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Sep 28, 2010, 11.25 AM IST | Source: Forbes India

Why Rajinikanth Rocks

If anyone can make Chuck Norris look like a one-roundhouse-kick wonder, it is the southern superstar Rajinikanth. Heís larger than life. His fans would have you believe, he created God when he smiled.

By: Manisha Lakhe

If anyone can make Chuck Norris look like a one-roundhouse-kick wonder, it is the southern superstar Rajinikanth. Heís larger than life. His fans would have you believe, he created God when he smiled.

It is not unknown for fans to fast before a Rajini release, as prayer to the Gods for success of his film. But, perhaps, in a part of the world that puts its film stars on very high pedestals, thatís not unusual. Try this.

If you could possibly wangle a first-day-first-show ticket to a Rajini starrer, you will witness something you wonít see in a movie theatre, ever.

Rajinikanth gets his very own credits styling. The screen will say ĎSuperstarí, then his name will follow: ĎRajinií in English and then in Tamil, glowing in platinum. By the time your eyes adjust to the glare, you realise that you might also lose your hearing. Every member of the theatre audience is standing up, chanting ĎThalaivar! Thalaivar!í (which means Ďbossí in Tamil). Then he will make his entrance: First you see the underside of his shoe; then dried leaves and debris will fly out of the way when the foot comes to earth.

Then the camera moves above ground and pauses, looking up, as a supplicant would to the saviour. Thatís when the noise in the theatre reaches a crescendo andÖ the credits pause. And you see, at the foot of the screen, the regional distributor, the multiplex manager, and a few other dignitaries, resplendent in crisp white veshtis, are standing with a priest, who begins to chant prayers. Which end with the men in veshtis holding out their right hands and performing an aarti by burning camphor on their palms.

Then the crowd will settle down and the film will continue. Chances are, youíll see the signature moves: The finger pointing skyward, deft handiwork with the sunglasses (in older movies, youíd have seen the cigarette toss; he doesnít smoke on screen now, though). Youíll see gravity-defying jumps and hordes of bad guys being done in. Through it all, nothing will dislodge the Superstarís smile and sunglasses.

Rajinikanthís story is straight out of the movies: Boy from the wrong side of the tracks makes it big. Born Shivaji Rao Gaekwad, he had a wild childhood and even wilder youth where his pranks got him into all kinds of trouble: He was thrashed by the cops for chasing girls and beaten by restaurant workers for trying to pass off an old six rupee bill for a table full of food that he and his gang had demolished. The tale of how he moved from bus conductor to stage to screen is too well know to retell. Suffice it to say that for all his hell-raising, there was a talent which his friends recognised and people noticed first on stage. His wild ways were temporarily tamed when playwright and director ĎTopií Muniappa offered him a chance to act in mythological moral plays. The story goes that he played the villainous Duryodhana so well, he was applauded by old men when he was ripping off Draupadiís sarees.

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Hindi cinema, which was yet to become Bollywood, was, like much of Indian cinema, entangled in social themes. South Indian cinema, especially, was dealing with morality issues, which was fantastic for a performer like Rajinikanth, because he played the villain with much glee (shades of this are visible even in his blockbuster hit Chandramukhi, where his demented, ĎLaka, laka, laka, lakaí still sends shivers down oneís spine). 16 Vayathinile (At the Age of 16) paved the way for unkempt villains who had a singularly disgusting laugh. Mithun Chakraborty ruled 80s Hindi cinema with the same brand of impossible heroics and made-for-the-front-row lines, and inspired similar devotion from his fans. But it took Rajinikanth to not just find the formula of punch-line-laden, impossible-action-packed movie persona, but to make it work for over three decades. And counting.

That he was talented was evident to the director K Balachander, who offered him a 15-minute role as a drunkard in Apoorva Raagangal (Rare Melodies), a Kamal Haasan starrer. Rajini made an impact as the man who muddies the love story by announcing a prior claim to the affections of the heroine just before she admits her love to the hero.

His mentor/teacher at the film institute, Puttanna Kanagal, gave Rajini his first Kannada movie Katha Sangama (Collection of Stories), where he played a baddie, a man who rapes a blind girl. Rajini played negative roles with ease, and it was just such a villainous role that first offered him a chance to flick his cigarette in the air and flourish his sunglasses. The film was Moondru Mudichu (The Three Knots), in which he played the friend who creates trouble between Kamal Haasan and Sridevi. The movie became a hit and established Rajinikanth as a super villain.

Rajinikanth, Sridevi and Kamal Haasan in a movie meant registers ringing at the box office. But Rajini was restless. He wanted to taste success in Bollywood as well. And though he worked with Amitabh Bachchan and other major stars, the Punjabi lobby dominated Hindi cinema. Dark-skinned Rajini chose wisely, and returned to his millions of fans. But note this: His Billa, an almost frame-by-frame copy of the Bachchan starrer Don, made more at the box office than the original. Billa, in fact, marked the beginning of the Rajini cult. It was clear from here on that he could carry the weight of a movie by himself.

Whatís his secret? How does this 60-year-old grandfather, who makes no attempt to conceal the fact that the little hair he has left is very grey, transform miraculously - and credibly - into a limber young chap with a full head of shiny black hair, who wears jeans and whips up bad guys as easily as he polishes his sunglasses?

Partly it is the focus. After his initial experimentation, he did not attempt to stretch his range, as with the thespian grandstanding of his illustrious contemporary and great friend, Kamal Haasan; he stuck to what he did best, and made that all his own. (Recently, he said that the two of them had struck a gentlemenís agreement to not cannibalise on each otherís territory.) He wanted to hear the chants of ĎAdhirudhile!í (ĎRocking!í) from the cheap seats, and he worked hard to ensure that he kept earning it.

Partly, heís a nice guy, someone who pays his dues, with a sense of responsibility. Like when Valli and Baba failed to bring in expected profits, he returned the money to the distributors who had made a loss, earning their loyalty forever.

Partly, itís the simplicity of his image, the impossible, uncomplicated heroics that give the man on the street something to cheer. Like splitting an oncoming bullet into two with his knife, dodging both split halves, then smiling as each half hits a different baddie and his knife plunges into the heart of the man with the gun. Or how about saving the heroine, who is strapped to an electricity transformer, by running faster than electrical current after a vengeful villain switches the electricity on.

Certainly the whiplash actions, the mannerisms, the gimmicks, if you will, contribute to memorability.

But face it, there is no film school theory that explains why he can make the viewer not just suspend disbelief but chop it into little pieces, set fire to the remains and stomp on the ashes. There is no intellectual explanation for why the corny rhyming punch lines are such a hit.

Purely and simply, Rajinikanth makes the whole package work. Only he can.

Thatís why there are thousands of dedicated fan sites, whose members would rend you limb from limb should you even think about dissing the Superstar.

Thatís why even today, the script, the story, the dramatic lines, the costumes of a Rajinikanth movie - theyíre all treated like a national security issue. Fan clubs go into frenzy at the slightest hint of a leak and with every movie Rajini and his producers laugh all the way to the bank.

Thatís why when Kuselan, not as big a hit as Baasha or Padayappa, was shown across the USA, the candy giant M&M made specially-coloured bites of joy to be made into giant posters of the star; M&Ms were distributed to kids and his fans stampeded the halls as though it was the last show on Earth. In Japan, he is the ĎDancing Maharajaí - and to this day busloads of Japanese tourists stop by his Poes Road home in Chennai to take pictures. In Malaysia and Mauritius people expect to be granted leave from work when his movies release.

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