Growing up in Kerala in the ’90s in a home without cable TV and with parents who never went to theatres, my only access to films was Doordarshan and the occasional visit to neighbours who enjoyed a cable connection. But films were part of the fabric of my daily existence. My childhood heroes included Mammootty, Mohanlal, Shah Rukh Khan, Dilip Kumar, Raj Kapoor and Kamal Haasan. Rajinikanth was not on the list. Still, I would mimic the Rajini walk and mouth his dialogues — not as a fan boy but as someone quietly registering how distinct and balanced his style was.
It was only when adulthood hit and I turned to a career as an actor and writer that I realised how, despite not growing up as a Rajinikanth fan, he was an indelible part of my life. As I began to look at cinema through the eyes of an actor, I understood that Rajini was not just a superstar with a larger-than-life persona. His legacy lay in the way he transformed the very idea of superstardom in India and the way he converted mundane actions into celebratory scenes. Even as many people dismissed the actor as “excessive”, I found on close inspection that his every gesture — from the iconic cigarette flip to his slow-motion walk — was measured and executed with ease. In fact, it was a language of control, rhythm, timing, and command over the audience’s heartbeats.
At the centre of this unprecedented stardom is the way in which the actor used his body as an instrument. Rajinikanth often used stillness and silence to convey meaning, his body holding space. For example, in a fight scene, he didn’t jump straight into action, but occupied the frame with stillness, letting the tension build.
In films like Murattu Kaalai (1980), whether it was his walk, the way he adjusted his mundu or leaned on a staff, Rajinikanth transformed everyday movement into stage presence. An act like munching on a sugarcane became memorable to the audience because he invested it with rhythm and authority. American acting coach Uta Hagen writes that the actor’s body must be free of unnecessary tension. In Rajini’s case, even if a scene or a character was tense, the actor was often relaxed, almost casual. He didn’t look like he’s “acting” because he was not trying to be somebody else.
In Mahendran’s Johnny (1980), Rajini played dual roles, the titular character of a thief and Vidyasagar, a hairstylist. This was the same year that his smash hits Billa and Murattu Kaalai released. But in Johnny, Rajini’s characters were vulnerable, often tender. It was also a film where one could see the actor’s greatest skill — listening. He listened not just with his face but his entire body, making reactions come alive with micro-shifts — leaning in slightly, adjusting his posture, lowering his chin or arching an eyebrow. In Johnny, he was almost “anti-Rajini” — restrained, inward, deeply reactive and fully present in his exchanges with Sridevi. He grounded the characters in stripped-down naturalism.
In films such as Thillu Mullu and Netrikkan (both 1981), one can still see Rajini using his body organically to transform simple actions into iconic theatrical moments, creating a stage reality that felt truthful and larger-than-life at the same time. But by this time, a transformation from an actor to a star was beginning. Traits that would later become Rajini’s signature moves, such as flipping a cigarette into his mouth, started with K Balachander’s Moondru Mudichu (1976). But these directors were yet to fully capitalise on Rajini’s star value. They kept the cinematography relatively static with long shots and ample space for theatrical intensity.
It was in the late 1980s, as Rajini associated with filmmakers such as S P Muthuraman (Velaikkaran, 1987 and Guru Sishyan, 1988) and Rajashekhar (Maveeran, 1986), that the transformation into a star was fully realised. These directors used various techniques to maximise Rajini’s style, such as pauses before dialogues, zoom-ins for his signature gestures and slow-motion entry shots. At the turn of the decade came Mani Ratnam’s Thalapathy (1991), a massively successful film that amalgamated Rajini’s nuanced acting with the stylistics of a star portraying a working-class hero who spoke directly to the masses. This paved the way for later filmmakers such as K S Ravikumar (Muthu, 1995 and Padayappa, 1999) and P Vasu (Chandramukhi, 2005).
From being a character in a story, a superstar Rajini emerged to interact directly with the audience, creating a greater intimacy with them. Directors would use more dramatic camera angles to aid the star who would deliver sharp dialogue meant to exhilarate the viewers. His signature gestures and entry into a scene became powerful motifs that would leave fans in a frenzy.
This demarcation between Rajini, the actor, and Rajini, the star, also led to comparisons with the other Tamil superstar Haasan. The latter was touted as the actor’s actor who would often choose roles that would transform him into a different person. And when his film fared poorly or his performance was critiqued (which was rare), it was often associated with flaws in his acting method. But Rajinikanth, who was boxed in as the superstar, could never disappoint because he never tried to “become the character”. Hence, when a Rajini film flopped, the failure was attributed to the director.
If it was the character and his world that mattered to Haasan, for Rajini, it was the space between himself and the audience that was of prime importance. While the former would put in efforts to make the character “believable”, Rajini focused on elevating the ordinary to a stylised realm. This made him believable because the audience never expected him to play a realistic character. Instead of disappearing into his characters like Haasan, Rajini channelled his characters through his own evolving persona.
Whether it was Mullum Malarum (1978), Baashha (1995), Padayappa (1999) or even Sivaji: The Boss (2007), Rajinikanth’s essence was fundamentally the same even as collaborations with different directors brought in minor changes in his metre and rhythm. The more I act, the more I realise that it is harder to “just be” than “become” someone else. This is especially so within the Indian film industry where there is a constant pressure to spoon-feed emotions to the audience. But Rajinikanth is proof that if the actor’s intent is right and if he prepares for the scene, the emotions will flow naturally.
As Rajinikanth’s cinematic legacy completes 50 years, I have now started to walk the Rajini walk. Not to mimic him, but because the posture gave me pain relief and the ability to be relaxed and driven at the same time. I realised that this was not merely Rajinikanth’s style. In his world, even the most mundane gestures can transform into a flow of balance, rhythm and survival.
Kenshin is an actor and writer working in the Malayalam film industry
Whether it was Mullum Malarum (1978), Baashha (1995), Padayappa (1999) or even Sivaji: The Boss (2007), Rajinikanth’s essence was fundamentally the same even as collaborations with different directors brought in minor changes in his metre and rhythm. (Express archive photo) 
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