We live by twos beyond all mirages, images, and mirrors. Between us, one is not the “real” and the other her imitation; one is not the original and the other her copy (L. Irigaray, 1985, p.216)

The present paper focuses on two key things—gendering the trope of the dream of making cinema, and the embodied representations of female fantasy within and outside the cine-space. Contextualizing the Malayalam film Sara’s (J. A. Joseph, 2021) in the backdrop of feminist film theory, specifically spectator theory, auteur theory and regional gender discourses, the article tries to spotlight the creation of a female film fantasy. By referring to the new representational modalities opened up by gendering the dream of making cinema, the paper highlights the representational politics embedded in the Malayalam media while also problematizing the auteur’s ideological position within gender discourse. Through close analysis of the film informed by the feminist film theory, the paper engages in a comparative engagement with one other Malayalam film that explore the cinematic dream (dream of making cinema) to argue the inherent gendered construction of cinematic structures, cinema dream and female fantasy. Through a close textual analysis of Sara’s, this paper examines how narrative structure and character development contribute to the articulation of female fantasy and authorship.

Fig. 1 – Poster of Sara’s (2021), Source, IMDB.

Sara’s, directed by Jude Anthany Joseph, is a film that explores the professional and familial negotiations that an aspirational woman has to undergo. The story revolves around the titular character Sara, a woman in her twenties who wishes to be a successful filmmaker, and how she manages the expectations of her family post-marriage. As a woman, she is expected to prioritise being a mother over her dream of becoming a successful (critical and commercial) director. The narrative tension occurs when Sara finds herself pregnant soon after she gets the contract for her directorial debut, and what follows is her personal struggle to rise as an aspirational individual within a patriarchal family setup.

The paper briefly engages in a comparative reading of Sara’s with the Malayalam film Udayananu Tharam (R. Andrews, 2005) (UaT hereafter) to exposit on the gendered nature of the filmmaker-spectator position. Sara’s narrative gestures toward a reconfiguration of the traditionally masculine figure of the auteur by imagining the dreaming filmmaker as female. This representational shift gains critical resonance when placed in dialogue with UaT, which naturalises the auteur as a masculine authority and constructs a narrative space that marginalises female agency. In contrast, Sara’s narrative desire to claim authorship suggests a potential reclamation of agential space for women—a possibility that will be explored in the paper. Further, the paper would problematise the representational politics behind the choice of the protagonist Sara^[1] within the larger context of active discussion on gendered concerns in the Malayalam film industry post-2017.

The female fantasy: Male auteur and female desire

The inscription of feminist authority in a film is a consequence of the filmmaker’s efforts to overwrite established forms of cinematic power. (L. Bolton, 2011, p.190)

Certain filmmakers are often celebrated as auteurs^[2]—artists whose work reflect distinct technique, personal style, and interior meaning. This framing reinforces the ‘myth of the male genius’, where the auteur is typically assumed to be male. His authorial identity is seen as singular and sovereign, exerting control over form, content and cinematic meaning. This perspective obscures the collective labour—across class, caste, and gender—that contributes to the making and dissemination of a film. Despite this, the filmmaker’s conceptual vision and direction are often perceived as unified and complete, even though filmmaking is inherently collaborative.^[3]

Malayalam cinema has produced some of the most influential auteurs in world cinema. The new wave of Malayalam filmmakers—Adoor Gopalakrishnan, K.G. George, and G. Aravindan—introduced a refined cinematic language shaped by their exposure to world cinema, technical proficiency, and narrative depth. Their films captured the social, political, and ideological complexities of Malayalee life through carefully composed visuals and nuanced storytelling. This movement laid the foundation for a new generation of filmmakers like P. Padmarajan and Bharathan, who bridged the gap between art house and commercial cinema. Their work created a distinctive middle-brow aesthetic that appealed to both critics and mainstream audiences. During this period, auteur filmmakers redefined Kerala’s cinematic language, modernising it while preserving its cultural specificity and thematic resonance.

However, like many global film industries, Malayalam cinema has a history of marginalising women’s contributions. The erasure of Alice Guy Blachè’s prolific output and the exclusion of Fatma Begum—Hindi cinema’s first female director—from mainstream film history reflect a broader patriarchal anxiety within cinematic establishment. Malayalam cinema has mirrored this pattern. Vijaya Nirmala, the first female director in the industry, faced what Meena T. Pillai describes as the “historical and ideological desubstantialisation of the woman director” (46):^[4]

The rendering weak of a woman director’s claim to professional status here cannot be taken as a personal instance of sabotaging female agency but reflects a larger political and ideological climate that sanctions such practices both within the film industry and the larger social milieu of Kerala. (M. Pillai, 2020, p.45-46)

The film Sara’s foregrounds the entrenched gender bias against female technicians from the outset. The protagonist, Sara, works as an assistant director but effectively assumes the role of directing and conceptualising shots—demonstrating greater vision and competence than the designated male director [09.22 onwards]. The male director is portrayed as impatient and inept, serving as a caricature of male privilege within the industry. Later, Sara is dismissed by a potential financier who questions her ability to direct a big-budget crime thriller solely because she is a woman, while expressing willingness to fund an inexperienced male director [01:00:55 onwards]. This moment starkly illustrates the normalised gender bias that governs access to resources and authority in cinema, revealing the cultural prejudices that shape the professional experiences of women technicians.^[5]

Such bias also contributes to the construction of a gendered hierarchy of genres. Tania Modleski argues that genres are “dynamic sites of ideological negotiations,” where the division between so-called male and female genres—particularly the classification of melodrama as a ‘female’ genre—functions as a form of cultural gatekeeping (149). Sara’s ambition to direct a crime thriller, a genre traditionally coded as masculine, is perceived as transgressive. Her ambition is curtailed by the male producers, who views her entry into this space as a threat to established power structures. The resistance faced by women seeking authority in cinema is not unique to Malayalam cinema; it reflects a broader, global pattern of exclusion, evident across film industries including Hollywood^[6] (C. Lane, 2000).

This perceived threat is symbolically linked to castration anxiety and the disruption of gendered authorship. If Sara—a woman—successfully directs a genre traditionally coded as masculine, it challenges the conventional alignment between the male gaze (viewer) and male director (creator). Sara’s complicates this dynamic by resisting the “hystericisation of the female spectator” and instead, asserting the female gaze as a legitimate creative force. In doing so, the film destabilises the binary of active male gaze and passive identification by female spectators (T. Modleski, 1988, p. 22). However, this subversion is complicated by the gendered position of the film’s creators—both the director and writer are male. Their ideological stance on gender inequality within the industry^[7] inevitably shapes the representation of the female spectator turned filmmaker protagonist.

The gendered anxieties embedded in the film industry are also rationalised through claims of technical complexity—particularly in genres associated with scale, spectacle, and masculinity. These claims serve to exclude women from directing such films. This bias is evident in Sara’s when the protagonist develops a meticulously researched script, consulting police officials and a forensic doctor to ensure authenticity. Despite the script being praised for its brilliance, she is deemed unfit to direct the crime thriller due to the scale and ambition of her vision. This moment reflects a broader normative framework that relegates women to passive or peripheral roles—both within cinematic narratives and in the industry at large.

Sara’s challenges this framework from the very beginning. In the opening scene [01:51 onwards], a young Sara rides her bicycle to school, confidently looking directly into the camera. This gaze signals her agency and refusal to conform to passive representation—she is the one who looks, rather than the one to be looked at. Her autonomy is further reinforced in a scene where she initiates a romantic encounter with her teenage boyfriend. Although the kiss does not occur, Sara later tells her friends that it did. Through the act of storytelling, she constructs an empowered narrative—one in which she controls both the memory and the meaning of her experience. In doing so, Sara asserts her agency not only as a character but also as a narrator of her own life, both past and present.

Through Sara’s repeated efforts to secure funding for her directorial debut, the film exposes several systemic issues within Malayalam film industry. These references primarily serve to highlight Sara’s resilience and to inject humour by distancing her from the absurdities of industry practices. However, the seemingly light-hearted portrayal of these challenges reflects deeper structural problems—many of which were formally documented in the Justice Hema Committee report (2024).

Fig. 2- Still from Sara’s (2021). Sexual innuendos expressed by producer while Sara narrates her script

Fig. 3 – Screenshot of Justice Hema. Commission report front page.

The first producer that Sara meets [54:30 onwards] insists on commercial viability over art, reflecting the presence of industry stakeholders who fail to appreciate the distinct sensibilities of Malayalam cinematic (C. S. Venkiteswaran, 2011; A. M. George, 2017). The tension between commerce and creativity is not new and has resulted in a phase of quality erosion in Malayalam film history. The second producer Sara approaches, introduces a critical concern—one that directly affects women in the Malayalam film industry. The Hema committee report mentions:

1. Sexual demands made to women for the very entry into cinema and getting chances to work in cinema. 2. Sexual harassment, abuse, assault against women at workplace, transportation, places of accommodation, etc. 3. Torture of women if they express their resentment and unwillingness to sexual demands. (Justice Hema K., et al., 2024, p.28)

When Sara approaches the second producer to pitch her script, he is depicted lounging in a vanity van in an informal, almost suggestive posture, impatiently waiting for her to finish her narration [55:58 onwards]. After her narration, he propositions her under the guise of a professional opportunity—inviting her on a location hunt where she can explain more about her story in a hotel room. He explicitly offers to fund her debut project in exchange for sexual compliance. Sara responds by slapping him and walking out, asserting her refusal to be complicit in exploitative practices.

This scene gains significance when viewed in the context of ongoing gender discourses within the Malayalam film industry. In response to questions about sexual harassments in the industry, prominent actors such as Mohanlal and Siddique—both of whom held leadership roles in the Association of Malayalam Movie Artists (AMMA) before resigning amid the controversy following the Justice Hema Committee report—claimed ignorance of such incidents. Their denials echo back to 2017, when members of the Women in Cinema Collective (WCC) publicly alleged widespread sexual harassment and casting couch practices in the industry. The backlash against WCC led to a polarising narrative that cast conservative male stakeholders as ‘good men’ and the women speaking out as ‘bad women’, thereby reinforcing patriarchal control over the industry’s moral and professional boundaries.^[8]

This denial is paradoxical, given the recurring cinematic representations of sexual harassment within Malayalam film industry itself. Films such as Varshangalkku Shesham (Vineeth Sreenivasan, 2024), B32 Muthal 44 Vare (S. Sharanyam, 2022), Makeup Man (Shafi, 2011), and Chathikkaatha Chanthu (Meccartin, 2004) have all depicted such issues. These portrayals suggest that sexual exploitation is not only prevalent but also embedded in the public consciousness, even if it was not publicly acknowledged with collective urgency until 2017.

Sara’s reaction to this—slapping the producer and walking away—symbolizes strength and resistance. However, not all women in the industry are in a position to respond so decisively. Factors such as inexperience, hierarchical power dynamics, and fear of professional repercussions often constrain women’s ability to resist. The conditions that enable or inhibit such resistance are shaped by structural inequalities (R. Karthikeyan, 2018). While individual responses are important, the focus must remain on dismantling the systemic practices that normalize sexual coercion as a gateway to professional advancement. These exploitative dynamics are symptomatic of a deeply entrenched patriarchal structure that not only governs access to opportunity but also shapes the sexist and misogynistic portrayals of women on screen. The continued reliance on the sexual, emotional, and creative exploitation of aspiring women underscores the urgent need for structural reform within the cinematic ecosystem.

The theme of sexual exploitation continues with Sara’s encounter with a third producer. Initially indifferent to her script, he becomes increasingly engaged during her narration and promptly offers her an advance to fund her directorial debut [56:26 onwards]. Sara is visibly elated, interpreting his gesture as a sign of professional respect and belief in her talent. However, her optimism is short-lived. That same evening, news breaks of the producer’s arrest following a sexual assault allegation by a young actress. Earlier in the scene, he is shown engaging in flirtatious phone conversations, subtly revealing his dual person—respectable in public, predatory in private.

This narrative mirrors real-life incidents in the Malayalam film industry, most notably the case involving actor-producer Vijay Babu. Accused of repeated sexual assault of a young actress under the pretext of marriage and career advancement, Babu fled the country before returning to the industry while the case remained under judicial review (S. Rajendran, 2022). His return underscores the systemic apathy toward survivors and the ease with which powerful men resume their careers, while women who resist exploitation often face professional setbacks (unofficial bans). While Sara’s does not delve into the complexities of such cases, it uses these references to illustrate the hostile environment in which the protagonist must pursue her aspirations.

Against this backdrop, the presence of women in mainstream Malayalam cinema—particularly in technical and directorial roles—remains exceptional. Despite the increased visibility of female actors, the proportion of women technicians remain disproportionately low. In this context, the portrayal of a female director in a mainstream narrative film marks a significant shift. A notable moment in the film occurs during Sara and her husband Jeevan’s wedding reception, where she is introduced as “the next Anjali Menon of Malayalam cinema” [47:24]. This reference underscores the cultural impact of Anjali Menon, a film director, whose success has inspired a new generation of aspiring filmmakers. While Menon is not the only woman to have directed in Malayalam cinema, her name has become emblematic of female creative ambition in the public imagination. Sara’s desire to succeed in the male-dominated space of commercial cinema challenges the structural exclusion of women from authorship, a theme explored by feminist film theorists such as Joan Riviere, Mary Ann Doane and Judith Mayne^[9]. Her aspiration to direct a crime thriller—a genre traditionally coded as masculine—represents a symbol reconstruction of gendered inequality embedded in both the form and content of cinema.

Sara’s assertion of individual agency within an industry marked by gender imbalance opens up important conversations. A 2019 industry report on women’s role in South Indian media revealed a practice known as ‘de-risking’ women-led projects by including popular male actors in cameo roles to ensure commercial viability (A. Joseph et. al., 2019, pg. 56). This practice reflects the enduring structural barriers that have historically excluded women from positions of creative authority, leading many talented female filmmakers to abandon their careers due to systemic constraints. Sara’s initial struggle reflects the broader reality faced by women technicians in the Malayalam film industry, where systemic support remained minimal^[10]. As the 2019 industry report notes, while film schools produce a fair number of women technicians, many are unable to pursue careers due to unsafe working environments, societal pressures, and entrenched prejudice. “The life of a woman assistant director is a very tough one” observed Anjali Menon. “Going a step ahead and making your first film is a better risk to take. The whole growing in the ranks thing is really difficult” (A. Joseph et al., 2019, p. 56).

However, Sara’s particular position of assistant director as a semi-agential authority is a representative shift in the film industry’s conception of women’s role in films— an ability to imagine a woman behind the camera. The single shot of Sara working in the film set, nonetheless, is a paradox—showing women’s labour in cinema while also restricting the screen-time of that labour.^[11] The narrative then focuses on her individual journey to achieve her desire to become the “next big thing in Malayalam film industry”, a journey from abstraction to a relational subjectivity. Drawing on Luce Irigaray’s work, Lucy Bolton in Film and Female Consciousness: Irigaray, Cinema and Thinking Women (2011) suggests the possibility of representing individual women, without being concerned with a ‘pure feminine nature’, thereby highlighting “the filmic experience of the female” that exists beyond the conservative fantasies of the feminine (p.191). Bolton’s Irigarian deduction of the relational subjectivity of the female characters does not enforce the creator of the film/characters being women but emphasizes on merely the representation of women in western culture. In that sense, Sara’s experience as a female filmmaker mediated by a male filmmaker opens up a possibility of a prototype of filmic female to exist (which may have its own representational issues from a decidedly feminist vantage point).

Fig. 4 – Poster of Udayananu Tharam (2005). Source: Wikipedia.

The reference to Anjali Menon in Sara’s becomes particularly meaningful when compared to another critically and commercially successful Malayalam film about the industry—Udayananu Tharam (UaT hereafter), directed by Rosshan Andrrews (2007). UaT is a cult comedy-drama that offers a satirical yet insightful portrayal of the Malayalam film industry. Its intertextual presence in Sara’s^[12] invites a comparative reading of how gender and authorship are represented across time. The protagonist of UaT, Udayabhanu (played by Mohanlal), is introduced while writing the climax of his dream debut film. The camera pans across framed portraits of legendary auteurs of Indian and world cinema in his modest apartment, visually situating him within a lineage of male cinematic genius.^[13] This homage—featuring figures like George Eastman, the Lumière Brothers, and Thomas Edison—reinforces the patriarchal foundations of cinema as a space historically constructed for and by men. Udayan aspires to elevate Malayalam cinema from its commercial decline to a more refined, auteur-driven tradition, positioning himself as a saviour of cinematic artistry.

While UaT critiques the industry’s commercial excesses, it simultaneously marginalizes women within its narrative world. Female characters are largely confined to domestic roles or objectified as glamorous bodies. Madhumati, a star and Udayan’s love interest, is kept at a distance because, as Udayan declares, “Udayabhanu has just one lover, and that is cinema,”. Another female character, actress Gayathri, plays the lead in Udayan’s debut film, and is portrayed as cooperative and unproblematic, always accompanied by a female relative. Other women appear only as makeup artists, assistants, or wives—rarely speaking and never occupying positions of creative authority. While it would be inaccurate to claim that no women held technical roles in the industry at the time, UaT’s cinematic world reflects a broader reality: the film industry has long been a hostile space for women, both on and off screen.

Unlike Sara, Udayan in UaT is never burdened by familial expectations or domestic responsibilities. His singular focus on becoming a filmmaker is accepted and even celebrated, agreeing that personal commitments might hinder his artistic ambitions. In contrast, Sara’s presents a more gendered reality. Despite her parents being otherwise progressive, they begin pressuring her to marry as soon as she turns 25. Sara resists this timeline, arguing that she needs at least two more years to focus on completing and releasing her debut film before considering such a commitment. Her frustration reflects the gendered double standard: while Udayan, a middle-aged man, is supported in his creative pursuits, Sara’s aspirations are seen as secondary to her expected role as a wife.

This is because given the gendered configurations of the industry within which Udayan is, it is far more likely to become a male auteur than a young Sara. When Sara introduces herself to Jeevan’s mother as an AD and aspiring filmmaker, the mother’s response is that of ridicule and disappointment at Sara’s inability to find a decent job in an organized sector that would enable her to perform the functions of a modern working wife.^[14]

The historic anxiety surrounding women in public roles stands in stark contrast to societal ideals of respectable private women. This tension is exacerbated by the unstructured and unconventional nature of the film industry, where instances of sexual and emotional exploitation of women have been documented. In her seminal work, Wanted Cultured Ladies Only! (2009), Neepa Majumdar examines the history of Hindi cinema, highlighting the collective efforts of film studios in the early 1930s to establish the industry as a safe environment for women from respectable families. She attributes the industry’s negative image to its informal working conditions, the emphasis on physical performance, and the circulation of gossip and sensationalism through popular media. These factors continue to shape the public perceptions of cinema as unsuitable workplace for women, particularly those from socially conservative backgrounds.

This cultural discomfort is reflected in Sara’s, where Jeevan’s mother disapproves of Sara’s career in cinema, viewing it as incompatible with the expectations of a modern wife. As Mydhili (2024) notes, such anxieties are deeply embedded in female film historiography and extra cinematic discourse. The release of the Justice Hema Committee report has further foregrounded these concerns, exposing widespread exploitative practices and the industry’s failure to ensure safe working conditions for women. The report documents how women’s creative and professional advancement is often obscured through sexual, economic, and institutional violence (A. Joseph et al., 2019; Justice Hema K. et al., 2024). The persistent belief that cinema is an inappropriate space for women from ‘respectable families’ is both a symptom and a mechanism of the patriarchal structures that dominate the industry. It legitimizes the exclusion of women from positions of authorship and authority, reinforcing a cycle of marginalization that continues to shape the cinematic landscape.

For a male filmmaker like Udayan, gender functions as a privilege. In contrast, for Sara, her gender shapes her positioning within the mise-en-scène, her creative roles in the industry, and her place within the household. Udayan has the freedom to distance himself from domestic life. His only attempt at domesticity results in creative stagnation, prompting his wife, Madhumati—the star—to leave their marriage for his benefit. Once removed from domestic responsibilities, Udayan resumes his pursuit of cinematic dreams. Sara’s domestic life, however, is not a choice but an imposition by both families. Despite this, she and her partner Jeevan manage a balanced domestic arrangement^[15]—until her pregnancy disrupts this equilibrium. For Udayan, the narrative turning point is external; the theft of his debut screenplay by his friend and roommate Rajappan, whose subsequent rise to fame hinders Udayan’s own aspirations. In contrast, Sara’s challenges are internal, shaped by societal expectations of women and their roles in public and private spaces. Even Jeevan ends up expecting her to prioritise motherhood over filmmaking, when her pregnancy coincides with the start of her film’s pre-production. The female filmmaker must first navigate cultural and social expectations of the ‘new Malayalee woman’ before she can assert her professional identity. The male filmmaker, by contrast, moves freely through the industry, unburdened by gendered constraints. Similar tropes appear in films like Chathikkaatha Chanthu and Oru Vadakkan Selfie,^[16]where male protagonists leave home for Madras—the city of cinematic dreams—without facing conjugal or familial obligations.

OTT and cinematic imagination

The post COVID-19 phase of cinema is marked by uncertainty and transformations. The traditional celluloid industry now finds itself both supported and challenged by a shift brought about by OTT platforms, streaming services, and social media networks. Even before the pandemic, the exclusive reliance on the darkened theatres as the primary site of cinematic experience had begun to wane, particularly since the 2010s, with the rise of new modes of video consumption (L. Mulvey, 2019). This shift has since evolved into a distinct alternative ecosystem, centred around personal devices such as smartphones, tablets, and laptops. Laura Mulvey interprets this development as a generational shift, enabled by a technologically ‘lived flexibility’. While she clearly articulates the changing spectatorial positions brought about by these new modes of cinematic engagement, the narrative transformations emerging from this technological space remain ambiguous. This moment represents a transitional phase in the history of cinematic practice—one that is still unfolding.

The rise of OTT platforms during the COVID-19 pandemic created new opportunities for alternative narratives in Malayalam cinema. Films like C U Soon (Mahesh C. Narayan, 2020), shot virtually and streamed directly online, demonstrated how digital platforms could bypass traditional production and distribution constraints. Director Jude Anthony Joseph’s decision to crowdsource a script from a non-industry writer^[17]—resulting in a film about a woman rejecting motherhood—highlights how OTT spaces can support stories that challenge conventional gender roles. Unlike theatrical releases, which often prioritize commercial viability (essentially, those which are not woman-centric stories) and majoritarian appeasement^[18], OTT platforms offer greater flexibility for experimenting with representational politics and marginalized voices (T. Ghosh, 2021, p.205).

Sara’s desire to be remembered not merely as a mother but as an artist contributing to society is framed in the film as a legitimate and empowering personal choice. However, this representation is not without its contradictions. While Sara’s autonomy is acknowledged and even celebrated—particularly by her male gynaecologist who supports her decision of abortion—the same doctor ridicules a rural woman who is pregnant with her third child. The film glosses over the structural issues that shape the rural woman’s reality; her lack of agency within the family, the coercive dynamics of her marriage, and the pressure to sexually satisfy her husband. These complexities are sidelined in favour of highlighting the urban, upper-class woman’s freedom of choice—a telling example of postfeminist media culture (R. Gill, 2007). Moreover, Sara’s decision to delay motherhood is validated primarily through her career ambitions. The narrative does not allow her to remain childless; instead, it frames her earlier abortion as a temporary deferral rather than a definitive choice. In doing so, the film reinforces the idea that motherhood is inevitable—the desire for control over your body as a temporary choice for the achievement of professional goals. Ultimately, Sara’s journey reflects not a radical break from patriarchal norms but a negotiation within the structure, where the notion of choice is constrained by societal expectations.

This portrayal may reflect a narrative strategy to align with majoritarian sensibilities or the ideological stance of the filmmakers on reproductive rights. Sara’s decision to abort her unborn child—depicted in a mainstream film—carries the potential to disrupt dominant notions of familial sanctity and collective attitude toward motherhood in a society that often problematizes the figure of the modern woman. While India’s abortion laws are relatively progressive and uphold the personal agency of pregnant individuals, dominant nationalist discourses tend to oppose abortion. These discourses valorize motherhood, idealize the maternal body, and position the heteronormative family as the foundational unit of national development. Within this context, Sara’s apparent autonomy is carefully framed to avoid direct confrontation with these ideological norms. Her choice is ultimately rendered palatable through its temporariness—she delays, rather than rejects, motherhood. Without this narrative compromise, her decision may not have been widely accepted, even within progressive new media circles.                                

Sara inhabits such a space of mobility shaped by a society that oscillates between progressiveness and tradition. Raised by parents who reject conventional gender roles, she seeks environments that reflect similar values. Her partner, Jeevan, shares her progressive outlook, though his upbringing is more conservative. Until the entry of Jeevan’s extended family, Sara’s world appears to embody gender equality. Younger women are portrayed as independent and ambitious, free from stereotypical representations. A subtle example is the scene where Sara and her assistant’s girlfriend alternate driving during a location hunt—sharing responsibilities equally with their male partners, without conforming to gendered tropes like motion sickness [39:27 onwards]. Domestic chores, too, as mentioned before, are shared between the partners, challenging the notion that household duties are solely a woman’s burden. These understated narrative choices suggest that women can efficiently circulate in private and public spaces when not constrained by patriarchal expectations. The film naturalises a subversion of gender hierarchies—until the narrative tension of marriage and pregnancy reintroduces traditional pressures.

Sara’s release on Amazon Prime Video platform and current availability on the ManoramaMax platform should not be viewed through the traditional lens of theatrical distribution. Instead, these platforms reflect cinema’s expansion into a transmedial framework. Today, cinematic discourse extends beyond the screen into digital spaces—through YouTube reviews, Instagram reels, Facebook posts, reaction videos, blogs, memes, and comment sections. The convergence culture of these spaces foster a participatory culture—the ability to pause, rewind, and scrutinize details—bringing cinema into everyday digital conversations (H. Jenkins, 2006). As a result, the role of the spectator has fundamentally shifted; no longer passive, viewers now participate in a dynamic, networked discourse, shaped by the perspectives of other spectators in real time.

An important extension of this discussion is the impact of OTT platforms on women’s cinematic aspirations. Much like how the 1970s feminist avant-garde movement was enabled by the accessibility of 16mm cameras, today’s digital platforms have created new spaces for women to tell stories within and beyond mainstream cinema. While the avant-garde remained niche and stylistically distinct, contemporary women filmmakers—especially in the Malayalam industry—are increasingly occupying central roles within mainstream cinematic structures. OTT platforms have been instrumental in this shift, offering greater participation for women in key creative and technical roles, enabling experimentation with narrative formats (G. Rajendran, 2024). Post-2020, there has been a marked increase in the mobility of women technicians across Indian film industries. Women are now able to “pick, choose, fund, and deliver original content across genres in Indian streaming content… [women technicians] started to make their mark with films and shows that champion women characters and the female gaze” (T. Ghosh, 2021, p.192). This is partly due to the presence of women in leadership roles within streaming platforms—such as Bela Bajaria (head of global television) and Cindy Holland in Netflix, Aparna Purohit in Amazon Originals, Monica Shergill in Netflix (original continent series), and Aparna Acharekar in Zee5 platform—who help foster a more inclusive ecosystem (Kashyap). The diversity of formats—original films, series, shorts, docu-fictions, and anthologies—has also contributed to a rise in women-centric content. According to the O Womaniya! Report, 55% of OTT content features significant female roles. As Ghosh observes, OTT platforms have opened up a “different paradigm” for imagining more progressive and plural formulations of femininity (p.196)          

While Sara’s benefits from the representational possibilities offered by OTT platforms^[19], its politics remain limited. The protagonist lacks a clear feminist consciousness, and her choices are framed more as personal preferences than as political acts. This reflects the director’s broader tendency to present tokenistic portrayals of empowered women without contextual grounding—as seen in characters like Sara, Pooja (in Om Shanti Oshana), and Leelamma (in Our Muthassi Gadha). In contrast, films such as The Great Indian Kitchen (J. Baby, 2021), B32 Muthal 44 Vare (S. Sharanyam, 2023) and Attam (A. Ekarshi, 2023) offer more nuanced and politically rooted representations of gender across the class and caste spectrum of Kerala society.^[20] Sara’s differs significantly from these grounded narratives in its lack of a clear and enriched feminist politics, placing its representational paradigm in a critical position. Nevertheless, Sara’s contributes to ongoing conversations about femininity and agency in Malayalee society, marking a shift in how mainstream narratives are being reimagined through OTT frameworks.

Conclusion

Sara depicts an active subject who displays clear desires of personal and professional mobility. She resists objectification of her image by becoming the active agent in her narrative—as both the narrator of her story and being a filmmaker. There are subtle expansions of the ideas of spectatorial expectations in the films, beginning with Sara narrating her own story for the viewers. This self-reflexive structure continues Jude Anthony Joseph’s pattern from Om Shanti Oshana, 2015, and Oru Muthassi Gadha, 2016, where female protagonists also resist male narration. However, Sara goes further by linking the protagonist’s romantic and cinematic experience to collective spectatorship—particularly through scenes set in movie theatres. This positions Sara as both a conventional viewer and an aspiring auteur, suggesting a fluidity in her spectatorial identity. Her attempt to create a big-budget mystery film marks a shift from the imaginary to the symbolic, as she moves from consuming cinema to producing it—marks a technological and narrative intervention in the construction of gender.

Sara’s desire to theorize her own gaze and author meaning complicates the traditional binary of male creator/female subject. Yet, her narrative remains ideologically ambiguous. She does not explicitly engage with the gender inequalities of her society, and her gender-neutral stance lacks a clear feminist consciousness. Sara’s sexual indifference and non-gendered gaze challenge conventional cinematic notions of gendered spectatorship (L. Mulvey, 1975). However, her on-screen image as a female filmmaker—constructed by a male director—ultimately reinstates the male power that, as Mulvey argues, “controls the film fantasy” and, in effect, “emerges as the representative of power” (L. Mulvey, 1975). In this context, Sara can be read as a “primitive, protofeminist” figure (P. Mellencamp, 1995, p.115) whose representation essentializes rather than interrogates the complexities of women-centric narratives. This becomes particularly problematic when situated alongside a growing body of films that engage in gendered transgressions with clear political intent. In contrast, Sara’s offers a depoliticized, non-gendered construction of womanhood, raising critical questions about the limits of representation in contemporary cinema.

To sum up, Sara does not present a historically situated subject but rather a tokenistic representation shaped by digital identity politics. While the film reflects certain shifts in representation, it stops short of enacting radical change in representational politics. A critical engagement with the film, however, prompts important questions: what transformative potential does the fantasy of a female auteur bring to cinematic genres? Which women are granted the choice to become mothers or to remain child-free? Is women’s empowerment only legible within urban, upper/middle class contexts? Do the ideological inclinations of filmmakers—feminist or otherwise—shape the authenticity of women-centric narratives?

These questions resist easy answers. Yet, Sara’s marks a departure from earlier reductionist portrayals of femininity, particularly in its engagement with reproductive rights. The film’s availability on OTT platforms enhances the discursive potential of cinema at large, by enabling individual and nuanced interpretations beyond theatrical constraints. OTT redefine cinematic imagination by broadening who can tell stories and how they are consumed, enabling the emergence of a distinct female film fantasy.

Notes

^[1] While public discourse around the film has largely focused on reproductive rights and patriarchal structures in Malayalam society, this paper instead examines the representational politics of cinema as a socio-political and economic medium that reinforces patriarchal hegemony. See A. M. M. Vetticad, 2021; A. Scaria, et al., 2021.

^[2] The auteur theory, first conceptualized in Cahiers du Cinéma by theorists like André Bazin and Alexander Astruc, was later advanced by Jean-Luc Godard, François Truffaut, and formalized by Andrew Sarris. It enters on the idea that a director’s personal vision and stylistic signature make them the true author—or auteur—of a film (V. Duggal et al, 2023).

^[3] Feminist film theory has critiqued auteur theory for its exclusion of women directors, its assumption of a singular author in a collaborative medium, its narrow definition of cinematic genius, and its failure to embrace a more inclusive, collective model of authorship (P. Hollinger, 2012)

^[4] The first Malayalam film directed by a woman, Kavitha (transl. poetry, 1976) marked the debut of actress Nirmala, who later entered the Guinness Book of World Records for directing the most films by a woman. However, the film’s authorship remains contested. Director I.V. Sasi, who reportedly encouraged Nirmala to direct in Malayalam due to lower production costs, later claimed involvement in its direction—though he stated he took no credit (P. K. Ajithkumar, 2016). With both individuals now deceased, these claims remain unverifiable. Nonetheless, the suggestion of ‘ghost direction’ highlights a broader issue: the erasure of female authorship and the systemic resistance to women asserting creative agency in the Malayalam film industry.

^[5] The report “Shift Focus: Women Shaping the Narrative in Media and Entertainment” (2019) highlights the systemic challenges such as lack of financial support, faced by women technicians in India’s patriarchal film industries. It offers critical insights into gender disparities, market conditions, the impact of #MeToo, and legal frameworks, while also providing recommendations to improve representation and working conditions in the media.

^[6] Christina Lane’s study serves as a cautionary reflection on how feminist directors navigating mainstream Hollywood often confront the gendered aesthetics of popular Western cinema. She critiques auteur theory’s limitations and advocates for the celebration of feminist aesthetics that resist being subsumed by patriarchal industry norms.

^[7] Director Jude Anthany Joseph, unlike contemporaries such as Jeo Baby, does not align with feminist ideologies. His portrayal of Sara within a politically neutral framework reflects his preference for a depoliticized, universalist perspective, which complicates how women-centric films by male directors are evaluated within feminist frameworks of representation.

^[8] At the time, AMMA members claimed that these women were disrupting the industry’s harmonious ‘familial’ structure. This rhetoric draws on a patriarchal trope that vilifies women who challenge normalized oppression, while rewarding those who remain complicit with the illusion of benevolent protection within oppressive frameworks.

^[9] Joan Riviere’s concept of femininity as a masquerade (1929) suggests that women adopt traditional feminine behavior to conceal their desire for power or intellectual authority—an idea that has been used to explain the denial of women’s authorship and creative control. Building on this, Mary Ann Doane (1982) exposes the structural alienation of the female spectator, who must either identify with the male gaze or experience a crisis of identity—both positions shaped by the cinematic apparatus. Judith Mayne (1990) extends these debates by challenging binary notions of gender and authorship, advocating instead for a ‘plurality of feminist practices’ that account for the shifting and complex positions of female spectatorship and authorship.

^[10] Things are gradually changing in the industry, Following the intervention of Women in Cinema Collective (WCC), the Kerala government initiated several key reforms: the formation of the Justice Hema Committee in 2017 to investigate gender-based issues in the film industry; the launch of a technical training programme for women technicians by the Kerala State Chalachitra Academy and Kerala Knowledge Economy Mission in 2015; the formation of scheme to integrate women into technical roles; organizing Women’s International Film Festival and the commitment to annually fund women-led film projects. These efforts have culminated in Kerala Film Policy Conclave, set to happen in August 2025, aimed at shaping inclusive cinema policy across the state.

^[11] Recent scholarship on cinema production in Kerala has shifted focus from representation and aesthetic hierarchies to concepts like cineworker, gendered labour and aesthetic labour. Since 2017, there has been a move away from romanticising film work toward recognising it as labour, critically examining the film industry as a workplace. Bindu Menon Mannil’s and Darshana Sreedhar Mini’s studies in the South Asian Film and Media special issue are particularly significant in this context. (B. M. Mannil, 2020; D. S. Mini, 2020)

^[12] When Sara struggles to secure funding, Jeevan reassures her that her own Bijukuttan—a reference to the supportive producer in UaT—will appear. Just as Bijukuttan backs Udayan’s directorial debut against all odds, Jeevan believes someone will similarly stand for Sara’s vision and help realize her dream.

^[13] Udayan is shown chanting: “Om Satyajit Raayey Namaha! Om Spiel-Berg aaye Namaha! Priyadarshanaaye Namaha! Kurasova, Aravinda, Chaplinaaye Namaha!” for inspiration to pursue the climax of his debut [04:32-04:52].

^[14] There is a growing romanticisation of the working woman as the ideal feminine—one who balances career and domestic responsibilities—in media today. Popular culture and social media celebrate this dual role, contributing to the rise of the working heroine in cinema. Simultaneously, the ‘trad-wife’ aesthetic is also glorified online as a counter-trend, often reflecting class divides; it is a choice for affluent women, while working is a necessity for middle-class women. Meanwhile the labour and lived realities of lower-class and caste women remain largely invisible and unaestheticised in both media and cinematic narratives ( B. Shaji, 2024; I. Sykes, 2025; J. Chan, M. Hurst, M. J. Easterbrook, E. Miles, 2025).

^[15] The film portrays their domestic life as an equitable partnership, with chores and expenses shared equally. This balanced arrangement challenges traditional patriarchal norms of marriage in Kerala and is met with disapproval from several family members.

^[16] In Chathikkaatha Chanthu and Oru Vadakkan Selfie, the male protagonists escape to Madras to pursue filmmaking, using cinematic dreams to justify their inability to face domestic realities. This narrative privilege—where creative ambition necessitates a break from domesticity—is afforded to male characters but rarely extended to female filmmakers. as a way to escape the realities of their life back home.

^[17] During the pandemic, Joseph invited story submissions from non-industry individuals via Facebook, intending to direct a film while his project 2018 was on hold. He selected a story by Dr. Akshay Harish, a medical practitioner, about a young woman who doesn’t want to become a mother. Drawn by its focus on personal freedom, Joseph collaborated with Harish to develop the script. This anecdote reflects a moment of narrative democratization and a shift in how stories are sourced and shaped in contemporary Malayalam cinema.

^[18] Indian cinema is currently facing intensified censorship, with films addressing struggles of the subalterns often delayed or altered under the pretext of maintaining law and order. Anna M M Vetticad’s ongoing work on censorship critically examines how such arbitrary censorship inflicts ideological, creative, financial damage on the industry. See V. Nanda, 2025; Radical Books Collective, 2025; A. M. M. Vetticad, 2025.

^[19] The release of Sara’s on an OTT platform allowed it to reach a digitally literate audience more attuned to conversations around representation and personal freedom. Its success reflects a shifting representational paradigm, with OTT platforms redefining what counts as mainstream within contemporary media spaces.

^[20] There is a strong history of autonomous feminist movements in Kerala associated with grassroots, aligned with workers’ struggles, most notable after 1960s. Historic women’s movements in Kerala include, cashew workers’ protests in Kollam in 1960, Sthree Vedi in Thiruvananthapuram from 1996-1997, and toilet strike in Kozhikode in 2009. (M. Subrahmanian, 2019).