A Look into Mirzapur
Have you ever rooted for a character—even when you knew their actions were wrong? Why do you think that happened?
We often assume morality comes from beliefs, values, or religious teaching. But many of our judgments begin with emotion—and emotion is deeply tied to chemistry.
Hormones like oxytocin help us feel bonding and trust. Dopamine gives us a sense of reward when someone we like succeeds. Serotonin shapes mood, aggression, and empathy. Sometimes, before we reason about right and wrong—we chemically feel who deserves forgiveness.
Filmmakers understand this—sometimes better than we realize. They know how to shape what we feel before we decide what we think.
Through music, lighting, camera angles, and close-ups of emotion, they can amplify empathy at just the right moment. A trembling face, a moment of regret, a lingering shot of grief—these are crafted choices. They take advantage of how our brains respond emotionally, drawing us into sympathy before moral judgment begins.
One example of this comes from Mirzapur, a violent crime drama centered around power struggles, revenge, and survival in a brutal criminal world.
At its center is Guddu Pandit—a character who begins as an underdog, someone deeply wronged by powerful forces. Early in the story, many viewers naturally saw him as the hero fighting injustice.
As the story progresses, Guddu becomes increasingly violent—more impulsive, more brutal, less restrained. The shift becomes undeniable when he brutally kills his sister’s boyfriend in a fit of rage.
But immediately after, the camera lingers on his face—his shock, his regret, his emotional collapse. The moment is crafted to make us feel pity, not just horror. We are invited to see his pain. Yet many other violent characters are not given such moments of regret or vulnerability. Their violence is shown—but their humanity is not.
And that difference quietly begins to shape how we judge them.
Because we are shown Guddu’s grief, tenderness, and regret, we remain emotionally connected to him—even when his actions grow darker.
This creates a powerful illusion: he feels more forgivable, more human, more redeemable. Not always because he is morally better—but because we were allowed to feel his humanity, while others were not.
This is what we might call chemical morality—when our judgments are shaped more by emotional and hormonal reactions than by stable ethical principles.
We forgive those we feel connected to. We condemn those who feel distant. Not because right and wrong changed—but because our feelings did. Emotion moves us—but it cannot anchor us.
Spiritual and ethical traditions remind us that morality must be rooted in something deeper than feeling—principles that remain steady even when emotions shift.
Our emotions and brain chemistry are part of being human. But they cannot be our final authority. The deeper question is this:
Are our feelings guiding our morality—or is our morality guiding our feelings?