For decades in Indian mainstream cinema the ideal male hero was the “angry young man” (गुस्सैल जवान – gussaaila jawaan), the protector-saviour who delivers justice and refuses vulnerability. Films like Kabir Singh (2019) and Animal (2023) showcase this hyper-masculinity that critics now call “toxic” or “fragile” because it rests on dominance, rage and entitlement.
In many of these films the hero carries the weight of honour (इज्जत – ijjat), the burden of family reputation, and the licence to control. Take for example stars like Ranbir Kapoor or Yash: they are fortresses of masculine power, often solving problems with fists rather than dialogue. In the piece “The History Behind the Rise of Hyper-Masculinity in Indian Cinema,” the author traces how this escalated into full-blown spectacle: “Angry young men … built around violence and dominance”.
Yet, things are shifting. A recent article in the Times of India reports that the portrayal of masculinity in Hindi cinema is evolving: the macho saviour is making room for male characters who feel, listen, empathise. For instance, actor R. Madhavan recently admitted that he revisits some of his older roles and realises how conditioned they were by patriarchal ideas. Meanwhile, stars like Ayushmann Khurrana – who has made a career of playing roles that undercut the macho stereotype – serve as counter-examples to the dominant pattern.
This change matters because cinema doesn’t just reflect society; it helps shape what men think they should be. The old model emphasised “बच्चों की खातिर लड़ूँगा” (I’ll fight for the kids), “घर का नाम रखूंगा” (I’ll uphold the household name), and “आँखों में आँसू नहीं” (no tears in my eyes) — all coded signs of stoic strength and unemotional endurance. Masculinity was not just big—it was loud and violent and unwavering. But as one article puts it: “the dearth of healthy heroes of masculinity and the discourse surrounding it is a challenge.”
Complicating this narrative is the very real off-screen dynamic of power. In an article published by News18 it’s revealed that “casting with sex was a common practice in Bollywood” and that things only started to shift after the MeToo movement gained force. The article states that sexual favours were long considered part of how an aspiring actor “got in,” even as the on-screen hero maintained his heroic aura. Prior to MeToo, the “casting couch” (कास्टिंग काउच) was accepted as part of the system. The corrupt industry dynamic mirrors the hero-image: men with power, control, entitlement.
So what exactly is the model of masculinity Bollywood has promoted, and what is changing? The model: strong hero, protector of the weak, avenger of insults, silent in pain, outspoken in violence. More subtly, it emphasised dominance, sexual conquest (often unchallenged), and heroism tied to physicality. The practices behind the scenes—like the casting-couch culture—reinforced the idea that power, sexual access, and entitlement are part of the male role. After MeToo, we find more talk of consent, accountability, vulnerability: the hero who asks for help, who shows insecurity, who dialogues instead of fist-fights.
Yet, the shift is uneven. Many blockbusters still reward the “alpha” archetype. The conversation is now about whether the hero can feel (महसूस करना – mahsus karna), can admit fear, can fail—and still be “mard” (man) without shame. Madhavan aptly notes that chivalry (शिष्टाचार – shishtachar) itself is being reinterpreted, and men of his generation feel uncertain about what the new rules are.
In India’s film dream-factory, the screen hero carries outsized cultural weight: when you see the hero punch the villain, you also see millions of boys internalise that strength equals muscle and dominance. But when you see the hero listen, cry, reconcile, you open the possibility of saying strength equals understanding. The shift toward a more evolved masculinity is slow, but the fact that it’s being discussed—on-screen and off—is reason for cautious optimism.
Ultimately, the question isn’t merely what went wrong with Bollywood’s model of masculinity, but what will be the next model: will it still require the hero to be the invincible saviour—or will it allow him to be human, flawed, tender, and still masculine. In Hindi: क्या अब मर्दानगी मतलब सिर्फ उबालती मसल नहीं, बल्कि समझदारी और संवेदनशीलता भी होगी? (Will masculinity now mean not just bulging muscles, but also sensibility and sensitivity?) The answer may well arrive on the silver screen, reel by reel.
Bollywood heroes… Those broad-shouldered, brooding demigods of the silver screen. Auntie has watched them for decades: from Amitabh Bachchan’s clenched jaw in Deewaar to Shah Rukh Khan’s open-armed swagger, from Salman’s shirtless bravado to Ranbir’s wounded-lover rage. Indian cinema has always been the ultimate mard factory (man-making machine), churning out heroes who confuse control for love and anger for depth. In Kabir Singh or Animal, masculinity is not tender; it’s testosterone with dialogue. These boys don’t talk, they smoulder — preferably with a cigarette and a tragic backstory.
But Auntie has also seen what happens behind the velvet curtains of casting couch (that filthy Hindi-English hybrid phrase that everyone pretended not to understand). The News18 story confirmed what many whispered: “sex for roles” was not scandal but system. Power was eroticised, and submission became a career move. The men who preached morality on screen were often predators off it, protected by networks of silence and champagne. Only when the #MeToo wave hit did a few trembling truths escape the floodgates. And yet, Auntie suspects the flood receded too quickly — the old gatekeepers still guard the doors, only now they use softer words and NDAs.
Still, something stirs in the script department. Actors like Ayushmann Khurrana dare to play men with performance anxiety, self-doubt, or pink shirts. Vicky Kaushal can cry without losing fans. Even Madhavan, once the nation’s dreamboat, confesses he’s rethinking what it means to be a gentleman (shishtachari aadmi). A few young directors are writing male characters who ask questions instead of throwing punches, who listen before they “save.” Auntie raises her metaphorical glass of chai to them — progress rarely arrives with drum rolls.
Yet let’s not declare victory too soon. For every Badhaai Do, there are ten testosterone circuses where women are props, villains are feminised, and male rage still sells popcorn. Bollywood remains India’s most powerful mirror, but the reflection is distorted: male fragility masked as might, consent rewritten as chemistry.
So, my dear betas (sons), next time you admire a hero smashing walls for love, ask: would you want your sister to date him? Real men don’t need background music to prove their strength. They need empathy, equality, and perhaps a little humility. Until then, Auntie will keep watching, judging, and occasionally rolling her eyelinered eyes — because patriarchy, like sequins, never really goes out of style.