The last decade has witnessed a "Second Coming." With the advent of OTT platforms like Netflix, Amazon Prime, and SonyLIV, Malayalam cinema has broken its geographical shackles. It is no longer just the best in India; it is competing with global art house cinema.
Directors like Lijo Jose Pellissery and Dileesh Pothan have shattered narrative grammar. Pellissery’s Jallikattu (2019), a 95-minute frenzy about a buffalo escaping in a village, was India’s official entry to the Oscars. It is not a "story" in the traditional sense; it is an allegory for human greed, masculinity, and mob mentality, shot with the kinetic energy of a survival thriller.
Then came Ee.Ma.Yau (2018), a black comedy about a poor man trying to give his father a "Christian burial" despite the arrogance of the local church priest. It is a masterpiece of magical realism that critiques religious hypocrisy without ever raising its voice.
Kumbalangi Nights (2019) redefined the "family film." Set in a fishing hamlet, it explored toxic masculinity, mental health (bipolar disorder), and queer-coded male friendships, all against a backdrop of stunning backwaters and fried fish. It told Malayalis that it was okay for men to cry, to cook, and to ask for help.
The journey began in 1928 with the silent film Vigathakumaran (The Lost Child). However, the industry truly found its voice in the post-independence era. For the first two decades, Malayalam cinema was largely an extension of the popular Tamil and Hindi templates: mythological stories, stage-bound melodramas, and films centered on the feudal Nair nobility or the Tharavadu (ancestral home). The last decade has witnessed a "Second Coming
But a seismic shift occurred in the 1950s and 60s, driven by the "New Wave" or "Parallel Cinema" movement. While Satyajit Ray was making Pather Panchali in Bengal, directors like Ramu Kariat (Chemmeen, 1965) and M.T. Vasudevan Nair began adapting literary classics to the screen. Chemmeen, a tragedy about a fisherman’s daughter and the taboo of the sea, wasn't just a film; it was a cultural artifact that introduced the world to the Araya (fishing) community’s rituals, beliefs, and the terrifying power of the ocean. It won the President's Gold Medal and put Malayalam cinema on the global map.
For decades, Malayalam cinema was accused of being a "savarna" (upper-caste) medium, despite Kerala’s diverse backward-caste and Dalit population. The heroes were predominantly Nairs or Syrian Christians; the villains were often coded as lower-caste or Ezhava. This was the cinema of the dominant culture, ignoring the subaltern.
That silence has exploded in the last decade. The Malayalam film industry was the catalyst for the #MeToo movement in India in 2018, leading to the Justice Hema Committee report (finally released in 2024) which exposed the deep exploitation of women in the industry. This event was not just a film industry scandal; it was a cultural reckoning for a state that prides itself on women’s literacy and empowerment.
Furthermore, films like Kummatti (2019) and Nayattu (2021) have begun to explicitly tackle caste-based violence and police brutality. Nayattu—a thriller about three police officers on the run—is a masterclass in how the apparatus of the state can crush the working class, regardless of their uniform. It captures the quiet desperation of the lower-middle-class Malayali, a demographic that forms the spine of Kerala’s political reality. Together, they represent a duality in the Malayali
Around 2010, a tectonic shift occurred. The arrival of digital cameras and YouTube allowed a new generation of filmmakers—who grew up watching world cinema on torrents—to bypass the traditional gatekeepers. This is often called the "New Generation" movement, though it is better described as the de-mythologization of Malayalam cinema.
Films like Traffic (2011) and 22 Female Kottayam (2012) shattered linear storytelling. They reflected a new Kerala: hyper-connected, cynical, and deeply urbanized. Suddenly, the hero was not a demigod but a corrupt cop, a stalker, or a helpless father.
The most profound cultural reflection of this decade came through the works of Lijo Jose Pellissery (Jallikattu, Ee.Ma.Yau) and Dileesh Pothan (Maheshinte Prathikaaram, Thondimuthalum Driksakshiyum). Consider Jallikattu (2019)—a film about a buffalo escaping slaughter in a village, triggering primal chaos. Under the surface, it is an essay on the fragility of civilization in the face of hunger and greed. It taps into the Kerala-ness of festival traditions, meat-eating culture, and the latent violence beneath the "God’s Own Country" tourism tag.
Finally, Malayalam cinema has become the umbilical cord for the vast Malayali diaspora—from the Gulf to the United States. For a Malayali child born in Dubai or New Jersey, films featuring puttu and kadala (steamed rice cakes and chickpea curry), karimeen pollichathu (pearl spot fish), and the specific rhythm of the Kollam dialect are the only connection to the homeland. not just pose.
Recent films like Sudani from Nigeria (2018) and Moothon (2019) have reversed the gaze, looking at the outsider in Kerala. Sudani tells the story of a Nigerian footballer playing in local Malappuram leagues, exploring how the football-crazy culture of North Kerala interacts with race and identity. It is a testament to the maturing of the industry: from exporting culture to interrogating it.
As India opened its economy in the 1990s, the Gulf migration boom (which had started decades earlier) reached its zenith. The "Gulf Malayali" became a stock character. This era produced films like Ramji Rao Speaking (a cult comedy about three unemployed men) and Godfather. These films captured a specific cultural anxiety: the fear of being left behind.
Comedy, in particular, became the vessel for social commentary. Writers like Sreenivasan used the genre to critique the Malayali’s greed, laziness, and hypocrisy. His satirical dialogue in Vadakkunokkiyantram (The Compass of the Gaze) deconstructed the male ego and jealousy with a Freudian precision rarely seen in Indian commercial cinema. The culture of "showing off" (often called proud in Malayali slang) was viciously lampooned, forcing audiences to confront their own bourgeois aspirations.
No discussion of Malayalam cinema is complete without the twin titans: Mohanlal and Mammootty. For over four decades, these two actors have defined not just the industry, but the aspirational psyche of the Malayali male.
Together, they represent a duality in the Malayali psyche: the desire for power and discipline (Mammootty) versus the desire for effortless genius and emotional vulnerability (Mohanlal). The fan wars between them are legendary, but culturally, they have elevated the standard of acting in India to a point where a "commercial" hero in Kerala is expected to act, not just pose.