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A few weeks ago, as I was mindfully writing a piece for the Cinema Anatomy column here, analysing Mammootty’s exceptional ability to ace emotional scenes and convey vulnerability with remarkable finesse, I couldn’t help but wonder if there was any strong emotion that Mohanlal portrays in an equally astounding manner. Yes, he is an exceptional actor who has proven his marvellous range over the past 4+ decades, highlighting that he can handle comedy, tragedy and rage with equal magnificence, thus always striking a chord with audiences almost effortlessly. But if we look at it on a microscopic level, are there any specific human emotions or responses that he handles with exquisite precision, such that his depiction of them seldom misses the target of the audience’s hearts?
Later, as I was mindlessly scrolling through social media, I stumbled upon a video featuring a scene from director Sibi Malayil’s Chenkol (1993), penned by AK Lohithadas. The clip highlighted how effortlessly Mohanlal conveyed complex layers of his character through his eyes, while also demonstrating outstanding subtlety. It’s true. The character of Sethumadhavan in Chenkol and its prequel, Kireedam (1989), which earned Mohanlal his first National Film Award (Special Mention), was not only nuanced and hard-hitting, but also devoid of the typical embellishments Indian film heroes usually receive. And it was masterfully executed by the actor, positioning it as a reference for arc-driven acting.
Nonetheless, in that very scene — where Sethumadhavan talks to his henchman, Haidrose (Cochin Haneefa), with an eerie ecstasy about their new life as goons, mentioning how the more they kill, the more money they make — the brilliance of his acting went far beyond his eyes. While we see his eyes — which frequently welled up in Kireedam as he was simply a youngster caught in a web of misfortunes — initially dry as the desert, devoid of any sympathy for others owing to his life experiences over the years, as the conversation with Haidrose progresses in the single shot, his tone also shifts and it becomes clear that its also his expressions that added gravity to his performance. The state of equanimity that Sethumadhavan has reached — where quietude arises from the pain he has endured and the realisation that nothing can hurt him anymore — stemmed from a deep sense of despair: the complete loss of hope, and a frame of mind that no longer sought it. That intense portrayal of helplessness communicated far more about Sethumadhavan than Lohithadas had penned or Sibi envisioned.
As I was appreciating Mohanlal’s performance in that scene, a couple more moments from various other movies came flooding back, wherein he handled similar emotions with notable sophistication. One by one, I began revisiting such scenes and couldn’t help but appreciate the evocative yet subtle manner in which he depicted despair and helplessness in several movies over the years.
One of his earliest films, where Mohanlal showcased an extraordinary command in depicting helplessness, was Fazil’s Nokkethadhoorathu Kannum Nattu (1984). Despite not having many dialogues in the final act of the movie and remaining a mere but constant presence on screen — mirroring the powerlessness of his character in those circumstances — he managed to convey distress perfectly there, adding an additional layer of innocence. It was because of the impact he made with his performance in the end that the transition from his face to Vallyammachi (Padmini) fixing the doorbell of her house, in the hope that her granddaughter would one day return and ring it, resonated deeply and brought us to tears.
By the time he appeared in Alleppey Ashraf’s tragedy Ninnistham Ennishtam (1986), Mohanlal had become a spectacular actor, showing significant improvement from his initial amateur performances. Here, he masterfully blended both despair and helplessness with remarkable precision, bringing out the emotional core of his submissive-natured character beautifully.
Despite his role being just a cameo in Reghunath Paleri’s Onnu Muthal Poojyam Vare (1986), it was Mohanlal’s incredible ability to convey and bend these emotions even through his voice that made it unforgettable. The film revolves around a single mother and her four-year-old daughter who become a ray of hope in the life of a man overshadowed by dark clouds of hopelessness and helplessness.
While he showcased intense portrayals of these emotions at various junctures in movies like Deshadanakkili Karayarilla, Namukku Parkkan Munthirithoppukal, Amrutham Gamaya, Sarvakalashala, Unnikale Oru Kadha Parayam, Vandanam, Dasharatham and Thazhvaram, he presented them with hard-hitting innocence in films like TP Balagopalan MA, Gandhinagar 2nd Street, January Oru Orma, Nadodikkattu, Ulsavapittennu, Chithram and Aye Auto, in tune with the tone of these titles. Take Venu Nagavally’s Sarvakalashala (1987), for instance. Here, despite having no one in life and nothing to look forward to, Lal (Mohanlal) is a character who wishes to find people and spaces wherein he can emotionally anchor himself. While we see a ray of light coming from within Lal in the initial parts of the movie, trying to pierce through the darkness in life, once he realises that all the relationships he had made over the years have shattered due to a misunderstanding, the actor reaches his absolute best and slowly allows despair to eclipse that streak of light in the character.
At a crucial moment in Sibi Malayil’s Dasharatham (1989), we see Rajiv Menon (Mohanlal) hoping against hope and approaching the surrogate Annie (Rekha) one last time, asking if he could have his son back. His realisation that, despite being filthy rich, there are moments when he is utterly helpless hits him hard, and his opulent robes seem to fall away as he begs in desperation. Here, the actor brilliantly showcased his ability to portray a character’s gradual emotional downfall and eventual rock bottom with sturdiness, as well as the person tricking himself into believing that there could be light at the end of the tunnel.
In one of the most heart-wrenching moments from Venu Nagavally’s Aye Auto (1990), we see autorickshaw driver Sudhi (Mohanlal) being asked to get up from the table where he had sat down to eat at the home of one of his affluent customers, who had invited him for her birthday lunch. As her grandmother (Sukumari) scolds him for sitting in the first turn while their rich relatives are yet to be fed, Sudhi gets up, not just because he’s insulted but with a sheer realisation of his supposed position in such social circles, highlighting the helplessness of a person who is stripped of even the mind frame to raise voice for oneself.
In Sibi’s Bharatham (1991), we see Kalloor Gopinathan (Mohanlal) at his helpless worst upon realising that his elder brother Ramanathan (Nedumudi Venu) passed away in an accident at a faraway place and was cremated like a waif by the authorities, who were unable to track down his relatives. On the other hand, in Priyadarshan’s Kilukkam (1991), we see many shades of Joji’s despair that fall at various points on the spectrum, ranging from comedy to tragedy. While the sheer hopelessness in him, a tourist guide, comes across as humorous in the iconic “Vattaanalle?” scene when he realises that his customer Nandini (Revathi) is not only penniless but also struggling with her mental health, the same emotion wells up in our eyes when he portrays Joji realising that they can never be together. “Do you love her?” Nandini’s foster father, Justice Pillai (Thilakan), asks him. He hums in agreement. “What about her?” With a blank face, he replies, “I have never asked her,” and walks away, underscoring his circumstances — financial and otherwise — which have even deprived him of the courage to confess his love.
One of the reasons why several Mohanlal-led movies from that era, such as Kilukkam, became classics was that he could effortlessly depict such stirring emotions. If his helplessness pushed Sathyanadhan (Sadayam) to paranoia, prompting him to take the lives of both the victims and perpetrators in a scenario, it made Sidharthan (Aham) embrace sainthood. Ashokan (Yoddha) channelled it into mastering martial arts so that he could rescue the kid who had placed his faith in him. In Devaasuram (1993), on the other hand, when his archrival Mundakkal Shekaran (Napoleon) pressed his foot against the neck of Mangalassery Neelakandan (Mohanlal) — while the latter was receiving treatment after being attacked by Shekaran and his gang, and left confined to a wheelchair — we saw the actor transform helplessness into sheer rage, conveyed powerfully through his expressions and eyes. In Pavithram (1994), he portrayed the same emotion through Unnikrishnan’s gradual realisation that he had slowly become irrelevant in the life of his little sister, whom he raised in the absence of their parents.
From the courtroom scene in Nirnayam (1995); Aadu Thoma’s reaction to his father blatantly insulting him under the pretence of inviting him to his sister’s wedding in Spadikam (1995); the bootlicking scene in Kaalapani (1996); Anandan crying into a prop beard upon realising he has once again been relegated to the background in a film where he was initially offered a prominent role, and later losing balance and melting into the sofa upon hearing of Kalpana’s (Aishwarya Rai) death in Iruvar (1997); Raghuraman running around a fantasy land, screaming and warning its inhabitants against eating the Ilama fruit — the cause of their collective blindness — in Guru (1997); the condemned prisoner Niranjan begging Dennis (Suresh Gopi) to marry his girlfriend Abhirami (Manju Warrier) in Summer in Bethlehem (1998); and the entire life of Kunjikuttan in Vanaprastham (1999);
To Mullankolli Velayudhan explaining why he never dreams or desires anything in Naran (2005); almost every scene following Ramesan Nair’s descent into Alzheimer’s in Thanmathra (2005); Premachandran learning of his father’s death in Rasathanthram (2006); the cynical and narcissistic Sidharthan tearing up in front of Raji (Kalpana) in Pakal Nakshatrangal (2008); Sivankutty letting go of his childhood friends — whom he had planned to kill — in Bhramaram (2009); the entirety of Mathews’ character in Pranayam (2011); Raghunandan witnessing the death of Sameer (Sidharth Bharathan) in Spirit (2012); Georgekutty communicating through a blink to his family not to worry, even as he is brutally beaten by the police, in Drishyam (2013); Mathew Manjooran’s tearful goodbye to his wife Neelima (Manju Warrier) in Villain (2017); and finally, Shanmugham realising that the body he helped cops George Mathan (Prakash Varma) and Benny (Binu Pappu) dispose of in Thudarum (2025) was his own son’s — Mohanlal has portrayed countless shades of helplessness and despair with absolute flair and dexterity.
Yet not once did he fail to hit the audience square in the chest. Thanks to his uncanny ability to make viewers feel as if they are watching someone they already know well, the emotions of his characters become their own, and his intense performances consistently leave a lump in their throats.
As Kerala Chief Minister Pinarayi Vijayan perfectly encapsulated during a recent event organised by the state government to felicitate the Malayalam superstar for winning the Dadasaheb Phalke Award, “The emotional experiences provided by the characters played by Mohanlal are most intricately etched into the cinematic experience of Malayalees over the last half-century. As a result, transforming into Mohanlal occasionally in daily life became even a habit for some. Few other stars have influenced Malayalees as much in their walk, sitting, gaze, and body language. This might be why British anthropologists Filippo Osella and Caroline Osella wrote that ‘Mohanlal is the alter ego of Malayalees.'”
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