Malayali director Aashiq Abu’s fourteenth film Rifle Club, now streaming on Netflix, is a bit of a conundrum. Let me explain. It holds you in thrall, grips you by your… err….jowl, rinses you, leaves you dry-mouthed. But at the end of it, you are left with little except a swankily designed thriller, in which the music pieces in the background seem to have been appended as an arresting afterthought.

Nothing flows in Rifle Club organically; every move feels over-designed. Not that there is anything wrong with a film that must have come alive on the drawing board. I wouldn’t be surprised if the director actually drew sketches of each scene before putting them on screen.

The film has a texture of richly designed visuals; they almost jump out of the screen like an over-friendly canine. This is both an upper and a bummer: the will to grab...