Narratives within Malayalam cinema, the film industry based in the south Indian state of Kerala, feature incredible anxiety around the bodies of women. The films Avalude Ravukal (Her Nights) and Naalu Pennungal (Four Women) demonstrate how cultural norms attributed to womanhood and the portrayal of sexuality have fluctuated between respectability and unease. Where Naalu Pennungal outlines the constraints that different Malayalee women are placed under within the patriarchal structuring of Kerala, Avalude Ravukal disrupts these bounds as it chronicles the story of a young sex worker, becoming one of the first Indian films to depict women in a more “sensual” manner. The contemporary film, 22 Female Kottayam stands in contrast to both films as it displays these cultural constraints with what could be considered a more progressive twist in a story involving sexual abuse. What do these films reveal about contemporary Kerala and its “exceptional” nature, one that upholds the progressive position of Malayalee women in terms of employment and education, but not sexuality?
I. The Model State, Articulations of Division, and The Self
To begin answering this question, the development of modern day Kerala must first be examined as this formation is critical to the functioning of contemporary life. Kerala, known as a “model state” for development due to its high educational levels and social welfare programs, places particular importance on the articulation of the Malayalee identity, which has been a central product in its cultural production since the colonial era.[1] This identity could not exist in the present without a reformulation of space and the conception of the individual during the turn of the nineteenth century. Key to this process was the reordering of space on the lines of sexual difference, a process that J. Devika terms as “engendering.”[2] Structuring space through a gendered lens meant social roles would be based on particular attributes. Within a patriarchal culture, this involved an emphasis on the structure of womanhood and what spheres woman could/should exist within. Devika reconfigures the traditional gendered divides of private and public into the social and political, which were created to accommodate the entrance of women into educational institutions as well as the workforce. The social sphere reconstituted the private as the space where women could use their “natural” attributes of nurturing and providing within teaching and medical professions.[3] By formulating a new concept of the private, separate identities were maintained, allowing for the gendered divides of society to remain intact. This was critical in producing an individual Malayalee identity, unified rather than divided within the major ordering of space beforehand: the caste system.[4] All the qualities which made the standing of Malayalee women appear progressive simultaneously fell in line with desired traits for wives and mothers, socializing women to be ready to take on these roles as well.
How were these gendered roles cemented? The literary realm was particularly important in this reordering as the gendering process was readily evidenced through Kerala’s early writings. As Udaya Kumar contends in his book, Writing the First Person, much of the autobiographical writing of the late 1800s to early 1900s discussed the changing social and political atmosphere of the authors as writing about the “public” space helped them to articulate an individual identity.[5] This sense of self was critical to a society in transition, for the internal self and the importance of one’s internal character could be considered a liberating development against caste-ruled order, which placed the individual within a group consciousness. Yet, there was also a self-regulatory aspect of this individual self, one that controlled the thoughts and actions of the body by outlining proper behavior that was encased by gender.[6] With this in mind, the question of who holds the pen comes into play. The autobiography is an expression of agency, the authority to speak and write about one’s own experiences and feelings. As the articulation of self through literary narrative, history, and political organization were closely intertwined, the depiction of history is molded within the self-narrative similarly to how it is written within a history book.[7]
Why does this matter? Considered exceptional in particular for its high literacy levels for girls and low rates of female infanticide, Kerala has prided itself on the elevated status of Malayalee women in comparison to women in other Indian states as well as the majority of the Global South. Yet the reality of women’s lives in Kerala has been more complicated than this progressive rendering would lead one to believe. This is especially prevalent in the political sphere, as it was (and still is) considered a man’s domain where the complexities of women’s issues are filtered through a social versus political perspective. Past women’s movements were grounded not through a feminist lens, but through issues related to their livelihood, such as labor rights, leaving institutional inequalities for women intact.[8] Though the Kerala “model” is considered a worn-out term, the understanding of its exceptionalism has persisted within the contemporary, making it difficult to reveal or refute the still-pressing inequalities faced by Dalits, Adivasi groups, and women.
II. Film as a Medium of Perception
In order to understand the fluctuating position of Malayalee women, the cinematic realm is utilized as a medium for both portraying these anxieties and challenging them. Much like the literary sphere, early films within Malayalam cinema were grounded in a historicizing function. Bindu Menon Mannil’s “Romancing History and Historicising Romance,” asserts that diverse film forms of the 1930s and 40s –– the beginnings of Kerala’s film industry –– utilized history as “the central impulse of an imagination about cinema.”[9] This was due in part to film’s unique ability to document events of the past, carrying “utopian possibilities” in depicting “the real” as cinema became an important space for public communication.[10] The cinematic space could then be thought of not merely as entertainment but as a sphere of knowledge, a way to communicate ideas and also a conduit for visual history.[11] But the cinematic medium combined with the physical space of the theatre held its share of uneasiness. The 1926 Cinematograph Bill enacted by the Sri Mulam Prajasabha revealed “social anxieties around caste pollution and the ‘moral nature’ of cinema and exhibition spaces.”[12] Again, we see the attempt to objectively reveal or historicize the cultural space of Kerala, now through a visual perspective, but only using a singular lens to do so. The “exceptional” quality of this lens restricts those who are within it while simultaneously leaving out those actions or experiences which may derail it.
III. Constraints of Women in Film
Where are Malayalee women within this trajectory and in what ways do their on-screen representations speak to anxieties around sexuality and moral values? The positioning of Malayalee women within Kerala is constantly shifting, contradicting the myth of linear progressivism that is firmly ingrained in the contemporary cultural consciousness. These shifts reflect economic and social changes, as well, and no period in film demonstrates this better than the soft porn boom of the 1980s, which originated in the 1978 film, Avalude Ravukal.[13] Seen as one of the first soft porn films in Kerala as well as India, the film, an overnight success throughout the nation, depicts the life story of a struggling sex worker. Though the film was a major hit, initial responses by Malayalee critics were negative due to its portrayal of sexuality, which was labeled as obscene. This obscenity claim is founded on the film’s secession from traditional representations of women: The protagonist Raji’s body is not only emphasized but depicted as desirable to both characters within the film and the audience at large. An iconic poster of the film depicts Raji (the protagonist) dressed in only a men’s shirt, her arms, thighs, and legs in a “provocative” manner explicitly expressing desire. This image is shown in the film multiple times –– the camera lingers over Raji’s various body parts, relating to the audience a connection between visual physicality and sexual desire. Overtime, these complaints of indecency were replaced by praise: The depiction of a “subaltern prostitute” captured the reality of low-class India, bringing sympathy to the trials Raji is put through and the way society looks down upon her regardless of the circumstances involved.[14] This critical shift in perception speaks to the unstable nature of film genres and the anxieties around how Malayalee identity is portrayed as “charged public debates are staged around the processes of labeling and classifying ‘good’ and ‘bad’ cinema.”[15] By shifting the focus of the film from its depiction of the female body (which is what brought audiences across India to view it, even if translations of the film weren’t available), to the notion of capturing the “real” experiences of suffering, these critics try to control the perception of the Malayalee identity in cinema. Yet the soft porn boom, which had its start in Kerala and was highly successful till the early 2000s, could not be easily forgotten or explained away as Avalude Ravukal had been. The emphasis on the divide between “high” (artistic and culturally valuable) and “low” (open displays of sexuality) cinema was one such way of countering the soft porn image Kerala had gained.[16] This in itself exposed a fear of an “enlightened” audience’s perception giving way to one that is sexually perverse, thus chipping away at the Model state imagery.
The depictions of open sexuality in soft porn cinema disrupted the image of the ideal Malayalee woman: chaste, contained, and submissive to the desires of her family and husband regardless of her employment or educational level. What happens when the perspective of the film is told through the gaze of this woman? How are social constraints brought to the forefront and challenged through this perspective? These constraints, often implicit within films, are revealed in director Adoor Gopalakrishnan’s 2007 film, Naalu Pennungal. The film, based of the short stories of writer Thakazhi Sivasankara Pillai (the ‘realist’ writer of critics’ dreams), tells the stories of four separate women from the 1940s to 1960s in Kuttanad, Kerala. The female characters are labeled as the Prostitute, the Virgin, the Housewife, and the Spinister. Though all four women are from different social backgrounds, they are collectively repressed by social morals which determine their livelihood.
The Prostitute, known as Kunjipennu, leaves her job as a sex worker after she agrees to marry Pappukutty, a man who loves her but does not own a house, which forces them to sleep on the pavement. After an encounter with the police, they are brought in on false charges of public immorality and prostitution, despite both contending that they are married. Unable to bring up any legal documentation of their marriage, the couple is convicted for their “crime.” Even though Kunjipennu insists that she is not a sex worker anymore, her status within the area cannot be changed within the eyes of the law and those who interpret it. Kunjipennu is made sympathetic as the viewer sees her as a victim of the negative associations surrounding her former profession. She states that money is not what matters to her and as that she is happy to do labour: “[I’ll] work and earn my living, however hard it is” (00:08:11-00:08:14). Why give up her sex work after being married, though it may provide the income needed to build a home? What does it imply if she continues to have sex with men in exchange for money? This question is key to Kunjipennu’s story. In terms of visual presentation, where Avalude Ravukal’s Raji garners sympathy from the viewer while still being portrayed as a subject of desire, Kunjipennu is ridiculed constantly by men because of her profession. Though both women are looked down upon as sex workers, Kunjipennu is never explicitly portrayed in a sexual manner; her clothes are “modest” as only her arms and stomach are seen. Because Kunjipenne is portrayed outside of an explicitly sexual context, her narrative garners sympathy from the modern audience more readily than Raji’s.
Kunjipennu’s story reflects the moralizing gaze of the law and the cementing of one’s “reputation” under it. Both the Virgin and the Housewife’s tales follow a similar line of moral meaning as their reputations are the central focus. In the Virgin story, the lower-middle class Kumari is married off to a man who refuses to talk to or touch her, leaving her at her parents’ house after marriage and never returning. Rumors about why she was left begin to circulate. The blame eventually falls on her shoulders, although it is clear to the viewer that this is not the case, as she is a shy, hardworking girl who takes care of her ill father. Her reputation is tainted as it is assumed she did something sexually immoral to warrant being left. This is shown when her husband’s family asks for a large sum of money for divorce in order to make up for the “shame” she has caused them. She refutes by saying that there is nothing to pay as a marriage had never occured, implying that the time she spent with her husband was illegitimate since no sexual intercourse had taken place. Kumari’s demeanor is integral to her story as the viewer must see that she is an “honest” girl in order to be angered at the accusations that she was left by her husband primarily because of her supposedly immoral nature. But what would have changed if she did have an affair? If her husband’s rude and apathetic feelings toward her were still portrayed to the viewer, would she have every right to engage with another man without responses of anger or shame from the viewing audience? Why must Kumari represent an absolutely innocent record––reiterating to the viewer that she is still a virgin––in order for her statement that the marriage never happened to have resonance?
While Kumari is depicted as a lower middle class woman, the Housewife, Chinnu, has a comfortable living with a husband that loves her despite her failure to conceive a child. Chinnu’s old schoolmate visits her village and tries to persuade her that her husband is to blame for her childlessness and that he could father her child. Chinnu is conflicted as she almost had sex with her schoolmate when they were younger, but was held back by the fear of becoming pregnant out of wedlock. In the end, she decides against having an affair with him. Instead, she grows old with no children, proud to have kept her “virtue”. Chinnu’s story hinges on this refusal to commit an “immoral” act, as she is aware of the social stigma surrounding it. The moral of Chinnu’s story is perhaps the most direct: it is better to remain childless than be a source of gossip and ridicule by breaking the status quo (though ironically barrenness had its own stigma as well).
All three stories show a woman’s livelihood being either explicitly restricted or ruined through social values of feminine purity and reputation. The story of the Spinster Kamakshi emphasizes this the most as the main conflict in the tale is created by the absence of a man rather than the presence of one. A suitor that comes to see Kamakshi ends up wanting to marry her younger sister instead. Her mother is displeased with this, but Kamakshi, despite feeling immense pain and rejection, says that her sister should be allowed to marry him. Eventually, all of Kamakshi’s siblings are married off while she, still a bachelorette, nears middle age. Her mother is beyond bereaved, making her other children promise that they will take care of Kamakshi as part of her dying wish. Kamakshi is then taken in by her younger sister, who becomes enraged by the community gossip that her husband now has two wives. The anger and jealousy her sister feels pushes Kamakshi to return alone to the home her mother had willed to her. Lonely, she asks a man to come visit her, but upon his arrival she tells him she made a mistake by letting “her mind waver a bit” but has now come to her senses.[17]
Here, like in the other women’s stories, it is the presence of a man which highlights the conflict. The film ends with Kamakshi saying resolutely, “it should not be impossible for a woman to make her life without a man,” leaving the audience to wonder if such a life can be feasible within the social restrictions that Kamakshi is living under.[18] This resonates as a statement about the cultural restrictions that make life without marriage incredibly difficult for women. It is also a warning to women that they will end up alone and miserable like Kamakshi if fortune doesn’t fall into place. Kamakshi is not married, so why should it matter if she has relationships with men? She tells the man to leave because her “spinster” lifestyle warrants complete celibacy, as extramarital sex is an immoral (and punishable) act.
Naalu Pennungal both explicitly and implicitly depicts the ways in which women during this “modern” era were bound by social customs of morality. Though the film points to the overt source of strife within each woman’s story, it also reflects the repressive unspoken boundaries of social behavior that the writer of these tales, Thakazhi Sivasankara Pillai, saw as necessary. Translated from the page to the screen, director Gopalakrishnan appears to agree that these values needed to remain in order for sympathy to be garnered from a contemporary Malayalee audience. The commercial success of the film in Kerala speaks to its relevance and lasting cultural value within the contemporary. Even though great wrongs are done to the four woman because of the social importance of purity, reputation, and conformity, their visual depictions further encase them within the system. None of the women are portrayed as acting on explicit sexual desires; rather, they face difficulties due to circumstances outside of their control. While both the Spinster Kamakshi and the Housewife Chinnu are tempted to act upon their sexual desires, neither give in, allowing them to remain in the good graces of the audience. The importance of innocence––saying “no” to temptation or being totally without guilt––within these narratives exposes the social constraints that contemporary Malayalee women cannot escape. Although women are viewed as victims throughout the film, they remain within the bounds of gendered behavior and cultural custom (their sexuality refused and contained) so they are not completely undone.
IV. Conclusion
The presentation and representation of modern Malayalee women have been filtered through social customs––codes of conduct delineated on lines of caste, class, and especially gender––to maintain Kerala’s “exceptional” image. Both Naalu Pennungal and Avalude Ravukal, though seemingly opposed to one another in the presentation of women, reveal insights into anxieties around the nature and control of morality and feminine sexuality within the context of present-day Kerala. But why are these fears so prevalent in the contemporary era? As Darshana Sreedhar Mini states in “The Spectral Duration of Malayalam Soft-Porn,” the contemporary Kerala’s “cinemascape is marked by the specter of soft-porn which ‘gnaws into the present,’ like a wrinkle on the face of Malayalam film-history.”[19] These fears can be felt in films like Naalu Pennungal, which portrays the repressive social constraints binding women, while knowing full well that the audience will only approve of the film if these social customs are still implicitly followed.
The bounds of women-driven stories as well as the portrayal of sexuality are not immovable, though. They have been challenged and will continue to be challenged through films like Aashiq Abu’s 2012 film, 22 Female Kottayam.[20] Protagonist Tessa Abraham is introduced as having the kind and sweet demeanor that all Malayalee girls are meant to have. The film builds upon this conventional behavior as she begins a new relationship with a man. This relationship is portrayed with progressive undertones as the couple has extramarital sex and Tessa reveals that she has had prior sexual experience yet no moral judgement is cast. Her demeanor continues to encompass acceptable traits of womanhood. This image is shattered when she is brutally raped by her boyfriend’s boss, framed by her boyfriend, and sent to jail as a means of preventing her retaliation. Instead of remaining sweet and submissive, Tessa takes revenge on her rapist and lover in calculated and violent ways, killing Mr. Hedge (the boss) in a slow and painful manner with a cobra’s bite, then cutting off her boyfriend’s penis, allowing him to live and even saying where she will go next if he ever feels like coming after her. Tessa’s presentation is a complete departure from the stories of the women in Naalu Pennungal. Even though Tessa suffers and has done nothing wrong like the women in NP, she actively takes revenge for what has happened to her, commiting crimes in the name of justice. The depth and nuance afforded to Tessa’s character reconstitutes the boundaries of respectability as Tessa is portrayed as a desirable woman and sexual subject with her own attractions. Her promiscuity does not qualify the sexual assault inflicted upon her; rather, it re-configures these boundaries that have restrained women for decades. Tessa’s victimhood marks her as one of many woman that have endured sexual assault. The films title, 22 Female Kottayam, highlights this as it refers to the ways both online dating profiles and crime reports are made using age (22), gender (Female), and location (Kottayam). This underscores the fact that although Tessa’s relationship ends in tragedy, she is an ordinary young woman. Repeatedly, she is told to forget what has happened to her and move on, but Tessa refuses, and this refusal marks a turn in representation that has recently gained traction throughout the world and India in particular. The Women in Cinema Collective (WCC) –– founded after an actress was assaulted by cinema star Dileep –– is a testament to that refusal.[21] This organization provides a platform for actresses, filmmakers, and writers to ban together to rewrite the rules of the film industry and question the social norms of Kerala. The WCC affords a glimpse of a brighter future when Keralan films are seen as agents of change rather than ways to reinforce societal norms surrounding womanhood.
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[1] Robin Jeffrey, “Politics, Women and Well-Being: How Kerala Became ‘a Model,’” Palgrave Macmillan, 187.
[2] J. Devika, En-Gendering Individuals: the Language of Re-Forming in Twentieth Century Keralam, Orient BlackSwan, 7.
[3] Ibid, 32.
[4] This is not to say caste was disregarded, since gender became another factor in more intricate divisions of space.
[5] Udaya Kumar, Writing the First Person: Literature, History, and Autobiography in Modern Kerala, Permanent Black, 12.
[6] Devika, En-Gendering Individuals: the Language of Re-Forming in Twentieth Century Keralam, 38.
[7] Kumar, Writing the First Person: Literature, History, and Autobiography in Modern Kerala, 18.
[8] Jeffrey, “Politics, Women and Well-Being: How Kerala Became ‘a Model,’” 216.
[9] Bindu Menon Mannil, “Romancing History and Historicising Romance.” India-Seminar, www.india-seminar.com/2009/598/598_bindu_menon_m.htm, 29.
[10] Ibid.
[11] Ibid.
[12] Ibid, 30.
[13] Navaneetha Mokkil Maruthur, “Re-Viewing Her Nights: Modes of Excess in Indian Cinema,” South Asian Popular Culture, vol. 9, no. 3, 271.
[14] Ibid, 272.
[15] Ibid, 276.
[16] Ibid.
[17] Adoor Gopalakrishnan, Naalu Pennungal, Youtube, www.youtube.com/watch?v=MA4Rhasc1U4, (01:37:50-01:37:58).
[18]Gopalakrishnan, Naalu Pennungal, (01:38:03-01:38:10).
[19] Darshana Sreedhar Mini, “The Spectral Duration of Malayalam Soft-Porn: Disappearance, Desire, and Haunting,” BioScope: South Asian Screen Studies, vol. 7, no. 2, 128.
[20] Aashiq Abu, 22 Female Kottayam (Film Brewery/PJ Entertainments Europe).
[21] Vidhya CK, “How Kerala’s Women in Cinema Collective Is Scripting Change in the Film Industry,” YourStory, Yourstory, yourstory.com/2018/03/keralas-women-cinema-collective-scripting-change-film-industry/