A reflection on how gangster films romanticise a ‘coolie’ mindset for young Malaysian Indians
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By KT Maran
I HAVE been reflecting on the massive global success of the Tamil movie “Coolie” starring Rajinikanth which has raked in over 230 crore rupees worldwide, a testament to the immense support and inspiration it has drawn from the Indian diaspora.
This blockbuster action thriller follows a former union leader, Deva (Rajinikanth), who seeks justice after the sudden death of his friend. In the process, he confronts a powerful gangster and his ruthless crew.
This phenomenal success makes me wonder: does the deep resonance of such stories point to deeper, unresolved issues within our community?
For the Malaysian Indian community, particularly those of Tamil origin, cinema is more than entertainment; it’s a vital cultural lifeline to Tamil Nadu.
Among the many genres from Kollywood, few are as enduring as the glorification of the “rowdy” or gangster figure. These characters, who rise from poverty and oppression through sheer force and bravado, are often celebrated as heroes.
Yet, when we hold these narratives against the stark reality of many Malaysian Indians—marked by socio-economic hardship, educational disadvantages, and systemic marginalisation—their popularity raises troubling questions.
Why do these stories resonate so powerfully, and what are the real-world consequences of embracing them?
These films often centre on the archetype of the outsider-hero: a man born into poverty, despised by the elite, who rises through defiance and aggression. He is portrayed as both a protector of the oppressed and an avenger against a corrupt system.
For Malaysian Indian youth, who often feel excluded from mainstream avenues of success, this figure offers a potent form of vicarious empowerment.
Watching a character on screen humiliate a corrupt politician or a wealthy antagonist speaks directly to the frustrations of those who feel powerless in their own lives.
Furthermore, these movies often equate masculinity with dominance and fearlessness.
In communities where structural barriers limit access to stable jobs and education, the ability to command respect—whether through charisma or violence—becomes a seductive form of validation. The gangster hero embodies a fantasy of recognition that feels unattainable in real life.
For many, Tamil cinema is a crucial escape from hardship. Films that dramatise struggle and ultimate triumph allow viewers to momentarily transcend their difficult circumstances. The rowdy character becomes a mirror for their pain and a projection of their aspirations.
However, this escapism is not without cost. Unlike aspirational stories about doctors, scientists, or entrepreneurs, the gangster narrative can normalise violence and rebellion as viable pathways to dignity.
When consumed uncritically, these films can blur the line between fantasy and reality, and have dangerous side effects especially for impressionable young viewers. Rather than providing tools to overcome systemic barriers, it can reinforce a culture of rebellion without a strategy and resistance without progress.
This blockbuster action thriller follows a former union leader, Deva (Rajinikanth), who seeks justice after the sudden death of his friend. In the process, he confronts a powerful gangster and his ruthless crew.
This phenomenal success makes me wonder: does the deep resonance of such stories point to deeper, unresolved issues within our community?
For the Malaysian Indian community, particularly those of Tamil origin, cinema is more than entertainment; it’s a vital cultural lifeline to Tamil Nadu.
Among the many genres from Kollywood, few are as enduring as the glorification of the “rowdy” or gangster figure. These characters, who rise from poverty and oppression through sheer force and bravado, are often celebrated as heroes.
Yet, when we hold these narratives against the stark reality of many Malaysian Indians—marked by socio-economic hardship, educational disadvantages, and systemic marginalisation—their popularity raises troubling questions.
Why do these stories resonate so powerfully, and what are the real-world consequences of embracing them?
These films often centre on the archetype of the outsider-hero: a man born into poverty, despised by the elite, who rises through defiance and aggression. He is portrayed as both a protector of the oppressed and an avenger against a corrupt system.
For Malaysian Indian youth, who often feel excluded from mainstream avenues of success, this figure offers a potent form of vicarious empowerment.
Watching a character on screen humiliate a corrupt politician or a wealthy antagonist speaks directly to the frustrations of those who feel powerless in their own lives.
Furthermore, these movies often equate masculinity with dominance and fearlessness.
In communities where structural barriers limit access to stable jobs and education, the ability to command respect—whether through charisma or violence—becomes a seductive form of validation. The gangster hero embodies a fantasy of recognition that feels unattainable in real life.
For many, Tamil cinema is a crucial escape from hardship. Films that dramatise struggle and ultimate triumph allow viewers to momentarily transcend their difficult circumstances. The rowdy character becomes a mirror for their pain and a projection of their aspirations.
However, this escapism is not without cost. Unlike aspirational stories about doctors, scientists, or entrepreneurs, the gangster narrative can normalise violence and rebellion as viable pathways to dignity.
When consumed uncritically, these films can blur the line between fantasy and reality, and have dangerous side effects especially for impressionable young viewers. Rather than providing tools to overcome systemic barriers, it can reinforce a culture of rebellion without a strategy and resistance without progress.
(Image: Pexels/Amateur Hub)
This can entrap an already beleaguered community in cycles of self-destruction: real-life gangsterism, school dropouts, and incarceration.
The influence is not abstract; it’s visible on our streets. Secret societies with predominantly Indian membership—Gang 04, Gang 08, Gang 24, and others—have long been associated with violent crime.
Police records and media reports show these gangs often recruit young Indian males, particularly school dropouts.
Their symbols, nicknames, and rituals frequently mimic those glamorised in Tamil cinema, from stylised hand gestures to nicknames borrowed from film heroes and villains.
There is a tragic irony here: what begins as cinematic escapism can manifest as lived criminality. Young people imitate screen heroes only to end up incarcerated, further entrenching the cycle of marginalisation.
A deeper issue is the vacuum of alternative narratives. The Malaysian Indian community is full of inspiring true stories—entrepreneurs, educators, and activists who have thrived despite obstacles.
But these stories rarely reach the mainstream screen with the same glamour and spectacle as a gangster film. A story about education and resilience may be uplifting, but it’s often seen as lacking the box-office pull of a stylised fight scene or a heroic dance number.
Consequently, young viewers are fed a steady diet of “masala rebellion” rather than aspirational achievement. Without compelling positive models, many internalise the gangster hero as the only accessible form of success and respect.
The profound irony is that a community fighting for survival and dignity sometimes celebrates the very traits—violence, rebellion, lawlessness—that perpetuate its struggles in real life.
In schools, high dropout rates and disciplinary issues are sometimes framed within a language of “rowdy” pride. On the streets, gangs inspired by this media prey on the very community they claim to represent.
The over-representation of Indians in our prisons is a grim reflection of how fantasy has bled into reality.
While these films may offer temporary emotional relief, they produce no tangible benefits for the community.
Instead, they risk reinforcing harmful stereotypes, both within and outside the community, that Indians are naturally inclined toward disorder.
The challenge is not to ban these films—they are part of Tamil cinema’s fabric—but to balance them with constructive narratives that are equally compelling.
We need media literacy to help youth critically appreciate film as drama, not a blueprint for life.
Most importantly, we need our own filmmakers to create powerful stories that celebrate local heroes: the Tamil Malaysian scientist, lawyer, teacher, or entrepreneur who rises through wit, perseverance, and creativity.
The way forward isn’t to reject Tamil cinema, but to champion a broader range of stories. Only then can the silver screen become a source of true empowerment, reflecting not just our struggles, but our immense potential for resilience and success.
It’s time for our local directors and producers to rise to the occasion and create excellent films that truly soothe and uplift the souls of Malaysian Indians. ‒ Aug 25, 2025
This can entrap an already beleaguered community in cycles of self-destruction: real-life gangsterism, school dropouts, and incarceration.
The influence is not abstract; it’s visible on our streets. Secret societies with predominantly Indian membership—Gang 04, Gang 08, Gang 24, and others—have long been associated with violent crime.
Police records and media reports show these gangs often recruit young Indian males, particularly school dropouts.
Their symbols, nicknames, and rituals frequently mimic those glamorised in Tamil cinema, from stylised hand gestures to nicknames borrowed from film heroes and villains.
There is a tragic irony here: what begins as cinematic escapism can manifest as lived criminality. Young people imitate screen heroes only to end up incarcerated, further entrenching the cycle of marginalisation.
A deeper issue is the vacuum of alternative narratives. The Malaysian Indian community is full of inspiring true stories—entrepreneurs, educators, and activists who have thrived despite obstacles.
But these stories rarely reach the mainstream screen with the same glamour and spectacle as a gangster film. A story about education and resilience may be uplifting, but it’s often seen as lacking the box-office pull of a stylised fight scene or a heroic dance number.
Consequently, young viewers are fed a steady diet of “masala rebellion” rather than aspirational achievement. Without compelling positive models, many internalise the gangster hero as the only accessible form of success and respect.
The profound irony is that a community fighting for survival and dignity sometimes celebrates the very traits—violence, rebellion, lawlessness—that perpetuate its struggles in real life.
In schools, high dropout rates and disciplinary issues are sometimes framed within a language of “rowdy” pride. On the streets, gangs inspired by this media prey on the very community they claim to represent.
The over-representation of Indians in our prisons is a grim reflection of how fantasy has bled into reality.
While these films may offer temporary emotional relief, they produce no tangible benefits for the community.
Instead, they risk reinforcing harmful stereotypes, both within and outside the community, that Indians are naturally inclined toward disorder.
The challenge is not to ban these films—they are part of Tamil cinema’s fabric—but to balance them with constructive narratives that are equally compelling.
We need media literacy to help youth critically appreciate film as drama, not a blueprint for life.
Most importantly, we need our own filmmakers to create powerful stories that celebrate local heroes: the Tamil Malaysian scientist, lawyer, teacher, or entrepreneur who rises through wit, perseverance, and creativity.
The way forward isn’t to reject Tamil cinema, but to champion a broader range of stories. Only then can the silver screen become a source of true empowerment, reflecting not just our struggles, but our immense potential for resilience and success.
It’s time for our local directors and producers to rise to the occasion and create excellent films that truly soothe and uplift the souls of Malaysian Indians. ‒ Aug 25, 2025
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