Srinivasan dies at 69: Why the Malayalam actor’s ‘ordinary man’ roles shaped a generation

Dubai: My childhood was shaped by Srinivasan. Not in loud, heroic ways. Not through grand speeches or star entrances. Srinivasan entered Malayalam cinema quietly — looking ordinary, sounding familiar, carrying a presence that felt instantly recognisable.

He was not a conventional leading man. He was dark, diminutive, unpolished. And yet, the moment he appeared on screen, something shifted. Just by being there, he made scenes funnier, richer, more human. He didn’t chase laughs. He allowed them to happen.

 At a time when masculinity on screen was defined by swagger and certainty, Srinivasan offered something else entirely: hesitation, insecurity, self-awareness. And in doing so, he proved himself to be one of the finest actors Malayalam cinema has ever produced — not despite his ordinariness, but because of it.

What I admired most was that he never tried to be hyper-masculine. He never tried to “act like a hero.” His performances were funny because they were truthful. A raised eyebrow, a pause, a look of quiet panic — that was enough.

Think of the roles where fear drives the man. The cop who believes he has cancer and decides, overnight, to become brave and valiant — only for us to realise that it’s all a misunderstanding, a mix-up of blood samples. The comedy doesn’t come from heroics. It comes from the confusion playing out inside him: the fear, the resolve, the awkward courage. Srinivasan made that inner turmoil visible, and irresistibly funny.

Or the deeply insecure husband in Vadakkunokkiyantram, consumed by jealousy over his beautiful wife. In lesser hands, the role could have turned cartoonish. Srinivasan instead made it uncomfortable, even painful — because the insecurity felt real. You laughed, but you also recognised the man. That balance takes enormous skill.

In Thalayana Manthram, he played a husband trying — and failing — to keep everyone happy while his wife sets firm ground rules. Again, the humour came from everyday negotiation, from compromise and quiet desperation. Nothing exaggerated. Nothing forced. Just lived-in comedy.

Then there was his legendary pairing with Mohanlal. Together, they were effortless. Between them, comedy flowed naturally, as if written into their rhythm. In Akkare Akkare Akkare, Srinivasan, playing a detective alongside Mohanlal, turned incompetence into an art form. The humour was clever, absurd, almost Wodehouse-like in structure — but unmistakably Malayali in soul.

Mohanlal was elastic and charismatic; Srinivasan was the grounding force. He was the perfect foil — the man who made Mohanlal funnier simply by being himself.

What Srinivasan did, again and again, was give dignity to men who weren’t heroes. Men who were scared. Men who were jealous. Men who were trying, failing, recalibrating. He never mocked them. He understood them.

Today, when I rewatch his comedies, what strikes me most is how much he gave Kerala to laugh about — laughter without cruelty, humour without arrogance, comedy rooted in empathy. He made us laugh at ourselves, gently, generously.

That is why Srinivasan mattered to me.

And that is why he will always remain irreplaceable.