Malayalam Actress Name Biography
Source (google.com.pk)
Malayalam cinema actress by name might have forgotten its very first heroine P K Rosy, but plans are in place to revive her memories and honour her work by instating a film award sponsored by the government in her name.
At the muhurth of Celluloid that revolves around Mollywood's first director J C Daniel, Chief Minister Oommen Chandy said, "I have received a request to honour Malayalam film's first actress Rosy by instating a film award and I am pleased to announce that the state government is all for it." This is a positive change that has resulted out of Kamal's new venture, Celluloid, which sheds light on the first Malayalam film Vigathakumaran and its cast and crew.
The flick stars Prithviraj as Daniel, Mamta Pregith as his wife Janet, and newcomer Chandini, who was spotted in a reality music show by Kamal's wife, as Rosy. The director, who did research for four years on the film, said that not much is known about Rosy, who was a dalit woman from Trivandrum. "We couldn't find a photograph of her and though a snap had surfaced claiming that it was hers, no one was sure. Also, all prints of the film were destroyed. Because we didn't know how she looked, I wanted a new face to play her role," says Kamal.
These distortions may be truer at a deeper level because they reveal and hide our own cultural schizophrenia. Our films enthral and exasperate us. The enthralment comes from the desire to see ourselves as we want to be and the exasperation arises precisely because desire outstrips achievement. We have taken a western invention that's hugely dependent on fast-changing technology and made it our own as we have with cricket and the English language. We pour our artistic aspirations into a hybrid form and expect this mutant to validate the rightness of our cultural expression and collective choices. In short, we demand that our films endorse the A to Z of existence—from the screen idols we worship, to the songs we hum, to our reading of history, the way we fall in love and mourn our dead, our family values and the leaders we elect. Perhaps no other cinema in the world has so many extra-cinematic demands made on it. Hollywood invented genres and rolled them off the studio-belt with assembly-line efficiency to be marketed at home and abroad as unofficial carriers of the American Dream.
We quickly coalesced our nascent genres—the first mythologicals and musical fantasies—into an all-in-one genre from which each viewer takes according to his need and capacity, giving a neat Marxist twist to aesthetic enjoyment. As any film enthusiast will tell you, our films (I mean all our mainstream films though Hindi does stamp its hegemony as the All-India Film) are an organic outgrowth of our rasa-invoking classical theatre, Puranic and folkloric tales, the declamatory rhetoric of Parsi theatre (itself based on the Victorian proscenium stage) enlivened by the robustness of nautanki. The overarching principle is our musical heritage that has a raga for every time of the day and season, and folk music that has a song for every occasion. Such all-inclusiveness allows the coexistence of high and low art, the sublime despair of the unsung poet and the vacuous comedy of a Johnny Walker in the same film. Pyaasa has gone on to become a classic, a true indicator of the Indian temperament. Our later predilection for action and repudiation of the self-destructive Devdasian hero is not irreversible. Let Shahrukh Khan rein in his frenetic energy to give a new interpretation to the passive hero and Devdas may come back into fashion.
Look at what Aamir Khan did to the dhoti-clad nationalist in an age of a global market where product endorsement is part of the sleek urbanised hero's persona, flaunting designer labels with the panache of a cricketer displaying logos on every conceivable part of his clothes and gear.
Hoarding of a Chiranjeevi film in Kannada/ photograph by Satish Kumar
A country torn by so many divisions—linguistic, religious, ethnic, economic—is united by two passions. Cinema and cricket. When Aamir Khan audaciously combines both these passions with such brave simplicity, the resulting Lagaan doesn't tax our willingness to suspend disbelief or find objective correlatives for this uplifting validation of our national identity, the euphoria of beating the White Man at his own game. Our response to Lagaan holds the key to what films mean to us. Entertainment plus an uplifting moral, making us feel good. About ourselves, our life and the inevitability of ultimate success if we work hard enough—and the gods decide to be kind.
This belief is underlined by our hopeless addiction to verbal pyrotechnics in a medium where the visual is supposed to be the primary means of expression. Whether it is Sivaji Ganesan's full-throated perorations or N.T. Rama Rao's torrent of sanskritised Telugu flowing like a river in full spate or, most famously, Amitabh's deep baritone whiplashing you with anger one moment and caressing you with poetry the next, the Indian demands "actorly" acting of the spoken kind. Dilip Kumar's measured pause, allied to the deliberated gesture or the pregnant silences of Ghatashradha in the womb-like shadows of an old house, offer a richer meaning than the rhetorical unleashing of familiar phrases. But they have fewer followers. How often do you mentally tell the hero to hurry up now that his gun is aimed at the unarmed villain and not waste time—ours and his—as he lacerates the baddie with words that promise poetic justice. The film could be in any language but the scene is virtually written along the same lines.
Rosy's life-changing journey
Acting in a film couldn't have been more life-changing than it was for Malayalam cinema's first actress P K Rosy. The actress had to face the ire of society for taking such a bold step in 1928, when acting in a movie by a woman was taboo. The actress was not even allowed to see her own work when it was exhibited in Capital Theatres in Trivandrum as the top tier of society was angered that a Dalit woman could portray a Nair lady onscreen. She had to run away from her village after her house was set on fire. The last that was heard of her was that the outrage forced her to flee from Kerala to Tamil Nadu in a lorry; later, it is said, she married its driver. Noted film historian Chelangatt Gopalakrishnan, in his biography of J C Daniel, states that Rosy may have lived in Tiruchirappalli or Nagercoil.
Malayalam Actress Name Malayalam Actress Hot Photos Without Makeup Hot Navel In Sareee Meera Jasmine Hot Shobana Hot Anumol
Malayalam Actress Name Malayalam Actress Hot Photos Without Makeup Hot Navel In Sareee Meera Jasmine Hot Shobana Hot Anumol
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Malayalam Actress Name Malayalam Actress Hot Photos Without Makeup Hot Navel In Sareee Meera Jasmine Hot Shobana Hot Anumol
Malayalam Actress Name Malayalam Actress Hot Photos Without Makeup Hot Navel In Sareee Meera Jasmine Hot Shobana Hot Anumol
Malayalam Actress Name Malayalam Actress Hot Photos Without Makeup Hot Navel In Sareee Meera Jasmine Hot Shobana Hot Anumol
Malayalam Actress Name Malayalam Actress Hot Photos Without Makeup Hot Navel In Sareee Meera Jasmine Hot Shobana Hot Anumol
Malayalam Actress Name Malayalam Actress Hot Photos Without Makeup Hot Navel In Sareee Meera Jasmine Hot Shobana Hot Anumol
Malayalam Actress Name Malayalam Actress Hot Photos Without Makeup Hot Navel In Sareee Meera Jasmine Hot Shobana Hot Anumol
Malayalam Actress Name Malayalam Actress Hot Photos Without Makeup Hot Navel In Sareee Meera Jasmine Hot Shobana Hot Anumol
Malayalam Actress Name Malayalam Actress Hot Photos Without Makeup Hot Navel In Sareee Meera Jasmine Hot Shobana Hot Anumol
Malayalam Actress Name Malayalam Actress Hot Photos Without Makeup Hot Navel In Sareee Meera Jasmine Hot Shobana Hot Anumol
At the muhurth of Celluloid that revolves around Mollywood's first director J C Daniel, Chief Minister Oommen Chandy said, "I have received a request to honour Malayalam film's first actress Rosy by instating a film award and I am pleased to announce that the state government is all for it." This is a positive change that has resulted out of Kamal's new venture, Celluloid, which sheds light on the first Malayalam film Vigathakumaran and its cast and crew.
The flick stars Prithviraj as Daniel, Mamta Pregith as his wife Janet, and newcomer Chandini, who was spotted in a reality music show by Kamal's wife, as Rosy. The director, who did research for four years on the film, said that not much is known about Rosy, who was a dalit woman from Trivandrum. "We couldn't find a photograph of her and though a snap had surfaced claiming that it was hers, no one was sure. Also, all prints of the film were destroyed. Because we didn't know how she looked, I wanted a new face to play her role," says Kamal.
These distortions may be truer at a deeper level because they reveal and hide our own cultural schizophrenia. Our films enthral and exasperate us. The enthralment comes from the desire to see ourselves as we want to be and the exasperation arises precisely because desire outstrips achievement. We have taken a western invention that's hugely dependent on fast-changing technology and made it our own as we have with cricket and the English language. We pour our artistic aspirations into a hybrid form and expect this mutant to validate the rightness of our cultural expression and collective choices. In short, we demand that our films endorse the A to Z of existence—from the screen idols we worship, to the songs we hum, to our reading of history, the way we fall in love and mourn our dead, our family values and the leaders we elect. Perhaps no other cinema in the world has so many extra-cinematic demands made on it. Hollywood invented genres and rolled them off the studio-belt with assembly-line efficiency to be marketed at home and abroad as unofficial carriers of the American Dream.
We quickly coalesced our nascent genres—the first mythologicals and musical fantasies—into an all-in-one genre from which each viewer takes according to his need and capacity, giving a neat Marxist twist to aesthetic enjoyment. As any film enthusiast will tell you, our films (I mean all our mainstream films though Hindi does stamp its hegemony as the All-India Film) are an organic outgrowth of our rasa-invoking classical theatre, Puranic and folkloric tales, the declamatory rhetoric of Parsi theatre (itself based on the Victorian proscenium stage) enlivened by the robustness of nautanki. The overarching principle is our musical heritage that has a raga for every time of the day and season, and folk music that has a song for every occasion. Such all-inclusiveness allows the coexistence of high and low art, the sublime despair of the unsung poet and the vacuous comedy of a Johnny Walker in the same film. Pyaasa has gone on to become a classic, a true indicator of the Indian temperament. Our later predilection for action and repudiation of the self-destructive Devdasian hero is not irreversible. Let Shahrukh Khan rein in his frenetic energy to give a new interpretation to the passive hero and Devdas may come back into fashion.
Look at what Aamir Khan did to the dhoti-clad nationalist in an age of a global market where product endorsement is part of the sleek urbanised hero's persona, flaunting designer labels with the panache of a cricketer displaying logos on every conceivable part of his clothes and gear.
Hoarding of a Chiranjeevi film in Kannada/ photograph by Satish Kumar
A country torn by so many divisions—linguistic, religious, ethnic, economic—is united by two passions. Cinema and cricket. When Aamir Khan audaciously combines both these passions with such brave simplicity, the resulting Lagaan doesn't tax our willingness to suspend disbelief or find objective correlatives for this uplifting validation of our national identity, the euphoria of beating the White Man at his own game. Our response to Lagaan holds the key to what films mean to us. Entertainment plus an uplifting moral, making us feel good. About ourselves, our life and the inevitability of ultimate success if we work hard enough—and the gods decide to be kind.
This belief is underlined by our hopeless addiction to verbal pyrotechnics in a medium where the visual is supposed to be the primary means of expression. Whether it is Sivaji Ganesan's full-throated perorations or N.T. Rama Rao's torrent of sanskritised Telugu flowing like a river in full spate or, most famously, Amitabh's deep baritone whiplashing you with anger one moment and caressing you with poetry the next, the Indian demands "actorly" acting of the spoken kind. Dilip Kumar's measured pause, allied to the deliberated gesture or the pregnant silences of Ghatashradha in the womb-like shadows of an old house, offer a richer meaning than the rhetorical unleashing of familiar phrases. But they have fewer followers. How often do you mentally tell the hero to hurry up now that his gun is aimed at the unarmed villain and not waste time—ours and his—as he lacerates the baddie with words that promise poetic justice. The film could be in any language but the scene is virtually written along the same lines.
Rosy's life-changing journey
Acting in a film couldn't have been more life-changing than it was for Malayalam cinema's first actress P K Rosy. The actress had to face the ire of society for taking such a bold step in 1928, when acting in a movie by a woman was taboo. The actress was not even allowed to see her own work when it was exhibited in Capital Theatres in Trivandrum as the top tier of society was angered that a Dalit woman could portray a Nair lady onscreen. She had to run away from her village after her house was set on fire. The last that was heard of her was that the outrage forced her to flee from Kerala to Tamil Nadu in a lorry; later, it is said, she married its driver. Noted film historian Chelangatt Gopalakrishnan, in his biography of J C Daniel, states that Rosy may have lived in Tiruchirappalli or Nagercoil.
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