“Housefull of Sexism: Why Bollywood Still Hates Women”

In the world of Bollywood, women rarely exist as human beings. They are punchlines, sex objects, or ornamental props. With Housefull 5, yet another multi-starrer, high-budget spectacle, the franchise somehow manages to raise the bar for objectification even higher. It is less of a comedy and more of a “who can humiliate the existence of a woman better” competition, where female characters are reduced entirely to the size, shape, and accessibility of their bodies.

The plot of the movie is, of course, impeccable — a truly never-before-seen narrative. Housefull 5 is presented as a murder mystery, but it murders logic and common sense long before the first body hits the floor. The story begins with the death of billionaire Papa Ranjit, who leaves behind a profound joke alert: a 69-billion-dollar estate (because obviously, the number 69 still counts as humour in this universe). The fortune is meant for his eldest son, Jolly, from his first marriage. But soon, chaos ensues in the form of a multiple-Jolly fiasco, leading to absurd DNA tests to determine legitimacy and culminating in the murder of the doctor conducting them. Crazy stuff.

The so-called comedy is no more than a mess of reincarnation jokes, Om Shanti Om-style flashbacks, and a vengeful parrot named Gucci who wants justice for his father Prada, yes, the parrot from Housefull 1. Add to that an arsenal of sex jokes, pubic hair humour, and scenes that mistake perversion for punchlines. The camera, seemingly unsure of where to land, often settles beneath skirts or lingers lovingly on cleavage, as if the cinematographer mistook voyeurism for visual storytelling.

And the murder mystery we were all supposedly here to witness? God knows the beginning, middle, and end of that one because, as a fellow audience member, I think what the movie truly wanted me to see was how Jacqueline Fernandez crawling down the air vents in an attempt to ‘solve’ the case looked like. This is not the first time the Housefull series has reduced female characters to mere eye candy. In fact, the most “character development” the female leads have ever received across the franchise was in that iconic moment when they all catfought over boyfriends. Apparently, the height of female empowerment is fighting over men who are obviously just chasing their father’s fortunes.

In addition, the Housefull franchise not only objectifies women but also infantilises them. It makes them sound dumb in terms of problem-solving and sells the image of a damsel in distress who is ultimately saved by her money-greedy boyfriend, because if she dies, he won’t get any of her inheritance.

Of course, this is not just a Housefull problem. This is very much a Bollywood problem, where women are rarely seen for their talent, intellect, and individuality. Instead, they are valued for how thin their waist is and how short their skirts can be to accommodate the male gaze. As song lyrics get more vulgar by the day, the objectification only deepens. It has been argued time and again by industry insiders. Kareena Kapoor, for instance, claims that item numbers don’t make her feel objectified. She has said she feels sexy and powerful while performing them. Well then, Kareena, by all means, do tell the women of India how powerful they are in the eyes of a man:

“Main toh tandoori murgi hoon yaar, gatka le saiyyan alcohol se!”

(I’m a grilled chicken, my love, go ahead and swallow me whole with alcohol.)

If this is power, Bollywood can keep it.

Furthermore, Bollywood actresses who have previously expressed immense talent, dedication, and passion for the art of acting in some of their earlier projects are often absorbed into mainstream Bollywood and completely commercialised. This “commercialisation” involves reshaping them to deliver exaggerated expressions, appear in B-grade vulgar dance numbers that lack lyrical, much less intellectual, sense, and play side characters whose only significance lies in being romantic interests, often to male leads twice their age. The sad truth behind this harsh reality is that commercial films outperform non-commercial ones at the box office. This pressures these actresses to conform to Bollywood’s suffocatingly stereotypical definition of womanhood.

For instance, Tripti Dimri, an actress who has given layered performances in her Netflix projects like Qala (a psychological thriller exploring a child’s psychology on favouritism among siblings, survivor’s guilt, trauma, and flashbacks) and Bulbbul (a horror-fantasy critiquing child marriage, domestic violence, and sexual abuse), both female-centric dramas, rose to mass fame only after appearing in the hyper-commercialised Animal. There, she is reduced to a silent mistress or “Bhabhi 2” (as mockingly labelled in the film). That role, marked more by aesthetics than substance, turned her into a “national heartthrob” for the male audience, but it is telling that her artistic performances never gained the same traction or admiration.

Speaking of female-centric movies and shows, it is often in Indian society that series like Four More Shots Please! and films like Gangubai Kathiawadi are considered scandalous and frequently called out for setting a bad example for female audiences. Apparently, the story of a former prostitute who empowered several women by entering politics isn’t as empowering as Katrina Kaif in Chikni Chameli. The portrayal of queer relationships, casual intimacy, or women having multiple sexual partners is dismissed as “misguiding.” No one accepts the argument for “flawed characters” here.

Well, if that is considered problematic, why have we so immensely glamourised male-centric movies such as Arjun Reddy or Kabir Singh, which glorify substance abuse, verbal violence, physical violence, goon-like behaviour, and domestic abuse? Why is it that when the male lead slaps the female lead, it is softened with fun background music, turning abuse into a quirky joke? Or take Sanju, a film that whitewashes the life of a man who openly mistreated women, lied, indulged in heavy substance abuse, and slept with his best friend’s girlfriend. But of course, it is forgiven because, “Well, he’s a changed man now!”

So, the question remains.

Why is Indian society so quick to forgive a man’s sins but ruthless when a woman simply demands to be seen as human? Why are actresses sent death threats for portraying sexually liberated or morally complex characters while male actors receive standing ovations for playing abusive, broken men with zero accountability? As Anna MM Vetticad writes in her critique of the 2015 film Badlapur:

“A more troublesome, superfluous moment comes during the song-and-dance accompanying the closing credits, during which Huma Qureshi throws come-hither looks at (Varun) Dhawan, which is jarring since Raghu (Varun Dhawan’s character in the movie) had repeatedly raped her character.”

The bottom line is this. When will we produce storylines with female characters who actually contribute something to the plot other than sexual gasps, infant-like behaviour, or long body shots? Bollywood has conditioned generations of its audience into either laughing at women, treating them as punchlines, or lusting over them as if they are sex objects presented only for their satisfaction. It has glorified abuse, condemned female agency, and called it empowerment. These portrayals, repeated blockbuster after blockbuster, feed into a wider culture of entitlement and casual sexism among young male audiences who grow up thinking consent is negotiable and cleavage is comedic. If Kabir Singh is passion, Sanju is redemption, and Housefull is comedy, maybe it is not women who are confused, but the very definition of entertainment itself.

Lastly, I want you to visualise the women around you. Your mother, sister, the girl who tops the class, the doctor you visit regularly who makes you feel at ease, the friend who drew a portrait of you. Now try to convince yourself that none of them are more than their bodies. That their minds, dreams, talents, and identities don’t matter. Tell yourself you would rather see them turned into sex objects, stripped of agency, reduced to a laugh, a giggle, a punchline. Would you still find it funny then? Would that make for great comedy? And if it would not for them, why is it okay for the women on screen?

---