Movies like Officer on Duty make it difficult for you to give Indian filmmakers the benefit of the doubt. How could the widely celebrated writer Shahi Kabir, who broke out with the excellent Malayalam-language procedural Nayattu some years ago, produce something as misguided as Officer on Duty? Now out on Netflix after a successful theatrical run, the police thriller lacks everything that made Nayattu such a memorable pandemic-era experience; little attention is paid to the cultural specificities, the writing prioritises plot over characters, and unlike the rather progressive themes that Nayattu niftily wove into its riveting narrative, the politics in Officer on Duty are highly objectionable.
For starters, it’s probably the most misogynistic piece of mainstream Indian entertainment since the Kamal Haasan-starrer Vikram from a few years ago. “Why does this movie hate its women so much?” you’ll wonder on several occasions, as young girls are molested, raped, and murdered for the sole reason to give the ‘hero’ something to do. The hero, in case you were wondering, is a man who kicks a pregnant woman in the stomach in his introductory scene. Played by Kunchacko Boban, the police officer Hari is a volatile man, of that there is no doubt. The movie is pretty clear about it, too. But it feels compelled to redeem him — mainstream Indian filmmakers often have an ‘I can fix him’ attitude when confronted with toxic men— and that’s where things get thorny.
Kunchacko Boban in a still from Officer on Duty.
The minority that complained about the recent Netflix series Adolescence wondered why the folks behind it completely ignored the female character around whom the story revolved. The creators of that show argued that they wanted to address ideas such as toxic masculinity, and admitted that they probably weren’t the right people to provide a female perspective. The same complaint could be made about Officer on Duty. The crucial difference, however, is that while Adolescence makes no attempt to cover up for its male protagonist’s crimes, Officer on Duty not only makes excuses for its hero, but also tries to pin the blame on the women around him.
“I am unfit for duty,” Hari says deep into the third act, recusing himself from an investigation that he’d already been ousted from. It’s too little too late, because by then, he has already caused chaos in the lives of everybody around him. It is because of his hot-headedness that his daughter, like Manoj Bajpayee’s child in Shool, dies a violent death. While Hari is initially hounded by guilt, he eventually finds ways to blame his innocent wife for every tragedy that has befallen their family. More problematically, by virtue of being the protagonist, Hari expects our sympathies. As do all the other middle-aged men and women who refuse to accept their culpability in a string of teen suicides that rock the Kerala town where Officer on Duty is set.
These women killed themselves after being duped by a gang of drug peddlers who got them high and then recorded videos of them in compromising situations. Not a single one of these women could muster the courage to confess what they were going through to their parents. The movie isn’t interested in knowing why. Instead, Officer on Duty suggests that killing themselves was the only choice they had. A smarter movie, a movie with intelligent points to make about the patriarchy, wouldn’t have treated its female characters this way. It’s like something out of the 80s or 90s; you could almost imagine Ajay Devgn chomping at the bit to secure the remake rights to this film. It falls in his wheelhouse, which, in recent years, has been limited to projecting middle-class male fantasies on the big screen.
Not only does Officer on Duty cruelly kill its female characters one by one, it seems to be determined to absolve the men of any wrongdoing. Even the villainous gang at its centre has a healthier sex-ration than most states, almost as if the filmmakers were actively avoiding a scenario where the men are painted as the bad guys. Gender might not seem like a key theme in a movie that is essentially about a convoluted police investigation into stolen jewellery and illegal drugs, but the depiction of certain characters certainly invites a viewing through this lens. What, for instance, is the compulsion to deify male characters, regardless of how problematic they are?
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Kunchacko Boban in a still from Officer on Duty.
Had Hari been a woman, she most certainly wouldn’t have been forgiven this easily for her crimes. Heck, the movie indicts even Priyamani’s character, who suffers not only the loss of her daughter, but the failure of her marriage. All for being tied to a guy who can’t control his rage. We often complain about Indian films of a certain kind resorting, perhaps unknowingly, to the deeply irresponsible trope of ‘fridging’. This is when female characters are maimed or murdered only to serve as motivation for the men to evolve. Officer on Duty takes this to another level. It kills multiple women; the ones who survive are belittled and humiliated. Take, for instance, Hari’s younger daughter. All she does in the movie is witness her sister hanging from the ceiling fan. Far be it for Officer in Duty to examine the trauma inflicted upon her.
As the Malayalam film industry has grown, so has its tendency to be lured by larger profits and further legitimacy. But here’s the thing; it was doing just fine. Movies as diverse as Manjummel Boys and Bramayugam succeeded on their own terms. Even Boban’s recent work — excellent films such as Pada and Ariyippu — didn’t fall prey to either expectations or established norms. Nobody does procedurals like the Malayalam filmmakers, but a lot of people do procedurals like this.
Post Credits Scene is a column in which we dissect new releases every week, with particular focus on context, craft, and characters. Because there’s always something to fixate about once the dust has settled.
