Kerala boasts of a high literacy rate, a legacy of social reform, and a film culture known for realism and artistic integrity. Yet, the moment female sexuality becomes central, panic sets in. The desiring woman, be it on screen or in real life, is seen as a threat.
Published Aug 10, 2025 | 2:54 PM ⚊ Updated Aug 10, 2025 | 2:54 PM
Actor Shwetha Menon. (shwetha-menon.com)
Synopsis: The recent backlash against old films and an advertisement featuring actor Shwetha Menon, labelled obscene years after their release, exposes Malayali society’s deep-rooted moral policing of the female body. It reveals a discomfort not with sexuality itself, but with women asserting agency over it.
Hardly a decade apart, two public episodes involving Bollywood actor Sunny Leone and Malayalam actor Shwetha Menon have exposed Kerala’s enduring hypocrisy around sexuality and gender.
In the recent case, a complaint was filed against Shwetha Menon for allegedly acting in “sexually explicit” films, including works that were once critically acclaimed. She was also targeted for appearing in a condom advertisement, with the underlying suggestion that she was somehow wrong to earn money from such roles, as though acting, especially in films that touch upon sexuality, is a moral offence when done by a woman.
The same society that once applauded her performances now moves to condemn them, though strong voices of dissent continue to challenge this double standard.
This reveals a society that celebrates something on stage but cannot accept it off stage. The moral duplicity of applauding women who conform to safe cultural scripts while vilifying those who assert autonomy lies at the heart of Kerala’s discomfort with female sexuality.
Before getting into the issue, we need to turn the pages back to 2017, when Bollywood actor Sunny Leone visited Kochi. Her entry into Indian cinema had already stirred moral debates due to her past in the adult entertainment industry. Her celebrity status in India has often clashed with the anxieties of conservative sections of society. Yet, Kochi came to a standstill when she arrived for a smartphone launch.
The event sparked widespread moral panic and fresh debates about public decency, celebrity culture, and society’s unease with women and sexuality. What it truly revealed was how unfiltered male desire, typically veiled by cultural modesty, had poured into the streets without inhibition or shame.
Yet, the same society that watched Sunny Leone from balconies remains ever ready to police women’s choices, particularly in Malayalam cinema. It is worth remembering that Sunny Leone was denied permission to perform at Kerala University last year. Although the official reason was technical, outsiders are not allowed to perform on campus, the symbolism was hard to miss.
This brings us back to Shwetha Menon, a well-known Indian actor and former model who gained national recognition after winning the Femina Miss India Asia Pacific title in 1994. She was also the third runner-up that year, alongside Sushmita Sen and Aishwarya Rai in the Miss India contest.
After a successful modelling career, she moved into acting, appearing in over 30 Bollywood films and numerous Malayalam productions. She became known for playing bold and layered roles, including in Rathinirvedam and Kalimannu. Remember, the original version of Rathinirvedam was released in the 1970s, with Jayabharathi in the lead. Kalimannu even featured real-time footage of Shwetha Menon’s actual childbirth, a bold cinematic experiment at the time.
Now, years later, Shwetha Menon found herself entangled in a legal case over alleged obscenity in scenes from her films and an advertisement. Though Kerala High Court stayed the proceedings after it was found that prima facie substance in the contention of the actor’s counsel that before referring the complaint for investigation, the lower court should have called for a report from the police and of inquiry ought to have been conducted, the speed with which the case was filed reflects something dubious.
What is interesting is that the FIR has been filed at a crucial moment, just as she announced her candidacy for the president’s post in the upcoming AMMA elections. Since these films were released years ago, the timing of the complaint raises questions. Is it mere coincidence, or does this hint at something more calculated? A case of gender bias and wounded male ego?
This is not the first time Kerala’s cultural hypocrisy has played out in full view. In 2017, the abduction and sexual assault of a popular female actor shocked the state, with prominent actor Dileep accused of orchestrating the crime. Despite the gravity of the allegations, a significant section of the public and the film fraternity rallied behind him, even before legal proceedings had run their course. Even today, the survivor remains rather sidelined, while those who supported her face a kind of quiet ostracism.
This pattern reveals that public outrage over morality in cinema is rarely about ethical standards. The current outrage also fits neatly into this pattern – selective moral policing that targets women who refuse to conform. What links these moments is the Malayali male gaze: a gaze that desires in private, but polices in public. It is well known that pornography is widely consumed, yet we turn into moral police!
Another telling moment came when Shakeela, an actor often reduced to her roles in softcore films of the 1990s, appeared on a popular Malayalam TV show. The anchor, a woman, tried to belittle her with insinuating questions and snide remarks, echoing the judgmental tone often associated with the male gaze. This moment revealed that patriarchal values and moral policing are not exclusive to men; women, too, can internalise and project these standards. But Shakeela, unshaken, responded with remarkable poise and clarity, exposing the double standards of the industry.
Malayalam cinema often presents itself as progressive. Kerala boasts a high literacy rate, a legacy of social reform, and a film culture known for realism and artistic integrity. Yet, the moment female sexuality becomes central, panic sets in. The desiring woman, be it on screen or in real life, is seen as a threat.
Even though extramarital affairs and complex relationships have long been explored in Malayalam literature and cinema, women’s desires continue to be policed. A film like Nadanna Sambhavam, which subtly suggests that a woman can seek sexual fulfilment without any partner, remains an outlier. The female character becomes the subject of male gossip and ridicule, as the act unsettles the male ego and its cultivated sense of control.
It is also worth recalling films like B 32 Muthal 44 Vare, the debut feature film by Shruthi Sharanyam, which addresses the politics of the female body in the mainstream. The title itself refers to the bust measurements of the women at the centre of the narrative, each of whom grapples with unique challenges related to body image. At the same time, the film celebrates the strength, complexity, and agency of the female body and mind.
In this way, these new films hold a mirror to body politics, the Malayali male gaze, and its deep discomfort with female sexual autonomy. Yet, we continue to scorn the woman who dares to question patriarchy.
This discomfort with female agency is not confined to fiction alone; it plays out visibly in our public culture, too. Outrage over films, clothing, or advertisements involving women is swift and performative. Yet the same society turns disturbingly silent, or even voyeuristic, when hidden cameras are discovered in changing rooms or hotel bathrooms. Sexuality is condemned in the name of morality, even as its covert consumption continues unabated. The contradiction reveals not a concern for ethics, but a deep-seated anxiety over women exercising control over their bodies and narratives.
When filmmaker Adoor Gopalakrishnan recounted labourers “gate-crashing” a theatre screening at the International Film Festival of Kerala (IFFK), and lyricist-director Sreekumaran Thampy supported this with the remark about “sex-starved Malayalis” at film festivals, it exposed an elitist prejudice around sexuality; a classed discomfort with the idea of ordinary people claiming access to it. The assumption seemed to be that the working class attends such screenings out of base curiosity, while the so-called intellectuals do so with higher motives. But in an era where cinema and erotica are readily accessible via smartphones, the real anxiety is not about what is being watched; it is about who is watching. Who defines “cultural decency” in a diverse and plural society is the question.
Malayalam cinema has long featured erotic elements, from the softcore boom of the 1980s to today’s romantic dramas. What has changed is not the presence of sexuality, but its context. Earlier, such films were consumed quietly, with no moral policing. Today, as women increasingly enter public discourse and speak openly about desire, the backlash is swift and punitive. The moral police raises its masculine hoods in response. Even language reflects this cultural discomfort: Malayalam still lacks everyday, stigma-free vocabulary for sex, intimacy, or desire. Even among the educated, these topics are shrouded in euphemism. There is curiosity, certainly, but very little room for honest, open engagement.
The issue extends beyond cinema. Consider the ‘Kiss of Love’ protest, sparked by right-wing moral policing of cafés and beaches in the name of decency. When couples began hugging and kissing in public as an act of resistance, many condemned them as ‘immoral’. The protesters were attacked, even arrested. Yet the moral policing that provoked them was eventually criticised by the state, and the protest drew national solidarity.
There are repeated reports of police or locals harassing couples in parks, beaches, and hotels, threatening to call parents or demanding bribes. Such incidents raise serious questions: Why is women’s freedom treated as a provocation? Why are consensual acts punished more than political violence or institutional abuse? And why are women’s bodies subject to constant surveillance under the guise of culture?
It’s time to move past this cycle of outrage and repression. Desire is not a crime. We should act against the crimes committed in the name of desire, as we still witness many cases of sexual abuse and rape. Kerala now stands at a cultural crossroads. It can either continue cloaking sexuality in hypocrisy and fear, or embrace openness and maturity. Only then can we address sexual criminality more effectively. The choice lies not just in what films we watch, but in the gaze we choose to cast upon them.
(Views are personal. Edited by Majnu Babu).
