Girls Will Be Girls review: Shuchi Talati’s subversive take on girlhood, desire

Girls Will Be Girls, which premiered and won two awards at the Sundance Film Festival, and was subsequently screened at the Cannes Film Festival earlier this year, is Talati’s stellar debut feature. It envelopes one in the collective nostalgic experience of studying in a prim and proper co-ed school — clandestine romantic meetings, cutthroat academic competition, tedious uniforms and the looming fear of getting punished. Through the intimate 4:3 aspect ratio, Girls Will Be Girls presents a contemplative examination of the darker, often heartbreaking realities faced by women whose sexualities are generationally suppressed, and whose freedoms to explore them are unjustly constrained.

The mother-daughter dynamic

Talati navigates a festering mother-daughter dynamic with grace and dignity frequently denied to its protagonists. It refrains from either justifying any actions or condescendingly vilifying them, recognising instead that shame itself is the true adversary of expression. This Ali Fazal and Richa Chadha-produced maiden feature exudes female gaze — likely attributable to its predominantly female crew and the tender, girlish and inquisitive nature of the cinematography that permeates the work.

Mira (played by Preeti Panigrahi), though profoundly gifted in her studies, remains devoid of any genuine companionship. A prodigy by all measures, yet one who finds herself the subject of disdain when entrusted with authority — a target both of envy and resentment from her peers. Though Mira is the ideal student with her trimmed hair, good girl grades and knee-length skirt — she is equally prone to being objectified. The scene wherein Priya (played by Kajol Chugh) and Mira are made to stand on chairs to compare skirt lengths as a measure of character is deeply unsettling. This comparison within educational institutions, under the pretence of discipline, only seems to fuel hostility among students, especially girls being pitted against each other — highlighting the glaring absence of such restrictions for the opposite sex.

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Mira soon encounters Srinivas (played by Kesav Binoy Kiron), the slightly older new boy well-versed in the art of social chameleonism. Suave and disarmingly articulate, he wields his charm with a bewitching smile, but beneath this polish lies a shrewd mind. After some definite hand-on-hand pinboard action — sparks fly and a new romance emanates. The camera closely keeps a watchful eye on their hands, documenting intimate exchanges — be it their fingers grazing under her bedroom study table or their pinkies brushing in silence the morning after Srinivas’ birthday. “You know, this isn’t an exam you can come first in,” says Srinivas at some point.

Watching this film was an intensely vulnerable experience, traversing the awkward terrain of re-learning one’s body through puberty — masturbation, body hair, saggy breasts and the age-old intimate scrutiny of one’s genitalia in the mirror. The truth that sexual knowledge is acquired solely through experience, with no amount of theoretical understanding bridging the gap, only intensifies this unease. The vulnerable poster shot of Mira physically emulating the sensation of kissing Srinivas by pressing her lips against the back of her hand is so heart-wrenching.

An intellectually driven Mira thus steps out after school with Srinivas to a shabby internet cafe looking up the basics of mutual sexual pleasure and also taking down notes. Despite her intellectual brilliance, Mira found herself outwitted by Srinivas. His assuredness in negotiating their sexual dynamic starkly contrasted with her uncertainty in reciprocating, leaving her startled, defeated and intrigued all at once.

Anila, Mira’s mother (Kani Kusruti), is an elegant “cool mom” adorned in vibrant pinks and reds throughout the film. Anila’s loneliness is palpable, a quiet ache that pervades her existence. She lends her traditional sari to Mira as a souvenir of growing up, for the teacher’s day programme yet is someone who has herself never quite liked or draped one. Fond of romance novels and sultry music, she embodies a restless teenage girl, yearning for attention and excitement trapped in the responsibilities of motherhood. Having a strict mother herself, she recalls how in her youth, their school segregated boys and girls. Which in turn deprived her of the thrill of a slow-burn illicit affair as she remained untouched by its sweetness. She eloped and married her very first love, Harish (Jatin Gulati), at the tender age of 21. In contrast, Srinivas expresses his relief at not being obligated to wed his first girlfriend, a revelation that leaves Anila visibly shaken by his perspective.

“When you’re young, it’s just puppy love. Then what? Nothing, no romance,” muses Anila. In Srinivas, she sees a gateway back into her girlhood. Though she feels no carnal attraction towards him, the mere existence of an unusual attachment underscores the inherent desire to be seen and be close to. She describes him as “very mature for his age”— a resounding predatory compliment that accentuates her longing to connect with him, forcibly perceiving him at her level. Srinivas’ gift lies in his ability to decipher people’s “keys”— their hidden desires, ambitions, and vulnerabilities — using them to subtly shape conversations and outcomes to his advantage.

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Srinivas acts as a catalyst, awakening latent emotions in both women that they had not previously recognised within themselves. In the intricate yet discernible power struggle between mother and daughter, they partake in a refined interplay of sharp glances and measured vocabularies, perpetually concealing their genuine motives and vulnerabilities from one another. Kiron is convincingly phenomenal as Srinivas, possessing a magnetism capable of disarming even the most stringent of parents like Anila. It dawns on Mira, unsettlingly, when she also witnesses him gain the teacher’s favour through artful lies disguised as flattery. This leads us and Mira to question what drives him — what his own “key” might be, and what deeper goals he harbours beneath his polished facade.

Srinivas is the classic “mama’s boy,” channelling his need for maternal attachment toward Anila, who in turn enjoys the attention from a younger man. By addressing her by her first name, he frees her from conventional roles, recognising her as the young girl she might never have been. Kusruti, as Anila, radiates girlish joy in key moments, like recalling a boy’s botched proposal from the bushes or mischievously appearing before Srinivas in a towel, asking him to look away.

A tale of two girls from different generations

When Mira skips the movie to meet Srinivas in the mountains, Anila sees right through Mira’s fabricated excuses, having once been in her place. She assumes Mira to be an extension of herself, yet paradoxically competes with her — mirroring the generational cycle of constraints from her upbringing. Though fiercely protective of her daughter, she remains oblivious to the ramifications of her actions, questioning neither their appropriateness nor her motivations. For her, this is merely a pursuit of her deepest desires — the thrill of the forbidden, manifested in her daughter’s boyfriend. Girls Will Be Girls walks on a tightrope balancing Anila’s feelings with adequate grace, enough to place some shocking moments yet never seemingly crossing the line. Her love for her daughter is fierce, yet she remains unaware of whether her sentiments for Srinivas are misguided. Once again, a subtle rebellion against social norms is claimed unconsciously, as if defiance has become her default state of being. She wouldn’t dare to venture beyond a certain limit, yet it is this very restraint that heightens the allure of it all.

What Talati also does refreshingly is portray the unvarnished realities of having sex for the first time as a teenager — marked by half-baked knowledge from the internet and the awkward slash earnest attempts to “make things fit”, ultimately letting the more experienced partner take control. Panigrahi is phenomenal in a way that she is blessed with the art of expressing even the banal boredom of it being “done to you” rather than you being an active participant. Mira gazing mindlessly into the pink sky while Srinivas is on top of her is extremely triggering to watch. The camera is gracious enough to only sit by the corner of her eye. Throughout the film, Panigrahi can seem to manoeuvre just her eyes to hint at despair, jealousy, desire, concern or anger with utmost ease. In contrast, Kusruti possesses a heightened awareness of her physical presence, deftly navigating her body language with a keen sensitivity.

Talati tries to tackle one too many of the multi-faceted aspects of girlhood — peeking into rape culture, bodily insecurities, competitiveness, masturbation, loneliness, deception, power dynamics, generational trauma, transactional friendships and first loves. The film reinforces its central themes repeatedly, though not to an overwhelming degree. Panigrahi shines in her portrayal of Mira confronting heartbreak. In the final scene, she calls Anila to oil her hair, enveloping her in the attention and care she so desperately seeks. In this moment, Mira comprehends Anila’s “key”, breaking down into tears as the reality of her first love’s betrayal overwhelms her. She transcends her feelings of jealousy and resentment towards Anila, coming to see her as a fellow girl, one who also experienced neglect. Mira is fortunate to experience heartbreak from her misfit first love, while Anila married hers — as the realisation settles in, missing out on romance and having her own heart shattered in the process.

Srinivas’s silence after hearing Mira’s heartfelt confession tape drives Mira to a disturbing realisation. She begins to see that what truly drew him back to her home time and again wasn’t as much her love for him, but rather Anila’s maternal affection. In the final analysis, Girls Will Be Girls is a tale of two girls from separate generations, coming full circle in search of their “key”. In a world where women are conditioned to view each other as rivals, this audacious film boldly reveals a weightier malignancy that lies beneath their jealousy and competition: men who benefit from it and evade accountability. It is an intimate exploration of Mira and Anila where their healing is not loud or triumphant, but an act of quiet defiance against the cycles that once defined them.