In Hollywood’s mythology, vampires have always ruled the supernatural hierarchy—elegant, eternal, and terrifyingly in control. Even when pitted against werewolves, they stood at the top of the food chain. But in Maddock’s horror-comedy universe, Thamma somehow makes the vampire its weakest link.
A film rarely collapses for a single reason. It falters when every layer—storytelling, direction, performance, and tone—loses coherence. That’s precisely what happens with Thamma. Beneath its glossy absurdity lies a structural misfire: a film named after its antagonist (at least till the epilogue), pretending to tell a man’s story, while the true emotional and mythic arc belongs to its woman. And around that wrong center of gravity, everything else begins to wobble.
To dissect Thamma’s central flaw, let’s place it under Joseph Campbell’s microscope and see what surfaces.
Given Indian storytelling’s long-standing bias toward the Hero over the Heroine, it’s hardly surprising that the narrative leans toward the male protagonist. But once viewed through the prism of the Hero’s Journey, that bias collapses under its own weight, and the cracks in Thamma’s narrative design become impossible to miss.
Most modern analyses truncate Campbell’s monomyth to a 12-step screenwriting template, but Thamma demands a return to the full 17-stage cycle—the classical rhythm of separation, initiation, and return. Because only through that lens can we see how the film’s chosen hero, Alok, stumbles at every threshold where Tadka, ironically, completes the journey he should have taken.
The Hero’s Journey Inverted
- The Call to Adventure
Alok: His “call” arrives by accident—he’s chosen not by destiny but by plot convenience. There’s no inner conflict, yearning, or question pulling him forward. He simply stumbles into the supernatural.
Tadka: Her call is clear. She enters Alok’s world with a goal, a secret, and agency. Her arrival propels the narrative into motion. She’s the one summoned by fate, not him. - Refusal of the Call
Alok: He never truly refuses. He’s too passive to resist; things happen to him.
Tadka: She does. She resists her growing attachment to Alok, fights her dual nature, and tries to protect him from herself—a textbook “refusal” driven by fear of consequence. - Supernatural Aid
Alok: The supernatural doesn’t aid him—it consumes him.
Tadka: The vampire mythology is her domain. She already inhabits the supernatural realm, making her the mentor archetype in Alok’s supposed story, but the hero in her own. - Crossing the First Threshold
Alok: Crosses it unknowingly. The transformation to vampire is an accident, not a choice—stripping it of narrative power.
Tadka: She consciously crosses it when she chooses to intervene in Alok’s fate, breaking her world’s rules to save him. That’s the real threshold moment. - Belly of the Whale
Alok: The “death and rebirth” symbolism of this phase—being consumed to emerge transformed—should belong to him, but it feels hollow because he never earns it.
Tadka: Her internal torment, secrecy, and eventual self-sacrifice align perfectly with the motif. She embodies the rebirth that the title promised. - Road of Trials
Alok: His journey lacks trials—events happen without consequence or learning.
Tadka: Every scene tests her—emotionally, morally, physically. Her choices carry weight. She shoulders the film’s ethical and mythic tension. - Meeting with the Goddess
Alok: The story offers him no transcendent encounter that expands his understanding.
Tadka: Ironically, she is the goddess figure—the one who offers transformation through danger and love. The script never acknowledges it. - Woman as Temptress
Alok: The film falls into this trap—reducing Tadka to temptation rather than transcendence.
Tadka: The meta-irony is that she’s aware of this perception and tries to escape it. Her arc subverts the trope that the film itself reinforces. - Atonement with the Father
Alok: There’s no spiritual reckoning or reconciliation. His parental scenes serve only as tonal filler.
Tadka: Her guilt, fear of judgment, and moral reckoning with her nature serve as symbolic atonement with a higher order—the mythic “father.” - Apotheosis
Alok: Gains no higher understanding. His transformation is literal, not metaphysical.
Tadka: Her realization that she must lose everything to save him is her apotheosis—her moment of truth. - The Ultimate Boon
Alok: Gains vampirism without meaning. There’s no moral or emotional lesson tied to it.
Tadka: Her boon is self-realization—she reclaims her power and humanity through sacrifice. - Refusal of the Return
Alok: Doesn’t resist returning to normalcy because he never truly left it in spirit.
Tadka: She refuses her “return”—choosing loss over comfort, sealing her journey as complete. - The Magic Flight
Alok: Missing entirely.
Tadka: Her escape and final act parallel the mythic flight—the hero’s desperate run from collapse toward closure. - Rescue from Without
Alok: Needs rescuing but never learns from it.
Tadka: Becomes both rescuer and self-rescued, completing the hero’s self-sufficient loop. - Crossing of the Return Threshold
Alok: Never processes what happened. There’s no changed awareness.
Tadka: Crosses the threshold in awareness—her journey ends in acceptance of loss and knowledge. - Master of Two Worlds
Alok: Fails this stage. The duality between human and vampire remains unexplored.
Tadka: Lives between those worlds—human emotion and vampiric instinct—and reconciles them through choice. - Freedom to Live
Alok: Ends static, more cursed than enlightened.
Tadka: Her symbolic disappearance embodies the “freedom to live”—liberation through surrender.
The Wrong Hero
When viewed through Campbell’s complete cycle, Thamma accidentally writes the Hero’s Journey but gives it to the wrong character.
Alok’s story is a mutation without meaning; Tadka’s is a myth without acknowledgment. The makers’ decision to center the passive male protagonist turns what could have been a tragic romance or mythic metamorphosis into a hollow spectacle.
If Stree found strength in irony, Bhediya in transformation, and Munjya in folklore, Thamma finds only confusion because it worships the wrong hero.
The Franchise Problem
Thamma isn’t a disaster born of incompetence—it’s a misfire born of overconfidence.
The film inherits a winning franchise but forgets what made its predecessors click: storytelling rooted in emotional logic, tonal discipline, and narrative humility. Where Stree, Bhediya, and Munjya turned absurd premises into believable worlds, Thamma mistakes swagger for substance.
Why Stree, Bhediya, and Munjya Worked
At their best, these films didn’t just blend horror and comedy—they balanced them through truthful reaction.
In Stree (2018), the laughter came from fear meeting absurdity; every character behaved like a person processing the impossible. The mystery around Shraddha Kapoor’s character added intrigue without breaking the world’s internal logic.
Bhediya (2022) grounded its supernatural idea in setting and folklore—the transformation was shocking yet earned, and the humor arose from disbelief, not forced wit.
Munjya (2024), though lighter, still respected story physics. The ghost’s presence triggered authentic panic and community superstition.
Across all three, the makers understood that the world must remain real even when the premise isn’t. That balance—between the ordinary and the absurd—made their humor land and their scares resonate.
Where Thamma Falters
- Comedy Without Context
Humor is forced into every corner. Every character is written and directed to be funny rather than to react truthfully. Instead of allowing situations to generate comedy, the film treats punchlines as mandatory. The result is tonal fatigue—everyone performing for laughs, no one living the moment. - Writing That Mistakes Arrogance for Audacity
The screenplay bends logic whenever convenient. Characters act without motivation, plot points appear without setup, and yet the writing carries an air of “you’ll accept this because it’s quirky.” That’s not audacity—it’s laziness wrapped in attitude. - Direction Too Confident to Self-Question
The storytelling mirrors the writing’s smugness. Scenes unfold as though the makers believe visual energy can camouflage narrative cracks. What once felt playful in earlier installments now feels indulgent—self-awareness curdled into self-congratulation. - Misreading Ayushmann
Ayushmann Khurrana, usually a master of restraint, is stranded in an exaggerated performance that betrays his natural rhythm. His strength lies in grounding chaos with realism; here, he’s made to act funny rather than be human. It’s not a failure of craft—it’s a failure of calibration. - Rashmika and the Recycled Gaze
Rashmika Mandanna’s portrayal feels trapped in her Animal (2023) afterimage—stylized, sensual, and disconnected from the story’s emotional reality. The issue isn’t glamor; it’s gaze. In Stree, Shraddha’s allure served mystery. In Thamma, Rashmika’s stylization feels like a filmmaker revisiting an old fantasy. - Spectacle Without Pulse
Two item songs featuring Malaika Arora and Nora Fatehi should have been unmissable highlights. Instead, they feel ornamental, existing only because the film assumes star power equals engagement. When even India’s most magnetic performers can’t ignite the screen, the problem isn’t choreography—it’s creative emptiness. - The Vampire Everyone Already Knows
In a world where vampires aren’t established lore, disbelief and shock are essential. Yet in Thamma, every character seems oddly pre-informed. There’s no wonder, no horror—just convenient awareness. It’s as if the story skipped its own revelation, leaving the audience uninvited to the discovery.
What This Reveals About Storytelling
The earlier films in the franchise understood a fundamental truth: the supernatural works only when the natural world around it holds firm. Thamma breaks that pact. It assumes the audience’s belief without earning it, leans on reputation instead of craft, and substitutes noise for tone.
Confidence is healthy; complacency isn’t.
The difference is self-awareness. Stree, Bhediya, and Munjya knew exactly what game they were playing. Thamma acts like it invented the rules—and in doing so, forgets to play.