The 1970s remain one of the most transformative decades in the history of Indian cinema. While mainstream Hindi films were dominated by spectacle, star power, and formula-driven narratives, a quieter but far more radical movement was reshaping the very grammar of filmmaking. This was the era when Indian arthouse cinema, later termed Parallel Cinema, reached its artistic and ideological peak. These films rejected escapism in favor of realism, questioned entrenched social hierarchies, and explored the psychological and political undercurrents of a nation still grappling with its postcolonial identity. What emerged was not just a cinematic trend but a cultural movement that forever altered Indian storytelling on screen.
A major catalyst for this revolution was the establishment of the Film Finance Corporation (FFC), which provided financial backing to independent filmmakers who were uninterested in commercial compromises. Around the same time, the Film and Television Institute of India (FTII) in Pune began producing its first generation of formally trained filmmakers, including Mani Kaul, Kumar Shahani, and Adoor Gopalakrishnan. These directors brought with them influences from European modernism, Italian neorealism, and Indian folk traditions, creating a cinema that was intellectually rigorous, politically engaged, and aesthetically daring. Despite limited budgets and almost nonexistent distribution infrastructure, Parallel Cinema thrived in the 1970s, producing some of the most enduring works in Indian film history.
One of the defining films of this era is Bhumika (1977), directed by Shyam Benegal. Broadly based on the Marathi memoir Sangtye Aika by celebrated actress Hansa Wadkar, the film is a profound exploration of female identity, autonomy, and emotional confinement. Smita Patil delivers one of the finest performances of her career, portraying a woman who moves from youthful rebellion to a state of deep psychological exhaustion. Bhumika is not merely a biographical film; it is a meditation on how patriarchy operates subtly and relentlessly within both domestic and professional spaces. The film’s international festival journey and its multiple National Film Awards cemented its status as a cornerstone of feminist cinema in India.
Equally significant is Garm Hava (1973), directed by M. S. Sathyu, a film that dared to confront the lingering trauma of the Partition of India from the perspective of Muslims who chose to stay behind. Set in Agra, the film follows Salim Mirza, played with heartbreaking restraint by Balraj Sahni in his final role, as he watches his family slowly disintegrate under economic hardship and social alienation. Written by Kaifi Azmi and Shama Zaidi, based on a story by Ismat Chughtai, Garm Hava remains one of the most sensitive portrayals of post-Partition identity crises ever made. Its selection as India’s official entry to the Academy Awards and its recognition at Cannes signaled a new global visibility for Indian arthouse cinema.
The experimental edge of Parallel Cinema is exemplified by Duvidha (1973), directed by Mani Kaul. Based on a Rajasthani folk tale by Vijaydan Detha, the film transforms a simple ghost story into a poetic reflection on desire, repression, and marital patriarchy. Mani Kaul’s minimalist approach, characterized by long takes, sparse dialogue, and painterly compositions, challenged conventional narrative expectations. Duvidha’s influence extended far beyond its time, eventually inspiring the more mainstream remake Paheli decades later, but the original remains unmatched in its quiet emotional power and aesthetic purity.
In Malayalam cinema, Kodiyettam (1978) by Adoor Gopalakrishnan stands as a monumental achievement in psychological realism. The film traces the life of Shankaran Kutty, a seemingly aimless man whose gradual transformation into a responsible adult mirrors the subtle rhythms of rural life. What makes Kodiyettam extraordinary is its refusal to dramatize growth; instead, change unfolds organically through everyday experiences. Bharat Gopy’s performance, which earned him a National Film Award, is deeply internalized, and the absence of background music enhances the film’s raw authenticity. Kodiyettam is widely regarded as one of the founding pillars of the Malayalam New Wave.
Another understated gem of the decade is 27 Down (1974), directed by Awtar Krishna Kaul. Based on the novel Athara Sooraj Ke Paudhe, the film captures the fleeting connection between two strangers who meet on a train. The narrative unfolds with a sense of quiet melancholy, reflecting the emotional isolation of urban life. With music composed by classical legends Hariprasad Chaurasia and Bhubaneswar Mishra, and cinematography that won a National Award, 27 Down is a poignant reminder of how arthouse cinema could find profound meaning in the most ordinary encounters. Tragically, the film remains the only feature directed by Kaul, who died shortly after its release.
The Kannada film Ghatashraddha (1977), directed by Girish Kasaravalli, marked a turning point not just for the filmmaker but for Kannada cinema itself. Based on a novella by U. R. Ananthamurthy, the film examines the harsh treatment of a young widow within an orthodox Brahmin community. Through the innocent eyes of a child, the audience witnesses the cruelty of rigid social norms. The film’s stark honesty and moral clarity earned it multiple National Film Awards and international recognition, including selection by the National Archive of Paris. Ghatashraddha announced the arrival of Kannada cinema on the national arthouse stage with quiet authority.
In Tamil cinema, Agraharathil Kazhutai (1977), directed by John Abraham, remains one of the most radical films ever made in India. Inspired by Robert Bresson’s Au hasard Balthazar, the film uses the journey of a donkey through a Brahmin village as a biting allegory for caste oppression and social hypocrisy. Initially rejected and accused of offending religious sentiments, the film was largely ignored upon release. Over time, however, it attained cult status and is now recognized as a fearless act of political cinema. Its National Film Award win stands as a testament to its enduring relevance and courage.
Another Malayalam masterpiece from the decade is Thampu (1978), directed by G. Aravindan. Shot in black and white with a documentary-like sensibility, the film chronicles the arrival and departure of a traveling circus in a Kerala village. There is no conventional plot, only fleeting moments of joy, melancholy, and observation. Thampu blurs the line between fiction and reality, capturing the transient nature of both performance and life itself. The film’s restoration and screening at the Cannes Classics section decades later reaffirmed its global significance and timeless appeal.
Urban alienation and class anxiety take center stage in Arvind Desai Ki Ajeeb Dastaan (1978), directed by Saeed Akhtar Mirza. The film follows a privileged young man who drifts aimlessly through life, trapped between his capitalist upbringing and his ideological discomfort. With early performances by Om Puri and Rohini Hattangadi, the film is an unflinching critique of bourgeois emptiness and moral inertia. Its ending, understated yet devastating, reflects the existential despair that defined much of Parallel Cinema’s engagement with urban India.
The decade concludes with the haunting Bengali film Neem Annapurna (1979), directed by Buddhadeb Dasgupta. Translated as Bitter Morsel, the film offers a harrowing portrayal of rural-to-urban migration and the psychological toll of extreme poverty. Set in the slums of Calcutta, the narrative follows a family pushed to moral collapse by hunger and deprivation. The film’s climax, involving an act of desperation that leads to irreversible guilt, is among the most powerful in Indian cinema. Often compared to the neorealism of Satyajit Ray’s Pather Panchali, Neem Annapurna stands as a brutal indictment of systemic neglect and social apathy.
Despite their artistic brilliance, these films faced immense challenges in reaching audiences. The lack of dedicated art-house theaters and limited distribution networks meant that many of these works were seen only at film festivals or university screenings. Television in the 1980s helped bridge this gap to some extent, but by then, the momentum of Parallel Cinema had begun to wane. Nevertheless, the impact of these films cannot be overstated. They reshaped narrative conventions, expanded thematic horizons, and introduced a generation of filmmakers who believed cinema could be a tool for social reflection rather than mere entertainment.
The legacy of Indian arthouse cinema in the 1970s lies in its courage to disrupt norms and question power structures. These films were deeply rooted in their regional contexts yet universally resonant in their concerns. They blended indigenous storytelling traditions with global cinematic influences, creating a body of work that was syncretic, modernist, and profoundly postcolonial. For contemporary audiences seeking cinema with depth, integrity, and relevance, these films remain essential viewing. More than historical artifacts, they are living texts that continue to speak to the anxieties, hopes, and contradictions of Indian society.
In revisiting these ten films, one is reminded that cinema, at its best, is not just about telling stories but about asking difficult questions. The arthouse filmmakers of the 1970s dared to do exactly that, leaving behind a legacy that still challenges, inspires, and enlightens.