There’s something a couple of man who lives along with his mom, who smokes in hiding, and whose moods are placated by meals the mom prepares. A person-child, sure, certainly, however that, too, has its appeal when the face of Prithviraj Sukumaran is caught over it, bearded — groomed properly, thoughts you — and subtly muscled. The person can punch. Whereas pondering of an impending windfall wealth, a music pops up with him in a shimmering golden coat and pants, tight as a marriage knot, virtually making us marvel how the pants didn’t rip as he moved his physique vigorously to the candy, foolish choreography of limp palms and dextrous legs.
— Prathyush Parasuraman