when nightmares become entertainment, do they still hold their mythic power—or have we turned them into mere thrills for the box office?

Malayalam cinema has long been celebrated for its powerful storytelling, strong characterisation, and ability to capture the human condition without relying on inflated budgets. But Lokah marks a bold experiment: instead of human drama alone, it draws from the very fabric of Kerala’s folklore. It resurrects creatures that once existed only in oral traditions and thrusts them into mainstream cinema, embodied by some of the industry’s most popular actors. In doing so, it sparks a cultural debate—one that pits preservation against commodification.

The Risk of Glamour

There is a danger in giving myths a cinematic makeover. The Yakshi, whose very mention once sent shivers down the spine, may lose her terror when dressed in glossy visual effects and star power. The Odiyan, who symbolised shadowy paranoia, risks being flattened into a stylised action figure. Kuttichathan, once a mischievous trickster feared as much as he was respected, could be reduced to comic relief. Cinema, in its attempt to dramatise, often glamorises—and in doing so, it risks stripping these figures of the mystery and dread that made them powerful in the first place.

When myths are diluted into spectacle, the cultural layers behind them can vanish. What was once an oral tradition shaped by fear, morality, and social context risks becoming a hollow caricature.

The Case for Revival

Yet to dismiss Lokah as mere dilution would be unfair. Cinema is also an archive—a way of keeping memory alive in an era where oral traditions are fading fast. By bringing Yakshis, Odiyans, and Kuttichathans into popular culture, Lokah ensures they are not forgotten. A generation that may never sit under moonlight listening to these tales at their grandmother’s knee can now encounter them on screen.

The film’s editing, script, and music avoid cheap thrills. Instead, they elevate these figures, suggesting that folklore can be reinterpreted rather than trivialised. In this reading, the Yakshi is not just a femme fatale spirit but a commentary on suppressed desire. The Odiyan becomes more than a nocturnal predator—he is a projection of collective paranoia. Kuttichathan is not simply a prankster but the embodiment of chaos in human life. Lokah reframes them, asking us to see not just monsters, but reflections of ourselves.

The Thin Line

What Lokah ultimately demonstrates is the thin line cinema must walk when it touches myth. Exploitation leads to cultural erosion, but careful reinterpretation can lead to cultural revival. The responsibility rests with filmmakers: are they chasing jump scares and spectacle, or are they genuinely engaging with folklore as a living cultural text?

Lokah proves that cinema can resurrect the creatures we once feared in silence and make them roar on the big screen. But in doing so, it also forces us to confront a deeper unease—are Yakshis, Odiyans, and Kuttichathans still guardians of our folklore, or have they become just another spectacle in the age of entertainment? When nightmares become blockbusters, we may cheer louder in theatres, but perhaps we risk quieting the very fear and mystery that made them legendary in the first place.