When Srijit Mukherji released Hemlock Society in 2012, he introduced audiences to a world where death was both muse and metaphor. Thirteen years later, Killbill Society arrives as a spiritual sequel, wielding the same existential question: is life worth living after the fall?
This time, the story revolves around Poorna Aich, a young actress played by Koushani Mukherjee in a career-redefining turn. Poorna is on the cusp of stardom when an intimate video of her surfaces online, triggering a public shaming campaign that leaves her hollowed and humiliated.
Poorna decides to end her life but fails to muster the courage to do so on her own. In walks Mrityunjoy Kar (Parambrata Chattopadhyay), a professional killer with a side gig as a reluctant life coach. If the name sounds familiar, that’s because he’s the evolved reincarnation of Ananda Kar, the enigmatic figure from Hemlock Society. But time has turned him into a wearier, more conflicted man who has seen too much of life.
In Killbill Society, Srijit Mukherji doesn’t only revisit old themes but also recontextualises them for a generation grappling with internet infamy, public shaming, and the mental health crisis that so often goes ignored.
The screenplay, penned by Srijit himself, swings between the poetic and the pedantic. At times, the film loses itself in its own wordplay — there are stretches where characters speak in metaphors as if auditioning for a Tagore adaptation.
But just as you begin to tire of the self-indulgence, the film pulls you back with moments of raw vulnerability: Poorna struggling to jump off a cliff and Mrityunjoy live-streaming a contract killing case with detached empathy.
Koushani Mukherjee is the film’s revelation. Her portrayal of Poorna is layered and lived-in, free from the theatrics one might expect of a starlet character. She captures both the glamour and the grief, the curated Instagram-ready smile and the crumbling soul beneath. Poorna is not a victim — she is a woman haunted by society’s appetite for shame, desperately seeking an exit that feels like justice.
Parambrata, one of the most dependable actors in Bengali cinema, slips into the shoes of Mrityunjoy with effortless ease. His transformation from the animated Ananda of Hemlock Society to the more grounded, emotionally burdened Mrityunjoy is both believable and touching. Biswanath Basu as Pet Kata Shaw, a gangster with an unexpected love for ‘family-centric’ films, lights up the screen every time he appears.
Indranath Marick’s cinematography moves fluidly between the neon-soaked underbelly of Kolkata to the monsoon-heavy melancholy of North Bengal. Indraadip Dasgupta’s background score music does swell, but it does so with restraint, never hijacking the moment but underlining it.
Even the songs — composed by Ranajoy Bhattacharjee, Tamalika Golder, and Anupam Roy — provide a much-needed breather during emotionally intense moments, while taking the narrative forward.
What sets Killbill Society apart from other films dealing with mental health and public disgrace is its refusal to treat life as an afterthought. In the end, this is a love story — not between two people, but between a person and the idea of hope. Mrityunjoy, who begins as a hired hand, becomes an unexpected catalyst for Poorna’s reawakening. Their connection is not romantic in the conventional sense, but deeply intimate, bound by a shared understanding of despair and the faint shimmer of possibility that lies beyond it.
That said, Killbill Society occasionally stumbles under the weight of its own philosophy. The pacing in the first half wavers, with some scenes overstaying their welcome.
Mukherji, always a fan of literary flourishes, leans a bit too heavily on his signature blend of clever dialogue and visual symbolism. At times, the film seems more interested in showcasing its ideas than advancing the plot. But these indulgences feel earned, for the most part, and rarely detract from the impact.
The ending, much like Hemlock Society, opts for hope — not as a saccharine resolution but as a hard-fought, almost defiant choice. There is no grand redemption, no dramatic reversal of fortune. Instead, what Killbill Society offers is something more nuanced: the quiet, persistent belief that even in our most broken moments, we are worthy of second chances.