Even though Malayalam cinema is witnessing hordes of new-age filmmakers dedicating themselves to subverting masculine tropes entrenched in the industry, very few movies dedicate themselves to exploring the lives, desires, and anxieties of India’s queer population.
In 1978, Malayalam filmmaker M Mohan directed Randu Penkuttikal (1978), an adaptation of an eponymous novel by V. T. Nandakumar. The plot revolves around two characters: Kokila and Girija. Kokila is madly in love with Girija and spends a large part of the film attempting to woo her while spreading rumours about her to keep other admirers at bay. Following a common trope in queer narratives, their love-story is doomed: the movie ends with Girija marrying a man and Kokila interpreting her infatuation with Girija as a “teen phase.”
Released almost two decades before Deepa Mehta’s Fire (1996), Randu Penkutikal was one of the first Malayalam films to explore themes of homosexuality and queer attraction.
This, at a time when queer representation hadn’t become a hot-button topic, much less a dining room conversation. Over four decades later, not much seems to have changed in Mollywood. Even though Malayalam cinema is witnessing a generation of young filmmakers dedicate themselves to subvert the masculine tropes of the industry, very few movies still track the lives, desires, and anxieties of India’s sexual and gender minorities.
The current queer-lessness of mainstream Malayalam cinema seems to be at odds with its own history of backing narratives that challenge societal norms and conventions.
In the last couple of years, Malayalam movies have witnessed a sort of a makeover, grounding narratives in realism, versatile characterisation, and biting social commentary. More and more movies have consciously countered the age-old male gaze prevalent in Malayalam cinema, eschewing depictions that reduce women to damsels in distress and equip morally righteous heroes with a male saviour complex.
This shift away from superstardom that plagued the industry has only been possible due to the Malayalam film movement developed in the early 2010s popularly known as the New Generation Films. A blend of commercial and arthouse sensibilities, these movies (often helmed by directors such as Lijo Jose Pellissery, Rajeev Ravi, Mahesh Narayanan among others) are recognisable by their technical and narrative experiments, including dynamic camera movements, breathless cross-cutting, and a return to rural settings. It wouldn’t be entirely inaccurate to say that the New Generation Wave has laid out the perfect platform for Mollywood to explore queer themes.
Why is that not the case then? According to Malayali actor and trans woman Anjali Ameer, Malayalam filmmakers rarely take it upon themselves to create space for queer characters, much less as a lead:
“If at all someone plays such characters, it will be [cis-male] actors like Jayasurya or Prithviraj. Filmmakers don’t even think of choosing someone from our community.”
–– Anjali Ameer, 2019
It also doesn’t help that the few Malayalam films that revolve around queer lives do a shoddy job of representing a section of people who are already marginalised in society and barely get to see themselves on screen. Take for instance, Lal Jose’s Chanthupottu (2005) which revolves around a grandmother who brings up her grandson Radhakrishan like a girl.
The film sees Radhakrishnan’s effeminate mannerisms as some sort of a comic relief, as if he is an inferior man because he didn’t have an upbringing that demanded him to display his masculinity on his sleeve.
The plot point of the film naturally revolved around Radhakrishnan’s shift to conventional assumptions of what masculinity should look like in men. In fact, the ripple effects of the dangers of Chanthupottu spilled over to real life: effeminate and gay men continue to be bullied and called “chanthupottu” as a slur for not consciously adopting a masculine identity.
To say that Chanthupottu undid the path forged by Randu Penkuttikal would be an understatement for it taught an entire generation of men that queerness is something to look down upon.
As if there is no bigger threat to masculinity than the idea of someone being queer even in the way they choose to present themselves to the world.
The only counter that I can think of that does justice to queer relationships is Geetu Mohandas' Moothon (2019). The film tracks the journey of a young girl who dresses up like a boy to find her elder brother in Mumbai. As the plot progresses, we come to know that her brother moved to Mumbai after the death of his lover Ameer. In centering this narrative, the film offers a portrait of queer love even though it ends in heartbreak and separation. As writer Vinay Kumar V put it in his review:
“Moothon’s queer love story works because of the real conversations it has between characters instead of a caricature of essential conversations. Or worse, dramatising them to an unrealistic soap opera level intensity.”
Perhaps, it’s time Malayalam cinema traverses the road laid down by Moothon and strive to build on it. Even as films like Kumbalangi Nights (2019) and The Great Indian Kitchen (2021) breaks down conventional ideas of masculinity, presenting them as a toxic vice that upends lives, there’s not much headway in subverting commonly-held notions of identity or sexuality.
To do that, Malayalam cinema is in need of a reckoning, one that forces filmmakers to not alienate queer stories or turn queer lives into a subject of ridicule and mockery.
I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that queerlessness in Mollywood also stems from the identities of the people telling the stories behind the screen. In this case, it is usually male, straight directors who naturally remain consumed only with heteronormative narratives.
In many ways then, a queer-friendly Malayalam film industry requires a complete overhaul of the very understanding of queerness itself. So often, films tend to only talk about sexual minorities when it comes to portraying homosexuality. But that’s just one part of representing queerness on screen.
To truly give a voice and face to this community would mean to include people of different gender and sexuality minorities and dissect how their lived-in experiences can vary depending on their social standing, environment, caste, religion and their intersections.
The first step, as Anjali surmises, is for the industry to treat queer characters as normal characters, “just like those of the other genders.”
It’s time we demand that our films and filmmakers work towards queering the gaze.
Commentaires