Bollywood should bring feminism to the masses. So why doesn’t it?
A FEW days before the release of 2016 Bollywood hit Dangal (Wrestling Bout), which is based on the true story of two medal-winning Indian female wrestlers and their father, the filmmakers unveiled a promotional music video.
In the video, the two actresses who play the wrestlers are seen mostly in silhouette while Indian superstar Aamir Khan – who plays the father’s character – is seen on a throne, atop a chariot, sermonizing all around in verse.
This, unfortunately, is an all-too-accurate representation of the film – and encapsulates a problematic trend in mainstream Bollywood: while plenty of films take on gender inequality and women’s experiences, frustratingly few do so in women’s voices, and their attempts at feminism thus fall short.
The narrative around Dangal leading up to the film’s release revolved around female empowerment, and with good reason.
Its real-life subjects, the sisters Geeta and Babita Phogat, are an inspiration for countless Indian families.
Geeta qualified for the 2012 London Olympics, the first Indian female wrestler to do so.
To its credit, Dangal has put the spotlight on female excellence in sports and stimulated a national conversation on sports other than cricket, which dominates headlines otherwise.
On the film’s opening weekend, Geeta became the most Googled celebrity in India.
The governments of six Indian states, including Haryana, exempted the film’s tickets from taxation and endorsed it as part of their campaign to protect and educate girls.
However, this neither undoes nor atones for an extremely disturbing element in the film: its gender politics.
It is true that Geeta and Babita’s father, Mahavir Singh, was instrumental to their success, but the film suggests that he was the sole reason for it.
In real life, Geeta had a promising and award-filled run up to the 2010 Commonwealth Games in New Delhi, where she won the gold medal in the 55kg category.
However, the script for Dangal creates fictitious sub-plots designed primarily to punish Geeta for harmless displays of independence and free thinking and to elevate her father.
Dangal is, sadly, not an aberration. Last year also saw the release of Pink, a much-hyped legal drama about three young women who are sexually harassed by a group of influential men.
The film aimed to tackle issues that Indian society has long been criticised for, such as misunderstandings around consent, stereotypes about sexually active women and institutional apathy toward victims.
However, the voice the film relies on to address these topics is that of another male Indian superstar, Amitabh Bachchan, who plays a heroic lawyer emerging out of retirement to help the women.
Throughout the film’s courtroom proceedings, the three women are shown as impetuous, emotional and high-pitched characters who need a man’s discipline.
Another 2016 Bollywood hit, Sultan, a sports drama headlined by superstar Salman Khan, follows the same lines.
In the film, the female protagonist is an accomplished sportswoman, but is reduced to an object of conquest for her male counterpart.
Midway through Sultan, she gets pregnant – dashing hopes of sporting glory forever – a profound crisis that the film dismisses in one glib scene, choosing instead to focus on the male’s celebration.
By the climax, she is merely standing on the sidelines, cheering for her husband.
Hollywood has often been lambasted for deploying the “white male saviour” trope, in which people of colour are rescued (often from clumsy representations of their cultures) by enlightened white men.
Bollywood is often guilty of the gender equivalent: the female empowerment in these films is often just a form of male gratification.
There is little autonomy or agency on the female’s part; she would be lost if left to her own devices. The burden of her improvement and happiness ultimately fall on the man’s shoulders.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, Dangal, Pink and Sultan were all directed by men from scripts also written by men, which is a shame: Bollywood has no shortage of talented women artists capable of producing strong work.
Ashwini Iyer Tiwari, for instance, is a female director whose film Nil Battey Sannata (Good for Nothing) is about an overbearing parent and a respectful but rebellious daughter.
In contrast with Dangal, however, Nil Battey Sannata presents its female characters with innate respect. With women writers and directors like these, there’s no need to refract women’s stories and experiences through male creators. Often, doing so fails to honestly reflect women’s interior lives and agency.
With a potential audience of hundreds of millions, Bollywood should use its influence to make sure viewers are hearing women’s stories in women’s words.
Maheshwari is an Indian journalist who has reported on culture and society for publications such as the New York Times, Los Angeles Times and The Guardian.