“You keep expecting something to happen; what happens instead is the slow burial of hope. Until you leave fear, fear won’t leave you.”
It isn’t just a line—it’s the noose tightening around Siddharth’s (Mahir Muhiyuddin) existence.
Vritta doesn’t begin with a bang. It begins with a tremble. A boy, alone. Shivering.
Then cut to a man, older but no less lost—Siddharth. A son his father resents. A man his mother still tries to save with silence. He has a past, but the film doesn’t stop to explain it.
Instead, Siddharth is always on the move—driving, calling, borrowing—but going nowhere.
A phone lights his face. A cigarette burns slow.
Fear lingers like an unwanted passenger.
He seeks a ₹30 lakh loan.
Appa calls repeatedly; Siddharth never answers.
He’s told to drive to Pushpagiri. The road begins to twist.
Susmita (Chaithra Achar) calls. She’s pregnant. He’s the father.
A wrong turn.
A forest.
An accident.
No escape.
Vritta—meaning “circle”—is exactly that: a loop of helplessness and dread.
Direction & Performances
Director: Likith Kumar
Cast: Mahir Muhiyuddin, Harini Sundarrajan, Chaithra Achar, Srinivas Prabhu, Shashikala, Master Anurag
The film spirals; it doesn’t escalate.
Each scene draws us deeper into Siddharth’s unraveling mind.
No backstories. No neat exposition.
Director-writer Likith Kumar doesn’t want us to follow—he wants us to feel.
Not to solve, but to survive.
Siddharth isn’t battling villains—he’s confronting his fractured self.
The night outside mirrors the one within.
Mahir Muhiyuddin carries the film—not as a hero, not even as an anti-hero—just a man imploding. There’s a stiffness in his body that works. Even his tears feel restrained. His scenes with Susmita lack warmth; his silences with Appa are louder than screams.
Priya (Harini Sundarrajan), the ex, exists only in orbit. A ghost now too far to touch. The film doesn’t chase closure. These fragments—voices, pasts, regrets—float in and out like passing headlights.
Craft & Atmosphere
Gowtham Krishna’s cinematography amplifies the tension.
The darkness isn’t just visual—it’s emotional.
Forest sequences feel haunted not by ghosts, but by guilt. The stillness screams.
Antony MG and Hari Krishanth’s score pulses like a second heartbeat—never overbearing, always present.
The writing is intentionally sparse.
We don’t know why Siddharth needs the money.
Who he owes.
What he did.
Even Susmita remains more voice than person.
These aren’t gaps.
They’re choices.
Vritta is not about answers.
It’s an experience. Not a puzzle.
Final Word
There’s a disoriented rhythm that never resolves.
While the plot inches forward, the emotional journey circles endlessly—just like its title.
Among the supporting cast, Master Anurag leaves a mark. Harini Sundarrajan, Shashikala, and Chaithra Achar drift through like shadows. That’s the point. Siddharth is the eye of this storm; everything else fades.
Vritta isn’t built for comfort.
It doesn’t entertain—it confronts.
Its thrills come not from action but from suffocating quiet.
You wait for something to happen.
What happens is the slow burial of hope.
It’s not for everyone. It wasn’t meant to be.
But for those willing to endure the quiet horror of being trapped inside their own skin, Vritta offers something rare: a survival thriller with no map, no end, and no escape.
Only the circle.
You may also like to read the reviews of the Dhadak 2 movie.
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