Mrs. Review: A Woman Watches, A Woman Knows

There is something about Mrs. that feels distinctly different from The Great Indian Kitchen, and it is not merely the softened blow of criticism. It is the way Arati Kadav directs the film—from a perspective that does not adopt the cold, detached gaze of clinical observation but instead embraces an innate understanding of its subject. While Jeo Baby’s The Great Indian Kitchen documents suffocation in its raw, almost clinical study of domestic horrors, Mrs. tells a story that breathes life through its protagonist. The difference lies not only in execution but also in perspective: a woman watches differently, and a woman knows. Our review of Mrs. explores the similarities and differences from its source material.

From the very first scene, Kadav ensures that Richa (Sanya Malhotra) is not simply observed but truly seen. The camera lingers not on the repetitive tasks she performs but on the burden they impose. It captures the subtle shifts in her body language—the hesitant pause before entering a room, the way her shoulders tense at the expectation to serve, and the fleeting expression of disappointment when she recognizes that she has married a man who understands uteruses but not women.

The film does not need to shout to convey her exhaustion; it allows the viewer to watch long enough to feel the weight of her daily struggles.

Kadav deepens this exploration by making Richa’s husband a gynecologist—a detail that heightens the irony of male expertise. He possesses intimate knowledge of a woman’s body in ways she never experienced herself, yet he remains oblivious to the silent pain she endures. His father (Kanwaljit Singh) embodies an even more insidious element of patriarchy: a figure who does not express anger or challenge the status quo but exists as a quiet, smiling force that perpetuates an unchanging system. Surrounding Richa are other women—her mother-in-law, her aunt, and even her own mother—who reinforce the cycle of expectation without questioning the established order.

One of the film’s most striking features is its portrayal of the isolation of being a woman in a household that is not truly her own. The framing of shots consistently positions Richa at the margins: she is seen watching from doorways, standing in corridors, existing in spaces that never fully embrace her presence. The kitchen, the bedroom, and the dining table—while central to the domestic sphere—are not truly hers, even as they demand her constant presence. The home becomes an environment that consumes her energy and spirit but never offers genuine welcome, transforming into a silent battleground where her existence is dictated by the expectations of others.

Yet, Mrs. does not confine Richa to the role of a passive victim. In contrast to the relentless drudgery depicted in The Great Indian Kitchen, Kadav gifts her character with moments of silent rebellion, pauses of introspection, and flashes of realization.

Her resistance is subtle—slow-burning rather than explosive. Richa does not shatter dishes in a fit of rage or launch into overt monologues about injustice. Instead, her defiance is woven into the quiet fabric of her daily life: in the moments when she hesitates before rising to serve, in the times she questions decisions made on her behalf, and in the fleeting instants when she dares to imagine a world beyond the confines of her prescribed role.

This nuanced portrayal of resistance distinguishes Mrs. from its predecessor. While The Great Indian Kitchen presents a ceaseless depiction of oppression, Kadav allows for small, personal acts of agency that build over time. These understated moments carry the immense weight of a woman beginning to reclaim her identity. Sanya Malhotra delivers a performance marked by an unspoken fury—a simmering intensity that never explodes but steadily permeates every scene. Her portrayal of Richa is not that of a martyr; she is a woman who once believed she would be understood, only to confront the reality of a home that views her as nothing more than a cog in its machine. Her talent for conveying deep emotion through restrained gestures—a tight-lipped smile, a deliberate refusal to lower her gaze, a moment of pause before conforming—renders Richa’s journey both compelling and painfully relatable.

The film’s technical aspects, particularly its cinematography and sound design, are integral to reinforcing its themes. Kadav’s careful use of space and framing consistently underscores Richa’s confinement. Even during moments that suggest togetherness, the camera often positions her at the periphery, slightly out of focus, as if her presence is acknowledged yet never fully integrated. In this way, the house itself emerges as a character—oppressive, indifferent, and unyielding. The soundscape of Mrs. further enhances this atmosphere, with the subtle rustle of fabric, the delicate clink of utensils, and the muted murmur of conversations—details that contribute to an immersive experience and make the viewer keenly aware of her isolation.

A particularly poignant aspect of Mrs. is its exploration of how patriarchy is maintained not solely by men but also by the women molded by it. Richa’s mother-in-law, her own mother, and other female figures do not challenge the established order; they reinforce it, insisting on endurance over rebellion. This portrayal is one of the film’s most powerful truths: patriarchy is not always imposed through overt violence or strict rules but often through the subtle, everyday expectations that confine women to narrowly defined roles, as seen in discussions about domestic violence.

Nevertheless, what makes Mrs. truly resonate is its refusal to strip Richa of hope. While the film acknowledges the heavy toll of domestic oppression, it also recognizes that even the smallest acts of resistance can be significant. The gradual evolution of Richa’s awareness is depicted with a deliberate pace that allows the audience to share in her frustration and anticipation. By the time she begins to assert control over her narrative, the transformation feels like the natural culmination of every moment of quiet defiance that preceded it. Unlike The Great Indian Kitchen, which leaves its protagonist’s fate ambiguous, Mrs. offers a more defined arc of self-realization. Kadav does not propose a neatly packaged solution; rather, he presents a vision of change that emerges slowly, nurtured by the accumulation of small, decisive acts of resistance.

The film also serves as an underlying commentary on the modern institution of marriage. Richa is not confined by overt physical or verbal abuse; she is ensnared by the unspoken rules that dictate what it means to be a wife. Her husband, though not a tyrant in the conventional sense, is marked by a profound indifference—a blindness to the gradual erosion of his wife’s individuality. In this way, Mrs. poses a simple yet powerful question: What does it truly mean to be a wife, and at what cost does a woman sacrifice her identity to fulfill that role?

Arati Kadav’s Mrs. may not be as visually or emotionally brutal as The Great Indian Kitchen, but it is equally perceptive. It understands that the worst aspects of patriarchy are not always found in explicit acts of control but in the quiet, insidious reinforcement of roles and expectations. The film captures the exhaustion inherent in trying to explain one’s worth in a society that takes it for granted. It portrays the loneliness of being the only one who sees the problem, and it depicts the gradual, almost imperceptible breaking of a spirit—not through dramatic outbursts but through the persistent weight of unfulfilled potential.

Kadav’s direction, with its emphasis on visual storytelling and nuanced character study, challenges the audience to look beyond the surface. By centering the narrative on Richa’s internal experience, the film avoids sensationalism and instead offers a deeply personal exploration of what it means to be a woman constrained by societal expectations. Every carefully composed shot and measured sound design element works in tandem to immerse the viewer in her reality—a reality where oppression is as much about internal resignation as it is about external control. For a broader context, one might consider the evolution of Indian cinema and its narratives.

The layered portrayal of familial relationships in Mrs. further enriches its narrative. The film presents a microcosm of society in which generational expectations and gender roles are passed down almost as an unspoken inheritance. Richa’s interactions with the older women in her life reveal a continuity of suppression—a cycle that persists because it is normalized. Yet, it is precisely this normalization that makes her eventual small acts of defiance so revolutionary. Each moment when she chooses to hesitate or question becomes a subtle rupture in the cycle, a silent but significant crack in the foundation of an oppressive system, echoing themes found in studies of household labor.

In the end, Mrs. is a film that speaks softly yet carries the profound impact of lived experience. It captures the essence of what it means to exist on the margins of a system that values conformity over individuality, while also highlighting the extraordinary power found in the most unassuming moments of defiance. Through its careful attention to detail, its restrained yet powerful performances, and its masterful use of cinematic language, the film invites us to acknowledge that true understanding often comes not through loud proclamations, but through the quiet, persistent determination to be seen and to be heard.

By challenging the viewer to look beyond the visible, Kadav’s Mrs. transforms a story of domestic duty into one of personal liberation. It reminds us that every woman’s gaze carries the weight of experience—a gaze that not only observes the world but also comprehends its intricate injustices. And in that understanding lies the power to initiate change, one small, deliberate act at a time. Ultimately, the film stands as a tribute to the resilient spirit of women everywhere, affirming that when a woman watches, she truly knows, and in that knowledge, there is both sorrow and hope.