Power, Submission, and the Female Condition

The earlier section followed Adoor Gopalakrishnan’s exploration of memory, solitude, and the formation of the self. In this part, the focus turns to power and how it takes shape through everyday relationships. Through Vidheyan and the Thakazhi adaptations Naalu Pennungal and Oru Pennum Randaanum, Adoor studies how authority works through family, caste, marriage, and gender roles. These films deepen his engagement with the world beyond the individual and offer a portrait of Kerala society shaped by obedience, silence, and the demands of social order.

After the introspective inwardness of films like Anantaram, Kathapurushan, and Mathilukal, Adoor’s cinema enters a new terrain—where the focus shifts from the personal to the structural. With Vidheyan and the Thakazhi adaptations, he explores how domination plays out not just through politics or ideology, but in the intimate folds of caste, masculinity, and domestic life.The themes of the first five films and Kathapurushan, directed by Adoor Gopalakrishnan were based on his own writings. In some of his subsequent films after the first five, he adopted novels and stories written by others as their plots. Vidheyan (The Servile), based on the long story Baskara Pattelarum Ente Jeevithavum by Zakaria; Mathilukal (The Walls), a film of the same name adapted from the short novel by Vaikom Muhammad Basheer; and Nalu Pennungal (Four Women), which he directed based on selected stories by Thakazhi—all these works depict, both overtly and covertly, the dynamics of power operating within social life.

These are films that reveal, through distinctive cinematography, how the forces of power intervene even in the most unexpected circumstances. Here, in these films, we do not predominantly encounter an approach that narrowly views power as residing solely in emperors, kings, ministers, or institutions of authority, nor in the repressive apparatus of the state—its military, police, or judiciary. Rather, these are films that expose or interrogate the subtle manifestations of power as it operates through myriad social interactions—within the family, educational institutions, priesthood, intellectuals, media, and retinues of followers. Even in relationships perceived as impartial, ordinary, affectionate, or indifferent, the subtle forms of power persist, functioning with undiminished cruelty.

It must be noted that it was filmmaker Adoor Gopalakrishnan who coined a Malayalam synonym for the word -Vidheyan”—Thommi. There are few contexts in contemporary life where another slur or term of abuse would be as fitting as being called Thommi. It has evolved into a word that conveys subjugation even more effectively than Vidheyan itself—a testament to the profound impact the film had on Malayali consciousness. Yet, in the film, the moment Thommi experiences the greatest joy is when his master, Pattelar, calls him Thommi. He laughs hysterically, exclaiming that his master has called him by his name. His subjugation is so complete that he fails to recognise his own servitude. Pattelar’s shift from calling him Eda or Patti (Dog) to Thommi occurs at the moment of his own downfall. By then, Thommi had already transformed into a servile figure willing to do anything for him. The narrative reaches its culmination when Pattelar employs the appellation ‘Thommi’—precisely at the juncture where the cinematic spectatorship had already cognitively assimilated the term’s greater semantic appropriateness over ‘Vidheyan’ within the film’s diegetic framework.

This film was less an exposition of power dynamics and more a portrayal of subjugation. In those who become subjugated, self-respect erodes. Their identity crumbles. This is a process of abjection. They relinquish what is theirs and submit to authority. Adoor captures Thommi’s abjection. As someone leading a life of poverty and despair, he is highly susceptible to being reduced to abjection under power. At the liquor shop in the crossroads, Pattelar knocks him down, spits on him, and berates him. Later, he arrives at Thommi’s dwelling and sexually assaults his wife to assert dominance. We witness how Thommi’s initial reaction— “I’ll “rip out his ”guts”—vanishes abruptly. Pattelar summons Thommi. He gives him a loincloth and a sari for Omana. He instructs him to stand guard at the liquor shop. After the initial violation and assault, power assumes a paternalistic guise. Alongside oppression, this paternalism is instrumental in manufacturing subjugation. The man who once declared with fury, “I’ll rip out his guts,” suddenly becomes euphoric. His resistance to injustice dissolves into his own helplessness. Thommi’s rage toward Pattelar is suppressed into the subconscious, though the filmmaker later shows moments where it resurges. Thommi ultimately transforms into a figure of complete submission, walking obediently behind Pattelar. We see Thommi embracing Omana, declaring that he smells Pattelar’s scent on her and that he likes it. However, alongside the depiction of Thommi’s subjugation, the film’s structural integrity necessitated an almost equally forceful portrayal of Pattelar’s exercise of power.

Bhaskara Pattelar emerges in the film as an exemplar of tyrannical authority. Pattelar is not the state. Yet, his conduct shares parallels with the power mechanisms and manufacturing of subjugation seen in oppressive regimes. Pattelar, who always carries a gun, flaunts it, and physically assaults his victims, embodies the visible repressive apparatus of the state—police, lathis, guns, and prisons—in alternative forms. Unpopular regimes have their retinues of followers. These include not just media, bureaucratic elites, and intellectual advisory systems but also ideological state apparatuses like the education system and legal institutions. The film’s authoritarian figure, Pattelar, too, has his retinue. This entourage aids in extending his dominance. They perpetually trail behind him, justifying and endorsing his every action. Though this retinue may appear as mere spectators, their presence plays a crucial role in legitimising Pattelar’s transgressions. It mirrors how media systems silently or deliberately propagate half-truths to sustain draconian laws. One might also consider how the words of these sycophants influence a subjugated figure like Thommi. The support of those standing behind Bhaskara Pattelar plays a significant role in transforming Thommi into his subject. In a detailed analysis of this film, Bhaskara Pattelar ceases to be merely an individual and transforms into an analogue of an authoritarian regime. This lesson holds particular relevance in our contemporary political climate, where democratic institutions are being dismantled, all veils removed, and structures of subjugation and hegemony systematically installed.

Just as Pattelar’s sexual domination of Thommi’s wife and other women becomes normalised, just as Thommi finds pleasure in smelling Pattelar’s scent on Omana, so too are activists killed by state machinery under the pretext of “encounter deaths” justified. The lynching of individuals by frenzied mobs—whether for storing meat or consuming beef—becomes socially sanctioned. The imprisonment of writers, intellectuals, and students who dissent from state ideology becomes justifiable. This occurs in a nation where large populations have already succumbed to hegemonic control. Such justifications emerge through the manufactured subjugation perpetuated by the regime’s continuous operations. The state employs multifaceted strategies combining threat, aggression, and paternalistic control. Here we confront face-to-face the authoritarian regime that desires an entire populace of Thommis. The crucial lesson is that the tyrannical authority Bhaskara Pattelar represents mirrors anti-democratic regimes, just as Thommi embodies subjugated populations. Would that every viewer of this film might look inward to ask, Am I a Thommi too?

Adoor’s film accomplishes more than merely exposing Pattelar’s authoritarianism and Thommi’s subjugation. It equally captures Thommi’s latent hatred and his master’s eventual downfall. Adoor identifies those moments when Thommi’s subconscious rage against Pattelar erupts violently. Consider the image of Thommi massaging Pattelar’s back—we see the hatred burning within him, the massage transforming into an act of suppressed violence. When Yusuf and Kuttapparayi arrive with plans to assassinate Pattelar, Thommi joins them. Pattelar’s authoritarian madness, we observe, turns not just against outsiders but against his own circle. The paranoid autocrat views even his closest associates with suspicion. There’s particular cruelty in how Pattelar, while being shot, considers killing his loyal aide Thommi. He openly admits disliking Saroj’s counsel, conspires with Thommi to murder her, fails, and then personally strangles her. With Thommi’s help, he hangs the corpse. “Did she recognise me during the killing?” he anxiously asks Thommi. In these acts, Pattelar becomes self-loathing—aware of his valueless actions yet powerless to stop them. For the power-mad, no ethical consideration poses an obstacle. Those possessed by authoritarian madness can commit any depravity—whether minister or court judge, they reach a mental state where distinctions between colleague, spouse, or child disappear before their rabid hunger for dominance.

History shows us tragic endings for authoritarian regimes. Countless historical events demonstrate that their demise comes by guillotine, street justice, or bullets—whether self-inflicted or from others’ guns. Remember Hitler, who committed suicide by firing a bullet into his own mouth, and Mussolini, whose body was dragged through the streets by the enraged populace. All dictatorships and authoritarian excesses, after innumerable massacres and atrocities, ultimately collapse into profound tragedies. The only contribution excessive power can make to the world is the creation of catastrophes. Authoritarianism that plans communal riots, uses state power to enable their spread, and through silence permits ethnic cleansing of disfavored populations may one day face popular tribunals in the streets. In Pattelar’s death by his own kin’s bullet—this hunter of the poor finding ecstasy in their persecution—we see history’s natural justice at work. Though Hitler remains the archetype of dictatorship, evidence suggests he lived in constant terror. Most who wield authoritarian power are fundamentally cowards. Adoor shows us the face of the broken Pattelar who survived Yusuf and Kuttapparayi’s assassination attempt. Remember too the moment when Pattelar, who once called Thommi only by obscenities, willingly uses the name “Thommi”—in “that instant, his face reveals complete defeat and terror. Adoor’s camera captures how the world’s entire helplessness has taken residence in his features.

This cinematic work viscerally embodies the dynamics of power and the lived reality of subjugation, rendering these abstract concepts experientially immediate. Consider the very first scene: the viewer is shocked by Pattelar’s exercise of power, while the spectator’s mind recoils at Thommi’s subjugation. Through this distinct cinematic portrayal of power dynamics, subjugation, and their consequences, Adoor achieved an unveiling of ideology that Malayalam cinema had never before witnessed.

Where Vidheyan stages the collapse of selfhood under patriarchal power, Adoor’s next films turn their attention to women navigating equally oppressive social orders. After bringing to the silver screen both the subjugation of Thommis under the authority of feudal Pattelars and humanity trapped in gendered identity divisions, Adoor Gopalakrishnan in Nalu Pennungal (Four Women) examines the specific problems faced by Kerala women during a particular historical period. The film presents four segments that collectively form a portrait of womanhood—the lives of four women.

In postcolonial and postmodern studies, woman is often treated as a theoretical category. But is this a global category? A homogeneous one? Such views require significant generalisation. Can we broadly characterise the problems faced by women in Punjab, Kerala, Palghat, and Kuttanad as ‘Indian women’s problems? The problems of Indian women differ markedly from those of European or American women. Are the challenges faced by Kerala’s domestic workers, housewives, sex workers, nurses, and teachers identical? Some theorists argue that Third World women should be viewed as a distinct social category. By the same logic, one could argue that women in sex work constitute a special category. While this reflects tendencies toward fragmentation, it remains grounded in reality—an approach helpful for analysing problems. Adoor’s ‘Four Women’ does not emerge from theoretical spaces that view women as a homogeneous category. The film’s title itself indicates this: they are four individuals opening four distinct problem-worlds. Yet, before the hundred punishments imposed by hegemonic social structures and patriarchy, they all ultimately belong to the same category—they are women.

This film, and its companion piece Oru Pennum Randaanum, together mark Adoor’s quiet but searing return to Kerala’s margins. The film Nalu Pennungal (Four Women) presents narratives drawn from the lives of four women: Kunjipennu, Kumari, Chinnuvamma, and Kamakshi. These represent marginalised female existences. Their lives become manifestations of how social institutions like marriage, family, and law intervene in gender relations within patriarchal systems.

When evaluating a society’s claims to progressiveness based on its treatment of women, the female lives portrayed by Thakazhi’s writing and Adoor’s cinematic interpretation offer no flattering portrait of traditional Kerala society. Adoor reveals a society perpetually anxious and suspicious about female virtue—one that constantly scrutinises women. A woman’s life is reductively defined by her marital status. Is she beautiful? Has she transgressed? Is she immoral? Is she married? Has she borne children? Does she have other relationships? Such interrogations persist endlessly. Beneath these four narratives runs the unifying thread of sexuality.

The stories of Kumari and Kamakshi feature guardians distressed that their marriageable-age daughters remain unwed. Kumari’s father consents to her marriage based solely on a relative’s assurance that the groom is “a good boy.” The bride’s consent is rarely sought. More often than not, helpless resignation to inevitable ritual prevails. Though the film shows Kumari being ostensibly asked for consent, her silent acquiescence reflects the reality that nothing beyond this formality will occur. Female existence must accommodate itself to predetermined arrangements. Kumari appears neither happy nor indifferent—her happiness holds no particular significance. Social norms dictate obedience to guardians’ decisions. No alternative paths are open for her. While patriarchy offers men multiple opportunities, women remain confined to domestic interiors. Yet Kumari likely harbored hopes that matters would improve—hopes that typically prove futile. On their wedding day itself, her husband, Narayanan, leaves to tend his shop and watch a movie’s second show, making no effort to converse with or approach his bride. Even Narayanan’s mother remarks he could have closed shop early. No consideration for his wife’s well-being or recognition of her as an equal partner manifest in this man. This cannot be dismissed as Narayanan’s peculiarity alone—his impotence merely exacerbates the problems. We see Narayanan brushing aside Kumari’s lingering hand on their bed—the female body thus dishonored, without the perpetrator exhibiting any compunction. Adoor elaborates on Narayanan’s gluttony during feasts. After escorting Kumari home post-wedding, he never returns. Through scenes of Kumari harvesting seedlings and crops, Adoor conveys her domestic experience. Those attributing his absence to Kumari’s imagined transgressions and those interrogating her virtue are all women, revealing the contradiction that women themselves often enforce patriarchal laws against women. The fault always lies with the woman. Kumari’s narrative concludes with her declaration: “No marriage has occurred between us.”

Kamakshi’s story presents an unmarried elder sister preparing her younger siblings for wedlock. A suitor visiting for Kamakshi prefers her younger sister Subhadra. Their brother, who claimed he’d marry only after his elder sister’s wedding, later marries while employed elsewhere. Their mother dies grieving Kamakshi’s unwed state. Left alone, Kamakshi later appears caring for Subhadra’s children in her home, until slander from Subhadra herself drives her back to her old house. Kamakshi never attains her life’s desires. Draping herself in Subhadra’s colorful sari during a ritual, she becomes acutely aware of all she has lost. Internal anguish consumes her as she experiences the sharp pain of isolation.

This narrative begins and ends with a man knocking at the unmarried woman’s threshold—a potent symbolic representation of patriarchal society’s expectation that celibate women must repress their sexuality. This reflects the broader perspective of reducing women to instruments for marriage, childbirth, and childrearing. Kamakshi’s life isn’t empty by choice—social constraints and moral values created this void. Yet the film becomes a striking critique of the belief that women require male support for meaningful existence. Perhaps society learns valuable lessons from lives like Kamakshi’s. This woman communicates volumes through silence—things not easily articulated but offering profound, if indistinct, understanding. Adoor’s cinematic artistry succeeds in making Kamakshi’s unspoken life profoundly eloquent.

Pappukutty and Kunjipennu directly testify in court that they are husband and wife, yet they are punished for illicit relations. “We were not committing adultery. We are wife and husband,” declares Kunjipennu, but the court rejects their testimony. The judge contemptuously remarks, “They have no home, no land, yet claim to be married,” demanding proof of matrimony. A resentful individual, angered by Pappukutty taking Kunjipennu as his wife, testifies against them after finding them sleeping in a warehouse. He labels Kunjipennu a street prostitute. Here we witness a society that insists on permanently defining a woman by her past engagement in sex work. The collective forces of police, rival parties, and the judiciary obstruct Pappukutty and Kunjiphennu’s decision to live as married partners and seek employment. These institutional power centers suppress both the impoverished woman’s dreams of betterment and her desire for love. In Chinnuvamma’s narrative, she rejected the romantic overtures initiated by Narapilla, her former classmate, thereby asserting autonomous control over her bodily and affective sovereignty.

Certain common observations emerge about these three films’ representations. How simple! How natural! How realistic! Few filmmakers have employed realistic techniques so compellingly. Each scene appears meticulously preconceived yet executed with surpassing brilliance. The camera placement reflects profound deliberation. Every frame satisfies through its rarity and novelty. Adoor’s directorial approach exemplifies a profound understanding of cinematic epistemology—which true narrative detonations should manifest psychologically within the spectator’s consciousness rather than through explicit visual spectacle. While his technical mastery has been widely praised, these films also underscore the extraordinary insight, political wisdom, and social consciousness illuminated through his cinema. Taken together, these films expose the quiet violence that lives in homes, courts, and kinship systems. In the next and final part, we look at Nizhalkuthu and Adoor’s closing reflections on morality, memory, and justice—when violence is not just lived, but inherited.

Part Five: The Philosopher of Inertia and Change follows tomorrow.

To read the other blogposts in the ‘Adoor- The Maestro’, click here.