By – Shivam Ballewar
Assistant Professor,
SIMC, Pune
KYC*, the debut short film by Aravindan S.S., has a powerful, unsettling, and edgy view of how misogyny manifests itself, whether it is quiet in public, malignant in private, or metastasising on the internet. With a runtime of just below 19 minutes, this Malayalam film does not sensationalise its subject matter but instead approaches it from a more patient, character-driven standpoint.
The protagonist, Ganesh Rajasekharan (aka G), is introduced as an online stalker under the guise of ‘monkbharat’, an account on Facebook. G violently unleashes torrents of misogynistic hatred as the anonymous ‘monkbharat’ while also specifically attacking women of progressive ideologies. The film begins with G being a character study and subtly makes a socio-political commentary detailing what the manosphere is and the digital structures that support it through encouraging and enabling misogyny. Aravindan captures the blue glow of the laptop as G engages in the creation of his online persona; he enhances the sounds of G typing to the point of creating a rhythm that can be referred to as ‘sinister’.
G strongly believes in traditional masculinity and patronising male dominance, which is evident in his workplace, where he dismisses female colleagues as well as clients. Aravindan creates an example of a typical working environment where professional misconduct is prevalent in the workplace. The manner in which G talks down to his female co-workers, as well as his ability to easily dismiss their beliefs, are all characteristics of a misogynistic workplace that suffocates females into submission. One of the strengths of KYC* is that it does not exaggerate the offence of male domination. It instead portrays this oppression as soft and institutionalised, with the perpetrator being portrayed as just as human as the female victims.
At home, G develops into a much deeper and more complex character. G’s wife is drawn with quiet precision. There is a subtlety that reveals G’s wife as a woman whose silence demonstrates agency and shows the emotional fatigue of being in the marriage alone. There is literally no verbal communication between the couple. Yet, audiences completely understand the tension through subtext like visual codes and cues. Wife increasing the volume of TV news talking about stalking and cybercrime, hinting that the wife knows the little secret of G. This scene is a powerful signifier of her strength, agency, and silent resistance. Aravindan captures the couple’s domestic scenes with an observational patience. G’s wife interacts with him in a manner that indicates she has learnt to maintain emotional distance between them. The song, ‘Abhi na jao chhodkar’, is hymned by the wife, which in itself is a sarcastically coded cue about their relationship and her state of mind. The traditional song used to be associated with romantic yearning and emotional closeness; it is ironically used here to portray the emotional estrangement that defines their relationship. She relies upon her strength and resiliency. In fact, her strength lies in her capacity to regulate distance, manage silence, and assert psychological boundaries.
The contrast between G’s preoccupation with conventional masculine ideologies and the anonymous cruelty of his online cowardice is a source of great distress. We could have witnessed a demoralising approach, but instead we are encouraged to comprehend how ideology, fear of rejection and feelings of entitlement can coalesce. The influence of the manosphere is subtle; it does not present itself in a didactic manner but through G’s daily habits, like consuming toxic masculine content on male grooming. Through this subtlety, the film causes discomfort as it portrays the way in which rage-filled ideologies permeate into everyday people’s lives. It does not require an extraordinary event to create such a situation.
At the end of the film, G’s anonymous digital identity is revealed on Facebook. The position of power is inverted, and G becomes the object of public hatred and trolling. Meanwhile, Aravindan constructs a quiet, loaded counter-image: the wife lies calmly on the bed, hymning softly, ‘Abhi na jao chhodkar.’ The wife’s composure, juxtaposed with G’s panic, speaks volumes. Without explicitly confirming it, the film suggests that it might have been she who let his identity out. However, film does not explicitly reveal this ever. This song, which keeps coming at regular intervals and was always tinged with irony, now suggests closure and agency: what seemed like protracted silence was not passivity at all but patient, restrained action.The cinematography for KYC* is precise and composed and would lead one to believe it to be constricting and claustrophobic. G is routinely filmed in boxes or in constrained living areas, which parallels the inability for him to look beyond the limitations of his rigid world view. The sound design adds an additional layer of stress; ambient sound disappears and is replaced by the suffocating silence as he expresses his hatred online, emphasising the absence of morality in his existence.
The film is an astonishingly mature first effort on the part of Aravindan, and he has demonstrated great control of tone, depth of theme, and insight into character psychology. The critical distinction, though, is that he has presented a misogynistic character without making use of any exoticism; he creates a very visceral image of the impact of misogyny on the lives of those who live with it. Aravindan chooses to avoid both redemption and spectacle because he wants to show his viewers the ongoing existence of misogyny through ordinary actions and everyday digital interactions and social silence. KYC* demonstrates the social issues of misogyny and online hatred while creating a lasting impact through exposing the hidden systems that people support in their daily lives.