In the glittering marquee of Tamil cinema, some names dominate like clockwork: Ajith Kumar, Vijay, Suriya, Kamal Hassan and Rajinikanth. Their films guarantee mass openings, frenzied fans, and often, a barrage of slow-motion entries, punchlines, and fight sequences. But while these A-listers continue to ride the wave of hyper-masculinity, violence, and male worship, it is the smaller, often underrated actors who are quietly rewriting masculinity on screen, one nuanced performance at a time.
Mass template fatigue
Take a quick glance at the recent filmographies of Tamil cinema’s top-tier male stars. Vijay’s Leo (2023), directed by Lokesh Kanagaraj, was a box office monster, but it also checked every box of the “mass hero” template: a tortured man with a violent past, a relentless saviour complex, and a world that bends around his fists. Ajith’s Thunivu (2023), a heist-action film, had him playing a mastermind who justifies violence with vigilante righteousness. Both films have their commercial merits, but they echo the same tired cinematic masculinity: men as larger-than-life saviours whose flaws are glorified, not interrogated.
Even Suriya, arguably the most versatile of the lot, made a detour into this trope with his cameo in Vikram (2022) as Rolex, a psychopathic, hyper-violent antagonist whose menace is celebrated in fan circles more than critiqued. His National Award-winning Soorarai Pottru (2020) was a welcome departure, but the larger trend even in his trajectory is clear: intense, dominant, often violent men on a mission.
More recently, Kamal Haasan’s Thug Life (2025) may have had grandeur, but it reaffirmed muscular mythology, not evolution. Rajinikanth’s Coolie seems poised to continue that tradition.
The rise of the vulnerable man onscreen
Contrast this with what actors like Ashok Selvan, Kavin, Arjun Das, or even Soori in his recent avatar, are doing.
Ashok Selvan’s Por Thozhil (2023), a slow-burn psychological thriller, had him play a rookie cop battling his own vulnerabilities. Far from a massy alpha male, his character was awkward, anxious, and methodical, and that gentleness was his strength, not weakness. His earlier film Oh My Kadavule (2020) saw him play a confused, flawed husband navigating the quiet discomforts of modern relationships, a man more likely to apologise than punch his way through conflict.
Kavin, the Bigg Boss alumnus, turned heads with Dada (2023), where he played a young, single father, a role rarely imagined for young male leads in Tamil cinema. His portrayal of responsible, emotionally vulnerable fatherhood was refreshing not only for its sincerity but also for how it eschewed machismo altogether.
And who would have expected Soori, known for years as a comedy sidekick, to deliver such emotional depth in Viduthalai Part 1 (2023)? As a sincere cop witnessing state violence, Soori’s performance was grounded in empathy, not ego. The film, directed by Vetrimaaran, challenged state-sanctioned brutality and put an ordinary, morally struggling man at its center, a far cry from the bulletproof heroes of mainstream action films.
Arjun Das, though often cast in intense roles, brings a quiet restraint and interiority to his performances, especially in films like Andhaghaaram (2020) and Putham Pudhu Kaalai Vidiyadha (2022), where emotional complexity takes centre stage.
Even in films like Good Night (2023), Manikandan’s portrayal of a man with a snoring problem, and the tender ways it affects his marriage and self-worth, created space for vulnerability, intimacy, and male softness in Tamil cinema.
Why this divide matters
Films like Leo, Vikram, Thunivu, Jailer or Thug Life glorify violence as essential masculinity, justice is personal, anger is righteous, and empathy is rare. When these films dominate screens, they shape cultural expectations: strength is external, emotional nuance is optional. Society internalises these depictions, reinforcing patriarchal norms and valourising aggression over introspection.
On the other hand, films centered on vulnerability, parenting, anxiety, emotional labour, challenge the blueprint. They model alternative masculinity: listening, apologizing, accepting imperfection. Though these films may not win blockbuster openings, their moral architecture seeps into the cultural conversation, offering visible templates of men who cope through empathy, not force.
Cinematic representation matters, especially in deeply patriarchal societies. When leading men consistently embody aggression and infallibility, audiences internalise that as aspirational. When impassioned storytelling puts neurological fragility, emotional labor, and relational tenderness on screen, it expands what young men can imagine for themselves.
So why the disconnect?
The answer lies partly in the economics of stardom. In Tamil cinema, the bigger the star, the higher the stakes. When producers pour hundreds of crores into a film headlined by a bankable hero, they can’t afford unpredictability. That means sticking to a fan-service checklist: entry shots, slow-motion walks, punch dialogues, gravity-defying stunts, and moral monologues delivered with absolute conviction. These aren’t just creative choices; they are contractual obligations to massive fan bases who expect nothing less than myth-making on screen.
This risk-aversion limits the kind of stories that can be told. Directors working with superstars often have to dilute complex narratives in service of “mass moments.” Even actors who might want to experiment, like Suriya, who has dabbled in more grounded cinema, tend to return to familiar formats under pressure from fans or box office expectations. The result is that the biggest stars in Tamil cinema are often playing the same larger-than-life version of themselves, film after film, locked into a loop of worship, violence, and moral clarity.
In contrast, smaller stars and mid-budget films operate with more creative freedom. With fewer eyes and crores riding on them, these projects can afford to be vulnerable, messy, and introspective. They show men who cry, who change their minds, who grow slowly rather than “roar” to redemption. These films reflect the emotional realities of the men sitting in the audience, not just their aspirational fantasies. And in doing so, they’re pushing the cinematic language forward in a way mass films rarely can.
Are mass action films redundant? Not really…
Before you come at us with “People go to the theatre to have fun!”, we get it! Mass films have their place, and they always will. There’s something undeniably electric about watching a star like Vijay or Rajinikanth make a grand entry on the big screen, set to thumping music and surrounded by cheering fans. It’s theatre as celebration, a communal high that transcends plot or logic.
But celebration and substance don’t have to be opposites. A hero can make an explosive entry and feel deeply. The adrenaline rush doesn’t cancel out emotional complexity. In fact, when done well, it only adds weight to the spectacle. Audiences are evolving, and so are their expectations. They cheer for punchlines, yes. But they also resonate with vulnerability when it feels honest.
Tamil cinema isn’t short of progressive ideas. The audience isn’t either. What it lacks is for its biggest stars to trust that showing softness doesn’t dim their shine. That men who cry, falter, cook, parent, and question, are just as powerful, if not more.
These films tap into emotion, nostalgia, and adrenaline in ways that few others can. For many, it’s not about dissecting the politics. It’s about catharsis, spectacle, and sheer entertainment. These stories often channel real frustrations into heroic victories, offering relief and fantasy in a world that feels increasingly chaotic. So yes, mass films are fun. They’re cultural events. They bring people together. But even so, fun doesn’t have to come at the cost of progress, and that’s where the conversation gets interesting.
Until that shift truly takes root, it’s the so-called “smaller” men on screen who are leading the charge, quietly, consistently, and without the fanfare. They’re redefining strength in silence, reshaping masculinity without the monologue. In a world that often mistakes volume for value, their quiet conviction roars the loudest.
