There are gangster sagas that aim to glorify, and there are those that aim to condemn. Sambhava Vivaranam Naalara Sangham (The Chronicles of the 4.5 Gang), written and directed by National Award-winning filmmaker Krishand, finds an unusual third path: it tells the tale of a small-town gang with equal parts mockery, affection and political bite. Streaming on Sony LIV, the show is a wild, crooked ride through the underbelly of Thiruvanchipuram, a fictional city unmistakably drawn from Thiruvananthapuram, where crime, politics, and survival tangle in ways both comic and tragic.
Director: Krishand
Cast: Sanju Sivaram, Niranj Maniyanpilla Raju, Shambhu, Sreenath Babu, Sachin Joseph, Jagadish, Prasanth Alexander, Vishnu Agasthya, Rahul Rajagopal, Indrans, Hakim Shahjahan, and Darshana Rajendran
The premise is set up by the biographer Maithreyan (an excellent Jagadish), who serves as our guide and narrator. He introduces us to Arikuttan, also known as Thadippalam Arikuttan, and his so-called “4.5 Gang”. They were not the feared “A-class” smugglers of gold and narcotics, nor even the “B-class” hitmen who carried out contract killings. They were a tier below, starting with milk rackets and later moving into flowers. The distinction is absurd but revealing. This is not a story of mighty dons, but of small men with inflated ambitions, forever punching above their weight.
What makes the series compelling is how Krishand refuses to stick to a single mode. The structure is split between two timelines: flashbacks to the late 1990s and 2000s when the gang came of age, and 2018, where Arikuttan tries to have his story ghostwritten. The constant back-and-forth allows the show to both reconstruct the past and undermine it, slyly suggesting that all “official” versions of history are coloured by exaggeration and self-justification. The storytelling gambit is playful but pointed. What we are watching may not be what truly happened, but it is what the characters need us to believe.
From the beginning, Krishand makes it clear this will not be a solemn recounting. The humour is relentless. Petty thugs carry grandiose names like Bruce Lee. Everyone, from thugs to police officers to politicians, speaks in Trivandrum slang, which becomes fodder for humour. Yet the comedy never quite lets the violence off the hook. When blood is shed, it feels messy and real, the absurdity only highlighting how futile it all is. The show’s tonal balancing act, swinging between dark comedy and savagery, is one of its most distinctive qualities.
Central to that balance is the cast. Sanju Sivaram, as Arikuttan, delivers a performance that allows the character to be both comical and dangerous. He is not a born leader but an opportunist who stumbles into power, a man constantly at odds with the myth he wants written about himself. Around him are his comrades. Maniyan (Shambhu) is a gifted singer whose passion for music clashes with the group’s criminal pursuits. Kanji (a superb Sreenath Babu) carries a personal shame that pushes him towards repeated acts of violence. Moonga (Sachin Joseph), the so-called “half” of the gang, emerges as the most cunning of the lot. Althaf (Niranj Maniyanpilla Raju) is the quieter and more cautious member. Each is etched clearly, with ambitions and weaknesses that evolve across the season.
The supporting ensemble is just as strong. Rahul Rajagopal shines as SI Suresh, a crooked cop who is self-serving and slyly persuasive. His performance brings a sharpness and ease to the character, making Suresh’s manoeuvres feel believable as he pushes the gang further into crime. Prasanth Alexander makes Bruce Lee both ludicrous and menacing. Vishnu Agasthya’s Pyelakuttan, whose physical disability is tied to Arikuttan’s father Balachandran, adds unpredictable volatility to every scene. Indrans as Balachandran, quietly steals the show in his prison interactions with Arikuttan, where father and son confront the inevitability of repeating cycles of failure. Later in the series, Hakim Shahjahan’s perpetually sneezing flower-kingpin Pookada Valsan and Darshana Rajendran’s Ramani inject new layers of energy, and the latter, in particular, leaves a sharp impression.
Visually, the series has a striking identity. Cinematographer Vishnu Prabhakar presents Thiruvanchipuram with the flair of a graphic novel. Bold colour schemes, stylised camera angles and sudden bursts of neon transform the familiar into something heightened. At the same time, the detail of the sets, from school corridors to cramped houses and temple festivals, keeps the world grounded.
However, the writing sometimes drifts. The fourth episode, built around Maniyan’s musical dreams and a long subplot about Tamil gang retaliation, slows down the momentum. Within this stretch, the calibre of an actor like Zarin Shihab is wasted in a stock love interest role that adds little to the story. These diversions eventually connect back to the larger narrative, but they blunt the urgency of the gang wars. What lingers instead are moments that show the fragility of family bonds and the uncertainty faced by slum-dwellers pushed aside in the name of “development.” Such passages reveal the show’s sharper concern. Behind the jokes and violence lies an unflinching critique of how the state abandons its most vulnerable.
What sets The Chronicles of the 4.5 Gang apart from most Malayalam gangster stories is its unwillingness to slip into self-importance. Even in its most violent passages, there is a playful edge. Maithreyan’s flowery storytelling is constantly challenged by Arikuttan, and every triumph quickly gives way to some fresh embarrassment. This sense of mischief keeps the series from turning into either a sermon or a glorified legend. At its core, it finds humour in the very futility of chasing greatness.
By the time the season ends, Krishand delivers a story that is both unruly and carefully shaped, comic in tone yet sharp in its observations. It recalls the rootedness of Kammatti Paadam and Angamaly Diaries, while also echoing the playful manipulation of narrative truth seen in Kammara Sambhavam. Yet the series speaks in a voice entirely its own, distinct in spirit, rich in local flavour, and unafraid to let its characters look foolish, leaving one eager for the next chapter.