'Victoria' Movie Review: Meenakshi Jayan's Rock-Solid Performance Anchors This Moving Sisterhood Drama 

In Sivaranjani’s Victoria, the most striking moment has more to do with a sound, rather than visuals. It feels like just another day at Victoria’s (Meenakshi Jayan) beauty salon when we hear this, as she waxes the arms of a customer. Until then, we see Victoria maintaining a happy face through it all, as she tries to manage the crowd at the salon with the worries of having to elope with her non-committal boyfriend. But each time Victoria tugs at a waxing strip in her hurry to remove them, the sound we hear is that of slaps falling on Victoria, along with the voice of a man shouting. Until that moment, we see bruises on her face, but the film doesn’t quite explain their origin. And with the sound of each waxing strip getting pulled, we listen in on the taunts being hurled at Victoria for her decision to marry outside of her religion. For women like her, the salon is therapy.

It’s a peculiar point during this very peculiar movie. We meet Victoria as she tries to manage what’s extremely personal with what’s professional. A board which hangs outside her salon reads, 'No Entry For Men'. This board is what gives the salon the mood of a sanctuary for several women like Victoria. So, when Victoria is asked to look after her friend’s rooster, it’s perhaps the only male that has been allowed into the salon in years. 

Apparently, the 'No Entry For Men' sign at the door isn’t limited to the salon either. It’s how Sivaranjini has chosen to make her film, too, without the visual presence of any man. Not that their presence is not felt.  We get to see these men in the form of shadows, as the display image on a video call, and through the many stories that are being narrated by these women. For one of them, this salon is her escape from her dying father-in-law, stuck in the ICU at the hospital next door. As for Victoria, she appears to be pleasant and calm as she speaks to her customers, but each time she steals a moment for herself as she runs to the toilet, her facade is broken and she breaks down in what appears to be the only space she believes is her own.

Yet this very notion of privacy is what Sivaranjini aims to break with her film. Through the compassion of her film, she asks Victoria why she needs to hide her tears from the sisterhood of the salon. It underlines the need for these everyday bonds and a friendship that makes life a little bit easier. And the choice to narrate this story by setting it at a salon isn’t by accident either. If men have their barber shops to discuss matters of international importance and politics, Victoria urges us to look at such women-only spaces as a refuge for their hearts, just like the barber shop becomes a place for the head.

We feel this sincerity is just how quickly strangers turn into friends at this place. In one moment, we see a lady walking to a salon for the first time in her life, as she prepares to leave the country for the first time. In the very next moment, we listen to Victoria coach this lady about the inconvenience of the saree and the practical ease of switching to a salwar. Victoria even goes a step further by not only administering this advice, but also offering to take her to a shop to make this maiden purchase. It’s just that simple to find a buddy, and that’s what Victoria tries to tell us too.

So, the feeling is that of catharsis more than joy when an old friend visits Victoria after decades. Their affection is obvious in the way they both eat off of the same tiffin box, even if their reunion appears formal and distant until then. And when the salon clears itself out, leaving Victoria alone with her friend, she feels comfortable enough to break down along with her. She doesn’t feel the need to run to her washroom, at least not anymore. And when Victoria lets her old friend back into her life, after what feels like eternity, the 'No Men Allowed' signboard reappears in our thoughts, asking women like Victoria if they, too, should subscribe to the same philosophy.

It’s a moving drama, peppered with humour in a way that feels so organic to their space. More than the sleaze of locker room talks, we get the tenderness of teenage love as another customer narrates the story of an old, handsome neighbour and the occasions in which she would run with her younger sister to ogle at her pre-pubescent crush. In terms of a reference, I was reminded of certain passages from the 2007 Lebanese comedy Caramel (Sukkar banat) about a similar sisterhood that blooms in a space reserved for women alone.

Held together by Meenakshi Jayan’s rock-solid performance — including a dimly lit breakdown between her and the man on her phone — we’re let in expertly into a secret passageway through which feminism becomes a caressing whisper, rather than a loud wail.