Not Your Goddess, Not Your Victim: The Feminist Lens of Regional Cinema 

In Sanal Kumar Sasidharan’s Malayalam film Sexy Durga, the camera directs its gaze to a poorly lit highway. Hindi-speaking Durga and her partner Kabeer hop into a van, hoping for a lift to the railway station. With two unsettling men in the driver and passenger seats, the van drives stea𒉰dily into the depths of the night—or perhaps the depths of the psyche of an entire civilisation; it is hard to tell.

The men ogle at Durga, ask Kabeer intrusive questions about their relationship, and speculate wheth🦋er they are eloping. When Durga starts coughing, one of the men shoves a bottle of water in her face—a bottle that is only one metamorphosis away from becoming a phallus. As claustrophobia pervades the scene, her partner helps her cover herself with a piece of cloth,𝄹 yet remains silent, offering no protest. 

Interestingly, an idol of the goddess Durga sits on the van’s dashboard. Hanging perpendicular to the idol from the rearview mirror is the torso-less head of a Barbie-like doll with a dirty, long ponytail. As the camera pans across the dashboard, this frame resembles a broken and uneven parenthesis, symbolizing Durga’s almost wordless angst and verbal rape in the film. She exists within this broken space—neither sexy nor a goddess, just an earthly woman attempting to commute from one place to another. It is from this space that the quieter, grittier battles fought by women emerge every day. Beyond the broad strokes and glossy feminist portrayals of women in Bollywood films like Veere Di Wedding, Bulbul, Mardaani, or Pink, r♏egional cinema tells stories without glamour, with a vulnerability that pervades the lives of women akin to Durga. 

Malayalam Cinema and the Weight of Domesticity 

Ullozhukku (Undercurrent), a Malayalam film directed by Christo Tomy, charts the relationship between mother-in-law Leelamma and daughter-in-law Anju. The film unfolds in a sprawling home where time and tide are locked in an angry argument. Immediately after Anju’s marriage, she is forced into the role of a caregiver—her husband, terminally ill and failing in health, eventually dies from a malignant brain tumour. Anju’s accidental pregnancy further complicates the situation. The rise and fall of the overflowing backwaters define the film’s plot, mirroring the unforeseen torrents that merge with waters of Leelamma and Anju’s subconscious. The two women eventually confront each other, and what emerges is a compassionate and grounded sonata of emotions, carrying strong undertones of Bergman’s Autumn Sonata. 

As the plot unfolds, we see Leelamma’s emptiness resemble her daughter-in-law’s. Both are children of fate and unfavourable circumstances, each an island in their own way. Yet, through shared empathy and compassion, the islands meet across a gulf of solidarity, empathy, and womanhood. Unlike the loud, melodramatic family conflicts portrayed in films like English Vinglish, Kapoor & Sons, or Dil Dhadakne Do, Ullozhukku is eloquent even in its moments of moving silences. The♔ film captures the simmering tensions between duty, grief, and unspoken resentment, highlighting how deeply entrenched patriarchal expectations shape women’s roles within families. 

Tamil and Kannada Cinema: Women Beyond Stereotypes 

Tamil cinema has long had a complicated relationship with feminism. While mainstream Tamil films often reinforce patriarchal ideals, several filmmakers are pushing back against these norms. Aruvi (2017), for instance, subverts the typical “woman as victim” narrative, offering instead a protagonist who refuses to be defined by her suffering.Directed by Arun Prabhu Purushothaman,  Aruvi, translates to “cascading waterfall,”. The film fiercely gushes into satire, social critique, and deeply personal sto🐼rytelling. The film follows Aruvi, a young woman who challenges the hypocrisy of a morally bankrupt society after being diagnosed with AIDS. 

Aruvi has a genre-fluid narrative, effortlessly shifting between drama, black comedy, and thriller elements. Visually, the film employs raw, intimate cinematography that mirrors Aruvi’s emotional arc, drawing the audience into🐼 her journey from innocence to defiance. The non-linear storytelling keeps viewers engaged, unravelling the protagonist’s past while maintaining a sense of urgency in the present. Aditi Balan’s performance anchors the film in authenticity, with her quiet resilience and explosive outbursts adding depth to the character. 

The climax—poignant and subversive—rejects conventional redemption arcs, instead presenting Aruvi as a symbol of resistance and vulnerability coalescing in the same frame. Ultimately, Aruvi is not just a feminist statement but a deeply affecting human story that lingಞers long ꦏafter the credits roll. 

 Similarly, Gargi (2022), starring Sai Pallavi and directed by Gautham Ramachandran, is a gripping legal drama that deconstructs justice, gender, and societal biases through a deeply personal narrative. The film follows Gargi, a schoolteacher who fights to prove her father’s innocence in a harrowing assault case. The cinematography and muted colour palette create an atmosphere of suffocating tension, mirroring Gargi’s increasing isolation. The screenplay masterfully weaves legal intricacies with emotional depth, making the courtroom not just a space for argument but a battleground for truth and perception. Sai Pallavi’s nuanced performance captures the vulnerability, grit, and moral dilemmas of a woman forced to navigate a system designed to break her. Rather than offering easy resolutions, Gargi lingers in ethical gre♈y areas, challenging the audience’s🐼 preconceptions about justice, loyalty, and agency. ;

Uyare (2019), though a Malayalam film, resonates deeply with themes seen in Tamil and Kannada cinema. Directed by Manu Ashokan, it explorꦡes resilience, ambition, and gendered violence through the story of Pallavi, an aspiring pilot and acid attack survivor. The film’s cinematography contrasts the vast openness of the skies with the claustrophobic reality of Pallavi’s struggle, visually reinforcing her journey from oppression to empowerment.

Parvathy Thiruvothu delivers a powerful performance, embodying Pallavi’s quiet strength and vulnerability without falling into victimhood narratives. The screenplay subverts melodrama, opting for restrained storytelling that emphasizes systemic injustices rather than individual villainy. Uyare challenges the idea of “triumph over trauma” by focusing on Pallavi’s self-reclamation rather than external validation. With its nuanced direction, strong performances, and refusal to sensationalize its subject matter, Uyare stand🐟s 🍸as a compelling feminist statement on agency and perseverance. 

Kannada cinema has also seen an emergence of films that reimagine women’s roles beyond traditional expectations. Nathicharami (2018), directed by Mansore, is a quiet yet bold meditation on female desire, grief, and societal expectations. The film follows Gowri, a young wi⛦dow navigating the tension between personal longing and the moral codes imposed upon her. Visually, the film employs muted tones and intimat๊e framing to reflect Gowri’s internal struggles, using silence as powerfully as dialogue. Sruthi Hariharan delivers a deeply layered performance, capturing the vulnerability and quiet defiance of a woman seeking agency over her body and emotions.

The screenplay challenges the conventional portrayal of widowhood in Indian cinema, portraying desire not as a taboo but as an intrinsic part of human existence. Refusing to indulge in dramatic confrontations, Nathicharami crafts a delicate yet unflinching explora🐲tion of autonomy, making it one of Kannada cinema’s most progr🐈essive feminist narratives. 

Assamese and Manipuri Cinema: Stories of Resistance and Displacement 

Northeastern cinema, often overlooked in mainstream discourse, has carved a distinct space for feminist narratives by weaving together themes of resistance, displacement, and survival. Village Rockstars (2017), directed by Rima Das, stands out for its understated yet powerful depiction of a young girl’s aspirations in a patriarchal, economically challenged landscape. Eschewing melodrama, the film employs naturalistic cinematography, handheld camerawork,💦 and non-professional actors to create an immersive, documentary-like aesthetic that mirrors the protagonist’s raw reality.

Unlike Bollywood’s tendency to romanticize or sensationalize rural struggles in films like Toilet: Ek Prem Katha (2017) or Dhadak (2018) (a highly embellished and marketable remake of the Marathi film Sairat) , Village Rockstars presents poverty not as a defining tragedy but as a 🤪backdrop to female resilience. The absence of overt conflict allows the film to centre on the protagonist’s quiet defiance—her refusal to be constrained by societal norms or economic li✤mitations—making it a deeply feminist statement on self-determination. 

In contrast, Haobam Paban Kumar’s Lady of the Lake (2016) takes a more stylized and allegorical approach to female suffering and agency. Through dreamlike imagery, long silences, and a slow, meditative pace, the film critiques not just the physical displacement caused by political conflict but also the psychological entrapment of women within patriarchal structures. The protagonist, caught in the crossfire of insurgency and state oppression, becomes a symbol of both resilience and erasure—her suffering left unacknowledged in the grander narratives of war and resistance. The film’s ethereal visual style, juxtaposed with its stark themes, creates a hauntingly poetic meditation on whose pain is legitimized in conflict-ridden societies. Together, these films challenge mainstream cinematic conventions, offering a much-needed redefinition of feminist storytelling beyond urban and upper-caste narratives.

Why Regional Cinema Matters 

What sets these films apart from Bollywood’s feminist blockbusters is their refusal to package empowerment as spectacle. Instead of relying on grand declarations of defiance, they highlight the microaggressions, negotiations, and quiet revolutions that define real-life struggles. Whether it is Ullozhukku’s simmering domestic tensions, Aruvi’s rage against hypocrisy, or Village Rockstars’ celebration of quiet resilience, these films offer a more rooted, lived-in feminism—one that acknowledges complexity rather than reducing it💫 to a cine𝔉matic formula. 

 Bollywood’s portrayal of feminism often hinges on dramatic climaxes—women breaking free from꧅ oppression in loud, visible ways. Regional cinema, on the other hand, understands that change is often incremental, that resistance can be quiet, and that real empowerment is not always accompanied by triumphant back🍨ground music. These films remind us that feminism is not just about breaking chains; sometimes, it is about navigating the spaces within them. 

Such recognizably human and humane portrayals are winning because their language of vulnerability speaks to women across generations. This vulnerability never leaves us – quite like the nagging, pungent smell of previous days' cooking which the wife (Nimisha Sajayan) in The Great Indian Kitchen tries to erase with soap. Yet it lingers—in her sleep, in her moments of intimacy, and well into the following day. No, I don’t want to call her a 🥂Lady Macbeth here and place her on an unnecessary pedestal. Let the girl breathe. In life and on celluloid women don’t want an exalted existence; perhaps only a chilled beer after a long day and a safe ride back home. That would be enough.  

Chronicler of the curious, Shreya Banerjee is a features writer with a keen interest in cinema, art, culture, food and sport.