Opinion Why Gen Z, with its Instagram doomscrolling and short attention spans, needs Guru Dutt

Growing up watching Malayalam cinema, I thought I had already seen the many shades of patience, silence, and unhurried observation. With the measured poise of Ramu Kariat in the ’60s, the social ironies of Adoor and Aravindan in the ’70s, the human warmth of Padmarajan and Bharathan in the ’80s, the moral intricacies of Lohithadas in the ’90s and the emotional worlds of Blessy in the 2000s, Malayalam cinema had taught me that cinema is not about rushing to the next beat.

They taught me that pauses are not absences but presences, that silence is not emptiness but depth. Their grammar was silence, breath, gaze. And watching Guru Dutt for the first time healed many wounds caused by doomscrolling, with a grammar of cinema that was far more human.

Today, the grammar of cinema is changing in ways both exciting and troubling. Yes, shorter attention spans demand tighter edits. Yes, social media has trained us to expect a high point every thirty seconds. A filmmaker cannot ignore this new rhythm entirely. But what happens when rhythm becomes frenzy, when scenes exist not to unfold but to explode? The cost is depth.

Hindi cinema in particular seems trapped in its maniacal obsession with grandeur. Bigger sets, louder soundscapes, shinier stars. The kind of cinema where the camera swoops endlessly, yet the story goes nowhere. But what use is grandeur without gravity? What remains of Guru Dutt’s spirit when his shadows are replaced by neon, his silences by noise?

This is not to say the industry has forgotten entirely. There are still moments, rare, and hence precious, that remind us of cinema’s older elegance. Take the intimacy of Vikramaditya Motwane’s Lootera, where a leaf falling from a tree held more tension than most gunfights. Even in mainstream spaces, a filmmaker like Shoojit Sircar can gift us the quiet tenderness of October and the therapeutic Piku. Small salvations but loud victories.

And yet, one cannot shake off the unease. The younger audience, myself included, has been trained to consume thrill as the dominant flavour.

Even Malayalam cinema, which once trusted the slow burn, is now churning thrillers with assembly-line efficiency. And they sell because adrenaline rushes are bankable. But that surge does not push aside the calm and tranquil treatment it once valued. More business for thrillers does not mean less audience for others.

Think of Kumbalangi Nights with its slow-burning family reconciliations, or Nanpakal Nerathu Mayakkam, where Mammootty slips into dreamlike stillness. These films do not surrender to the tyranny of the 30-second high point. They trust the audience to wait, to watch, to feel. And the audience, remarkably, has responded. These films have travelled far beyond Kerala, winning not just awards but affection from viewers weary of noise.

And that is the optimism worth holding on to. Because it means the audience still hungers for cinema that values detail over distraction. A sigh, a gesture, or a hesitant glance are not outdated. They are more radical now than ever.

The promise lies in the fact that cinema is not consumed only by algorithms. A film, in 2025, can still be shared in whispers, recommended as an experience, not as a must-watch scene.

And the challenge is not whether audiences can handle silence. The challenge is whether filmmakers dare to offer it. Guru Dutt dared. Padmarajan dared. Today, a handful of filmmakers still dare, whether in Mumbai or in Kochi. They still think good art is born when the artist dares to challenge the sensibilities of an audience.

As a memory machine, cinema is a keeper of glances and gestures. The question is simple: Do we want to remember only spectacle, or also silence? The grammar is shifting, yes. But grammar is not destiny.