In Indian cinema, masculinity has long had a template – broad shoulders, clenched jaws, an aversion to tears, and an unyielding sense of control. Vulnerability is rare, flamboyance is frowned upon, and queerness is almost taboo. To deviate from this image is to risk ridicule, rejection, or worse – irrelevance.
And yet, in a consistent act of defiance, a handful of performances and projects dismantle this myth of masculinity. One of Malayalam cinema’s most enduring legends, Mohanlal, recently appeared in a jewellery advertisement that made waves – not because it was outlandish, but because it was so quietly subversive.
In the ad, the 65-year-old star is seen wearing bridal jewellery, comfortable in his skin, and absolutely unapologetic. He strikes classical mudras whilst admiring himself in the mirror in his vanity van. There’s no caricature, no winking at the camera, no self-preservation – only an actor willing to stretch his horizons, to explore, to express. When he is “caught” trying on women’s jewellery, Mohanlal smiles, and so does the person who finds him. There is no embarrassment in the exchange, no macho posturing. It is an act of gender-nonconforming performance, and Mohanlal does it without self-consciousness. In a society where gender expression is tightly policed, such an act by a male superstar, especially one of Mohanlal’s stature, challenges viewers to rethink their assumptions.
And that, in today’s India, is a form of quiet rebellion.
A couple of years ago, another stalwart of the Malayalam film industry, Mammootty, portrayed a closeted gay man married to a woman (Jyothika) in Kaathal: The Core (2023), a character battling internalised shame and the weight of societal expectations. The film doesn’t offer cheap drama or caricature queerness. Instead, it presents a restrained, intimate portrait of a man torn between duty and identity – an experience countless queer people in India continue to live through.
The backlash was swift. Right-wing and conservative groups called for a boycott of the film. Muslim clerics, too, criticised the film’s portrayal of homosexuality, calling it an attempt to “brainwash the youth”. What made Mammootty’s choice especially powerful is that he did not distance himself from the role after the backlash. He stood by it. No apologies, no explanations, just conviction.
Both Mohanlal, and Mammootty’s portrayals were sincere, dignified, and unafraid. At a time when most male stars, particularly in Bollywood, are still clinging to rigid, outdated ideas of manhood, these actors show that maturity doesn’t mean safety. It means freedom — not to protect their image, but to expand the space for what men can look like, feel like, and act like on screen; not as a parody, but as a performance.
Mainstream Hindi cinema has manufactured a singular idea of the Indian man: Emotionally distant, physically dominant, often angry, rarely vulnerable. The hero is rarely queer, almost always flamboyant, and if he cries, it must be in the heat of battle or in the shadow of revenge. To wear a nose ring, drape a saree, or play a man in love with another man – these are choices that threaten to “feminise” the hero in the eyes of a market that still equates masculinity with power, and power with dominance. So only a few movies, such as Rocky aur Rani Kii Prem Kahaani (2023), dare to go where others haven’t.
The fear is not of artistic failure, it is of image erosion. It is also commercial. Bollywood remains deeply conservative, and while urban audiences may appreciate nuance, large segments of the film-viewing public and financiers continue to associate masculinity with aggression, dominance, and heteronormative desire.
But this rigidity doesn’t just stunt creativity. It stifles emotional truth. When our stories only show one kind of man – silent, stoic, alpha – what do young boys learn about expressing pain, seeking intimacy, or embracing vulnerability? The damage spills beyond the cinema. It seeps into homes, schools, relationships – boys are told to stop crying, to assert, instead of feeling and listening.
There have been disruptions along the way, though. Kamal Haasan portrayed an effeminate dancer in Vishwaroopam (2013). Vijay Sethupathi broke new ground with his role as a trans woman in Super Deluxe (2019), bringing vulnerability, complexity, and care to a character that could easily have been reduced to a trope. Moving away from the south, Atul Kulkarni gave a devastating performance as a nachya performing in ’70s Maharashtrian tamashas in 2010’s Natrang. The younger generation, in a rare experiment, followed suit with Riddhi Sen’s National Award-winning turn in 2019’s Bengali film Nagarkirtan.
But these remain exceptions. Portrayals in Bollywood specifically have always been an inch away from caricatures. Most actors fear the repercussions: From losing roles and endorsements to being trolled online.
This fear is real. But the silence that results from it is dangerous.
As older, influential male icons, what Mohanlal and Mammootty have done is brave because they are choosing roles not out of necessity, but out of a sense of artistic freedom. They are not selling youth. They are not hawking testosterone. They are, instead, inhabiting the vast emotional landscapes that masculinity so often ignores — pain, shame, tenderness. And in doing so, they’re giving younger actors and audiences permission to imagine masculinity beyond muscle and machismo, as something much more than a straitjacket.
stela.dey@indianexpress.com
