The Quiet Power Of Female Friendships In Malayalam Cinema

Through a few but powerful stories, a look at how Malayalam cinema has portrayed the vast emotional terrain of female friendship — its contradictions, complexities, and quiet triumphs.

Neelima+Menon

Jun 03, 2025

Malayalam cinema’s portrayal of female friendship has been limited but powerful, marked by contrasts, conflicts, and quiet moments of solidarity.

IN THE VAST LANDSCAPE OF MALAYALAM CINEMA, friendships between men have long dominated the screen, celebrated, mythologised, and etched into cultural memory. Female friendships, however, have often existed in the margins, either underdeveloped or overshadowed by familial and romantic narratives. This disparity stems not just from a gender imbalance in storytelling spaces but also from a cultural tendency to underplay the emotional and social richness of bonds between women. Yet, when Malayalam cinema turns its gaze towards female friendships — when it chooses to listen to the silences, the glances, the shared laughter and unresolved tensions — it unearths stories of immense beauty, strength, and complexity.

For her old schoolmates and retired class teacher, Kanya (Rima Kallingal) is a star — the one who made it big in Mumbai. So when she's invited as a special guest to perform a tribute dance for her beloved teacher, the excitement is palpable. But behind the poised façade, Kanya struggles to find footing in her career, carefully maintaining a front of success. Things take an unexpected turn when she learns that her old friend Gauri has also been invited. What unfolds on the familiar school stage is more than just a performance — it’s a quiet reunion between two once inseparable friends who drifted apart due to ego and misunderstandings. In under 45 minutes, Anjali Menon’s Backstage becomes a touching ode to female friendships — a heartfelt tale of reaching out, healing old wounds, and rediscovering the joy of connection.

Given the historically skewed male-female ratio behind the scenes in Malayalam cinema, it’s hardly surprising that narratives celebrating female friendships have been few and far between. Often perceived as less complex, male bonding has found easier expression on screen — simplified, direct, and culturally normalised. In contrast, female friendships, with their nuanced layers, emotional depth, and unspoken complexities, demand a more sensitive and insightful portrayal — something that has long been overlooked in our cinematic storytelling.

It was in Shalini Ente Koottukari (1978) that we first witnessed a nuanced portrayal of female friendship, shaped by the contrast in personalities between Shalini (Shobha) and her best friend Ammu (Jalaja). Their dynamic subtly reflects a kind of gendered roleplay — Shalini embodies a more 'masculine' energy with her rebellious spirit, uninhibited interactions with boys, sharp tongue, and quirky fashion sense. In contrast, Ammu represents the socially conditioned ideal of femininity — quiet, composed, and reserved. Their friendship thrives on this tension. While Shalini injects vitality and unpredictability into the bond, it is Ammu who grounds it — the quiet leveller who keeps their relationship in balance. Together, they offer one of the earliest and most realistic depictions of female friendship in Malayalam cinema — honest, layered, and emotionally resonant.

While Padmarajan’s Deshadanakili Karayarilla (1986) was a sublime narrative that witnessed two women celebrating each other, it also embodied this feminine v/s masculine energy. Nimmi (Karthika) and Sally (Shari) came from fractured, dysfunctional families — their bond forged through a deep, shared need to feel seen, loved, and protected. Padmarajan masterfully draws a sharp contrast between their personalities: the coy and vulnerable Nimmi is constantly sheltered by the more assertive, tomboyish Sally. As their relationship deepens, the lines between friendship and something more begin to blur. There’s an undeniable suggestion of a homosexual subtext, with Sally’s growing emotional dependence on Nimmi gradually tipping into obsession. With the introduction of a romantic male figure, their friendship begins to unravel. It’s here that the film courageously navigates the layered intricacies of female intimacy, confronting not just emotional codependency but also the unspoken possibility of non-platonic love.

A similar contrast in personality forms the heart of Aashiq Abu’s Rani Padmini (2015). On one side is Rani (Rima Kallingal), fiery, independent, witty, and hardened by years of bearing the weight of her family's responsibilities. On the other is Padmini (Manju Warrier), a gentle, traditional woman who finds herself adrift after her husband abruptly leaves to pursue his passion for racing. At first glance, the two women seem to have nothing in common. But when their paths cross unexpectedly, an unlikely connection sparks — one that slowly blossoms into a deep, enduring bond of sisterhood. Rani, accustomed to facing life’s battles alone, slowly lets down her guard. Padmini, having always led a sheltered life, begins to uncover reservoirs of strength and self-awareness she never knew she had. Their road trip isn’t just a physical journey — it’s a path of self-discovery and transformation. Along the way, they not only learn more about each other but also about themselves, reshaping their identities in the reflection of shared experience.

Interestingly, even a decade later, Girish AD’s Super Sharanya follows a similar template of contrasting female personalities. Sona (Mamita Baiju) is the outspoken, spirited one — brash, bold, and unapologetically herself. In contrast, Sharanya (Anaswara Rajan) is timid, unsure, and emotionally fragile, often reduced to tears at the slightest provocation. Their friendship isn’t warm and fuzzy in the conventional sense. Sona often mocks Sharanya, poking fun at her insecurities. Yet, paradoxically, she also becomes a source of strength and reassurance — the steady, if unorthodox, anchor in Sharanya’s chaotic college life. It’s perhaps Sona’s irreverence, her refusal to conform, that quietly emboldens Sharanya to find her voice. Interestingly, their moral compass diverges too. Sona, for all her bravado, inexplicably idolises a toxic senior who shows interest in Sharanya. But Sharanya — despite her meekness — sees through the manipulation and ultimately calls him out. That moment is a quiet triumph and a reminder that courage can exist beneath layers of vulnerability.

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In Roshan Andrews’ Notebook (2006) the friendship between Pooja, Seira, and Sridevi is at the very heart of the story. In school, the trio is inseparable — confidantes and co-conspirators, each with their distinct personality, yet tightly bound by trust and affection. They are each other’s safe space, sounding boards for teenage angst, curiosity, and dreams. But the bond is tested when an unplanned pregnancy leads to Sridevi’s tragic death. The grief and shock fracture the group, and Pooja, paralysed by fear and guilt, fails to stand by her friend in her most vulnerable moment. It’s a failure that haunts her. Yet, Notebook doesn’t leave the friendship shattered. In its final act, it offers a quiet redemption, not just through tears or apologies, but through acknowledgement, healing, and the act of remembering. It is their friendship—wounded but not broken—that ultimately paves the way for closure and growth. It reminds us that even the deepest betrayals can be the beginning of reconciliation, and that grief, when shared, can become a bridge back to love.

In Sathyan Anthikad’s Manassinakkare (2003) the usual contrast of personalities is notably absent between Kochu Thresia (Sheela) and Kunju Maria (KPAC Lalitha). Both women are in their seventies, equally spirited, sharp-witted, and resilient, having weathered life’s many storms side by side. What makes their bond particularly special is its rarity: Malayalam cinema has seldom depicted elderly female friendships with such authenticity and heart. Coming from a generation that believed that a woman’s world should revolve solely around her family, Kochu Thresia and Kunju Maria defy that mould. They’ve spent their lives prioritising others — children, spouses, and households — yet have carved out a sacred space for each other. It’s a friendship that both surprises and moves you, precisely because it exists against the grain of everything they were taught. Even in the face of frailty, their bond holds firm. When Kochu Thresia confronts her rude daughter-in-law to defend Kunju Maria, it’s not just an act of loyalty — it’s a powerful reaffirmation of their enduring sisterhood. If friendship had face cards, these two women would undoubtedly be the queens.

These bonds, often formed in the margins, are spaces of care, conflict, growth, and resistance — shaped not by grand gestures but by everyday intimacies and shared silences. When storytelling makes room for these relationships, it doesn’t just open up new emotional dimensions; it also challenges the deep-seated myths about how women relate to one another. Female friendship, in all its nuance, deserves not only screen time, but storytelling that listens closely and dares to feel deeply.

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