Shwetha Menon becomes first woman president of Malayalam film body
However, out of 506 members, only 298 votes were cast. Notable actors like Mammootty, Fahadh Faasil, Nivin Pauly, Prithviraj Sukumaran, Indrajith Sukumaran, Asif Ali and several others did not participate in the voting.While the previous election had a 70 per cent polling rate, the 2025 election saw only 58 per cent polling rate, which is a 12 per cent decline.Days ahead of the election, a case was filed with the Ernakulam Central Police against Shwetha for allegedly acting in obscene and vulgar films and ads. She approached the Kerala High Court seeking to quash the case. During the hearing, the judge ordered an interim stay on the proceedings against her.- Ends
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NDTV
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- NDTV
Kerala Man Spent 51 Years In UAE Helping Indians, His Viral Return Will Move You
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Hindustan Times
5 hours ago
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Indian man who helped countless people land UAE jobs returns after 51 years, greeted by roaring busload of people
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An almost still room, its shadows longer than its silences, its characters speaking with pauses that felt heavier than their words. Watching Guru Dutt's Sahib Bibi Aur Ghulam (1962) felt like stepping back into that forgotten classroom of childhood. The one you only realise was serene once life outside had turned noisy and hurried. It wasn't just a film. It was a reminder of what cinema once used to be: Slow, searching, and unafraid of silence. A world where characters lived beyond the frame, where pauses revealed more than plot, and where thrill was found in the turning of a face, not the twist of a script. Growing up watching Malayalam cinema, I thought I had already seen the many shades of patience, silence, and unhurried observation. With the measured poise of Ramu Kariat in the '60s, the social ironies of Adoor and Aravindan in the '70s, the human warmth of Padmarajan and Bharathan in the '80s, the moral intricacies of Lohithadas in the '90s and the emotional worlds of Blessy in the 2000s, Malayalam cinema had taught me that cinema is not about rushing to the next beat. They taught me that pauses are not absences but presences, that silence is not emptiness but depth. Their grammar was silence, breath, gaze. And watching Guru Dutt for the first time healed many wounds caused by doomscrolling, with a grammar of cinema that was far more human. Today, the grammar of cinema is changing in ways both exciting and troubling. Yes, shorter attention spans demand tighter edits. Yes, social media has trained us to expect a high point every thirty seconds. A filmmaker cannot ignore this new rhythm entirely. But what happens when rhythm becomes frenzy, when scenes exist not to unfold but to explode? The cost is depth. Hindi cinema in particular seems trapped in its maniacal obsession with grandeur. Bigger sets, louder soundscapes, shinier stars. The kind of cinema where the camera swoops endlessly, yet the story goes nowhere. But what use is grandeur without gravity? What remains of Guru Dutt's spirit when his shadows are replaced by neon, his silences by noise? This is not to say the industry has forgotten entirely. There are still moments, rare, and hence precious, that remind us of cinema's older elegance. Take the intimacy of Vikramaditya Motwane's Lootera, where a leaf falling from a tree held more tension than most gunfights. Even in mainstream spaces, a filmmaker like Shoojit Sircar can gift us the quiet tenderness of October and the therapeutic Piku. Small salvations but loud victories. And yet, one cannot shake off the unease. The younger audience, myself included, has been trained to consume thrill as the dominant flavour. Even Malayalam cinema, which once trusted the slow burn, is now churning thrillers with assembly-line efficiency. And they sell because adrenaline rushes are bankable. But that surge does not push aside the calm and tranquil treatment it once valued. More business for thrillers does not mean less audience for others. Think of Kumbalangi Nights with its slow-burning family reconciliations, or Nanpakal Nerathu Mayakkam, where Mammootty slips into dreamlike stillness. These films do not surrender to the tyranny of the 30-second high point. They trust the audience to wait, to watch, to feel. And the audience, remarkably, has responded. These films have travelled far beyond Kerala, winning not just awards but affection from viewers weary of noise. And that is the optimism worth holding on to. Because it means the audience still hungers for cinema that values detail over distraction. A sigh, a gesture, or a hesitant glance are not outdated. They are more radical now than ever. The promise lies in the fact that cinema is not consumed only by algorithms. A film, in 2025, can still be shared in whispers, recommended as an experience, not as a must-watch scene. And the challenge is not whether audiences can handle silence. The challenge is whether filmmakers dare to offer it. Guru Dutt dared. Padmarajan dared. Today, a handful of filmmakers still dare, whether in Mumbai or in Kochi. They still think good art is born when the artist dares to challenge the sensibilities of an audience. As a memory machine, cinema is a keeper of glances and gestures. The question is simple: Do we want to remember only spectacle, or also silence? The grammar is shifting, yes. But grammar is not destiny.
