'Girls Will Be Girls' and the Messiness of Growing Up

When asked about my favourite film genre, I always find it difficult to answer. It might sound pretentious when I say I enjoy all genres, but the truth is that I’m far more interested in what a film has to say and how it says it than the label it falls under. I especially appreciate when films that seem culturally distant from me make me feel seen and allow me to relate to them.

Girls Will Be Girls (2024) is the story of an Indian teenager navigating her first love and first steps into adulthood, balancing school pressures, social expectations, family demands, and her innermost desires. Yes, she lives in a society that’s different from mine. Yes, a girl’s adolescence isn’t the same as a boy’s. But I too was once a student who felt the pressure to be perfect, and I too went through a rebellious phase of screaming to the world that maybe I didn’t want to be perfect. Sometimes, it’s enough just to be ourselves, discovering the world around us and who we are.

The greatest strength of Girls Will Be Girls is that it’s a universal story that also feels deeply specific. It’s clear that these are lived experiences, whether firsthand or observed, and the film doesn’t limit itself to one theme. When the teenage romance between Mira (Preeti Panigrahi) and Srinivas (Kesav Kiron) disrupts Mira’s family dynamics, the story touches on motherhood, patriarchy, and the unspoken hierarchies that still dominate so many relationships today. Mira’s mother, Anila, is fiercely protective. She fears how a relationship might derail her daughter’s academic future, worries about how others will perceive her, and projects onto Mira the dreams she once had for herself. Through glimpses of Anila’s own marriage, we see how gendered roles are accepted as natural, even as her smile betrays a quiet resignation.

Kani Kusruti, who plays Anila, delivers a masterful performance – hardened yet vulnerable, stern but softening when given attention. She’s a woman still learning, still making mistakes, but never stopping in her attempts to shield her daughter, even when her methods falter. As for Srinivas, his charm is deliberate, his actions are layered with ambiguity. By the film’s end, you’re left questioning his sincerity – was he genuinely caring, or expertly manipulative? But make no mistake: the star is Preeti Panigrahi, who in her debut role as Mira, captures every subtle shift in emotion with remarkable precision, embodying the confusion, desire, and defiance of adolescence without needing to spell it out.

With three actors shining so brightly, credit must go to their director. This is Suchi Talati’s long feature debut as a writer and director, which makes it even more impressive. One brilliantly staged scene shows Mira and Srinivas dancing in the kitchen, only for Anila to join in – first as an equal, then almost sidelining Mira. So much is said without words: Anila’s hunger for validation, her need to remind Mira she’s still young, Mira’s dawning jealousy. The scene alone could fuel frame-by-frame studies of blocking, expressions, and camera placement.

Talati (who also wrote the script) demonstrates this visual intelligence throughout. When mother and daughter talk, the camera sits at the back of the room, static, as if spying on real family dynamics. But for tense moments, she switches to tight close-ups, amplifying the emotion. When Anila speaks to Srinivas, the focus often stays on Mira, placing us in her shoes, helping us remember how we once felt as teenagers. Talati’s use of silence and natural sounds also stands out, grounding the story in realism.

Despite its many layers, Girls Will Be Girls still finds time to dissect gender dynamics between boys and girls, as well as within the same sex (because let’s face it, meanness is part of adolescence too). When Mira rejects a boy’s advances, he makes it his mission to punish her, treating her choice as a personal insult. This culminates in a chilling scene where a mob chases her. Even Mira and Srinivas’ relationship is fraught with power imbalances. The script doesn’t hide that what’s a journey of discovery for Mira is nothing new for Srinivas. His early sexual advances – whether at Mira’s home or outdoors – are always his idea. He doesn’t ask for consent before escalating physically, only checking on Mira’s feelings afterwards. Did he really care, or was that just his tactic?

Later, Mira initiates penetration, but it feels like she’s doing it because she thinks she should. Was she influenced to get there? Srinivas’s true nature becomes glaring in a quiet yet symbolic scene near the end, where Mira questions him about something he said before: “People also have keys,” he replies. “It’s about understanding what people really want.” Suddenly, everything clicks. His conversations with Anila, and his “patient” demeanour with Mira, all in self-service?

By the end, what lingers is this: We’re all flawed, complex beings. We trust the wrong people and hurt the right ones, as we stumble through life without an instruction manual or script. The emotional final scene between Mira and Anila is peaceful yet very powerful – a silent understanding that love persists even when mistakes pile up. Life is confusing. No one has all the answers. All we can do is live, discover, try, fail and try again, over and over.

-Pedro