Cinema has long been shaped by the male gaze, a term popularised by Laura Mulvey in her seminal essay "Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema" (1975), which dissected how classical Hollywood positioned women as passive objects of desire while men drove the narrative forward. This framework dominated filmmaking for decades, reinforcing a voyeuristic perspective where women existed primarily to be looked at, consumed, and defined in relation to male protagonists.

However, as more women stepped behind the camera, the industry witnessed a quiet yet radical shift: the emergence of the female gaze. This perspective challenges traditional power dynamics, reframing not only femininity but also masculinity in ways that reveal depth, vulnerability, and complexity previously ignored by mainstream cinema.

The female gaze does not simply reverse the objectification of women by sexualising men in return. It is a broader philosophical approach—one that prioritises subjectivity, emotional resonance, and interiority over the spectacle of the body.

Céline Sciamma, Jane Campion, Greta Gerwig, and Sofia Coppola are among the many directors who have redefined how gender operates on screen, offering portrayals that break free from conventional tropes. Through their lenses, masculinity is no longer solely about power and control, and femininity is not just about beauty or suffering. Instead, both genders are allowed complexity, intimacy, and contradiction.

Take Jane Campion's "The Power of the Dog" (2021), a masterclass in deconstructing masculinity. The film's protagonist, Phil Burbank (Benedict Cumberbatch), is initially presented as a hypermasculine cowboy, his dominance reinforced through cruelty, physical labour, and emotional repression.

However, Campion's gaze slowly peels away his armour. The camera lingers on Phil in solitude—his hands caressing a silk scarf, his gaze betraying longing and nostalgia, his obsession with the memory of Bronco Henry hinting at suppressed desires.

Rather than framing Phil's repressed queerness as a simple twist or tragedy, Campion treats it with patience and quiet revelation, allowing the audience to witness a man imprisoned by the expectations of masculinity. Had this story been told through a more traditional lens, Phil's sexuality might have been exploited for shock value or turned into an overt tragedy. But Campion instead crafts a subtle, haunting portrait of loneliness and self-denial.

Greta Gerwig, in contrast, explores masculinity through warmth and playful subversion. "Little Women" (2019) presents Laurie (Timothée Chalamet) as a figure of softness and emotional transparency, a counterpoint to the usual rugged or stoic male love interest.

Laurie is unafraid to express his affections, to dance wildly with Jo (Saoirse Ronan), to cry openly when rejected. In "Barbie" (2023), Gerwig takes this interrogation further, turning Ken (Ryan Gosling) into a satirical embodiment of performative masculinity. Ken, desperate for validation in a world that revolves around Barbie, embodies the fragility of traditional male roles. His journey is a comic but biting exploration of how patriarchy fails not just women but men too, trapping them in roles that deny their emotional needs. Gerwig's approach is not about making men the enemy; rather, it questions why men are conditioned to seek power rather than fulfillment.

If Gerwig and Campion dissect masculinity with tenderness and critique, Sofia Coppola's oeuvre is an exercise in exploring femininity through introspection and atmosphere. Her films—"The Virgin Suicides" (1999), "Lost in Translation" (2003), "Marie Antoinette" (2006)—are often misinterpreted as aesthetic indulgences when, in fact, they offer some of the most profound meditations on the isolation of womanhood.

Coppola's heroines are often trapped—by societal expectations, by their own romantic illusions, by the invisible weight of being seen but not understood. In "The Virgin Suicides", the Lisbon sisters are reduced to mythical figures by the neighborhood boys who narrate the story.

The film critiques the very act of romanticising femininity, showing how the girls' pain is turned into a beautiful but tragic fantasy, a fate dictated by how men perceive them rather than who they truly are.

Chloé Zhao, with her documentary-like realism, brings a different perspective to both masculinity and femininity. In "The Rider" (2017), she captures the quiet resilience of Brady Blackburn (Brady Jandreau), a rodeo star dealing with the aftermath of a near-fatal injury.

Zhao's camera does not glamorise his suffering or frame him as a broken hero. Instead, it observes him in moments of vulnerability—grooming his horse, hesitating before putting his foot in the stirrup again, whispering to his disabled friend. Masculinity here is not about dominance or stoicism but about adaptation, love, and grief. Zhao's "Nomadland" (2020) similarly presents Frances McDormand's Fern as a woman shaped by experience rather than traditional gender markers. She is neither romanticised nor victimised but simply allowed to exist in the margins, where real life happens.

Read more

‘Women have to prove themselves every time’: Madhuri on pay disparity

And then there's Céline Sciamma, perhaps one of the most precise architects of the female gaze. Her "Portrait of a Lady on Fire" (2019) is a revelation in how desire is filmed. Unlike the male gaze, which often reduces attraction to fragmented body parts or voyeuristic shots, Sciamma's gaze builds tension through mutual observation and shared silences. The film does not linger on bodies in a predatory way; instead, it focuses on the act of looking itself—the slow realisation of attraction, the anticipation of touch, the way love transforms perception. In Sciamma's world, love and desire are not about possession but about recognition, about seeing and being seen.

In Bollywood, a notoriously male-dominated industry, female directors are slowly dismantling long-standing tropes, portraying both men and women with a nuance rarely seen in commercial Indian cinema. For decades, Bollywood has thrived on a hyper-stylised masculinity, where heroes were larger than life, women were mostly love interests or victims, and desire was dictated by the male perspective.

However, when female filmmakers take the reins, masculinity and femininity appear in a different light.  Take "Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara" (2011) by Zoya Akhtar, a film that outwardly appears to follow the classic male bonding road trip formula but subtly challenges the Bollywood definition of masculinity.

The three male leads—Arjun (Hrithik Roshan), Kabir (Abhay Deol), and Imran (Farhan Akhtar)—are not action heroes, nor are they exaggerated alpha males. Instead, they are vulnerable, carrying emotional baggage, confronting fears, and, most importantly, expressing emotions beyond anger or bravado. There's a crucial moment where Arjun, a seemingly successful but emotionally guarded stockbroker, breaks down in tears underwater after confronting his own mortality. In a typical Bollywood film, male grief is often masked by a need for revenge or aggression; here, it is simply allowed to exist.

Read more

Parsha wants to write her own destiny

Similarly, Gauri Shinde's "Dear Zindagi" (2016) offers a rare portrayal of masculinity that is nurturing rather than controlling. Jehangir Khan (Shah Rukh Khan), the therapist guiding Kaira (Alia Bhatt) through her emotional turmoil, is neither a romantic interest nor a saviour. He listens rather than dictates and reassures rather than rescues. His masculinity is defined by wisdom and kindness, not bravado—an inversion of the standard Bollywood hero, who proves his worth through physical prowess or dramatic sacrifices.

Then there is Tanuja Chandra's "Qarib Qarib Singlle" (2017), a film that offers a refreshing look at romantic relationships from a woman's point of view. The protagonist, Jaya (Parvathy Thiruvothu), is not the coy, submissive heroine of conventional Bollywood romances. She is independent, skeptical, and deeply human. Her journey with the charming but flawed Yogi (Irrfan Khan) is not about being 'swept off her feet' but about navigating companionship on her own terms. Chandra allows Jaya to desire and reject without judgment, an agency rarely afforded to female leads in Indian cinema.

Read more

Women's Day 2025: Films about women who defied all odds

The growing presence of female filmmakers marks a significant shift in how gender is portrayed on screen. Their work reinforces that representation isn't just about who appears in front of the camera but also about who shapes the narrative behind it. When women tell stories, they offer a perspective that moves beyond objectification or idealisation, bringing depth, empathy, and authenticity to the screen. In this reimagining, cinema fulfills its true purpose—not just as a reflection of the world as it is, but as a means to see one another more clearly and with greater understanding.