By Suresh Unnithan
In the desperate final act of Kerala’s pre-poll theatre, two ageing icons decided to stage a rescue mission for their waning auras. Chief Minister Pinarayi Vijayan, battling anti-incumbency and bypoll blues, and Mohanlal, once the undeniable “Complete Actor” now reduced to a fan-club-dependent nostalgia act, sat down for Iruvar – a conversation so cosy, so toothless, and so painfully dull that it should come with a government warning: “May cause acute second-hand embarrassment and irreversible image damage.”
The teaser promised magic. Cliff House living room, soft lighting, two Kerala legends bonding like long-lost college roommates. What we got was Mohanlal – stiff as a freshly starched mundu – firing questions so silly and disenchanting that even Rajinikanth fans must have cringed. “Sir, I heard you like my films… but is it true your secret favourite is Thalaivar’s action blockbusters?” Nod. Smile. “Do you remember any dialogues from Nadodikkattu or Narasimham?” Recitation. Polite laughter. Then the pièce de résistance: Mohanlal reciting “Ente Keralam, angayude Keralam, nammude Keralam” like a reluctant schoolboy delivering a Republic Day speech. Vijayan applauded. Viewers reached for the remote.
This wasn’t an interview. It was mutual life-support. And like most desperate medical procedures performed by amateurs, it threatens to finish off both patients.
Let’s start with the chief minister. Pinarayi has spent years cultivating the image of the no-nonsense Marxist who stares down crises without blinking. Floods, Nipah, COVID – he was the iron fist in the red glove. But iron fists don’t win third terms when voters are tired of fiscal squeezes and governance-by-denial. So the think-tank prescribed emergency humanisation: pair the CM with the one Malayali superstar accepted across party lines and let him stroll, chuckle, and confess his undying love for Rajini’s punch dialogues. Result? The “Iron Man” now looks like a slightly embarrassed uncle trying too hard at a family function. The man who once silenced opposition with a glare is now reduced to proving he can smile on camera. If this was meant to soften his image, it only highlighted how desperately he needs softening.
But the real tragedy – and the richest comedy – belongs to Mohanlal.
Once upon a time, Lalettan didn’t need tricks. His mere name pulled crowds, his swagger filled theatres, his off-screen mystique added to the legend. Today? The tinsel hero is no longer sought after. He is not the crowd-puller he once was. Commercial success now depends heavily on organised fan-club bookings, nostalgia bookings, and the residual goodwill of 1980s-90s classics. The Hema Committee storm, leadership exit from AMMA, and the Empuraan backlash (complete with regret statements and voluntary cuts) have left his larger-than-life image looking curiously smaller-than-life.
So what does a fading superstar do when box-office pull weakens? He agrees to play friendly neighbourhood interviewer to the chief minister. Body language rigid, delivery flat, questions straight out of a low-budget fan-meet script – Mohanlal came across exactly as he does in most off-screen appearances: a man who has never been an entertainer when the cameras stop rolling. The cosy, silly questions weren’t charming; they were boring. Disenchanting. The kind of exchange that makes you wonder if the superstar has run out of both charisma and self-awareness.
And here’s the delicious irony: this interview, sold as an image-booster for both, is far more likely to prove counterproductive. For Vijayan, it confirms the opposition’s taunt – the CM needs celebrity crutches because his own governance record can’t stand on its feet. For Mohanlal, it cements the uncomfortable truth that the “Complete Actor” is now the “Convenient Interviewer.” Fans who once queued for his films will now remember him as the man who spent prime airtime asking a politician about his favourite movie star instead of, say, delivering a single memorable line of his own. The very fan clubs keeping his recent releases afloat may soon start whispering: “Lalettan, why?”
Social media has already begun the autopsy. Memes of Mohanlal’s wooden expressions are doing better business than his last few solo openers. Opposition leaders are laughing all the way to the campaign trail. Even neutral observers are calling it Kerala’s own “mango-eating” moment – you know, that legendary 2019 disaster where Akshay Kumar asked Prime Minister Narendra Modi how he likes to eat his mangoes, sparking nationwide memes, trolling, and endless jokes about soft-ball celebrity-politician chit-chat. Except in this case, the mango is rotten, both participants are pretending it’s sweet, and there’s no Akshay-level star power to even pretend it was “candid and non-political.” At least Modi got to wax nostalgic about childhood aamras; here, we just got recited film dialogues and awkward applause.
In the end, Iruvar stands as a textbook case of what happens when two men in urgent need of public resuscitation decide to perform the procedure on each other without anaesthetic. Vijayan wanted a human face; he got a mirror reflecting his own vulnerability. Mohanlal wanted relevance; he got exposure that exposed how far the halo has slipped.
Kerala’s voters, famously sharp and famously unforgiving of pretence, are watching. The LDF’s third-term dream and Mohanlal’s fading box-office aura now share the same uncomfortable spotlight. One clumsy, boring, celebrity-endorsed conversation later, both look smaller, both look needier, and both look dangerously close to becoming yesterday’s heroes.
Visibility achieved. Damage maximised. Encore, anyone? Or shall we just dim the lights and let the credits roll on this particular farce?
