As Tamil Nadu hit election season, a cloud of doubt hung over the Tamilaga Vettri Kazhagam. Understandable, given that its leader, C. Joseph Vijay, had quit cinema at the peak of his powers to vie for a second throne. Detractors and those on the fence asked: what is his politics? What does he stand for? Does he really think fandom means actual votes? Where, pray, is the manifesto?
On April 16, just a week before voting day, the TVK did release the manifesto. But it was not for the fans, per se. The millions of Vijay diehards had read, rather seen, his manifesto for years. His filmography was it. Movie after movie, he played characters that took on the system and won. Why would his political life be any different, they asked.
In Tamil Nadu, cinema has never been mere entertainment. The dravidian movement, which has ruled for close to six decades, has used the silver screen as a lab for mass mobilisation, as much as pamphlets and podiums. The belief was that a screen hero who defends the weak would replicate those feats while in power.
If C.N. Annadurai used screenplays as ideological trojan horses, M. Karunanidhi’s Parasakthi (1952) served as a manifesto for social justice, using razor-sharp dialogue to challenge institutional oppression. Together, they transformed cinema from simple entertainment to a tool for anti-caste messaging and political reform. This allowed political ideology to bypass literacy barriers, reaching the state’s interiors through emotional resonance.
Into this scene came M.G. Ramachandran, who would turn his saviour persona on screen into one of the most successful political careers in Tamil Nadu—his rise from a theatre actor to a three-time chief minister is still the blueprint for celebrity politics in the state.
In 1953, MGR joined the Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam, bringing with him a massive fan base that became the party’s primary growth engine. He won his first assembly election in 1967—he had been shot in the neck and fought the election from a hospital bed. It was like a scene from a movie and brought him great sympathy. In 1972, he would leave Karunanidhi’s side and form the AIADMK. Five years later, he became chief minister, and remained so till his death 10 years later.
MGR would often play roles such as farmer, fisherman and rickshaw puller to appeal to the working class. His ‘Unnai arindhaal, nee unnai arindhaal, ulagathil poradalam (If you understand yourself, you can fight in this world)’, a philosophical number, gave the idea that conquering the world begins with self knowledge. It became an anthem for empowerment. He was not an actor playing a role, but an extension of his characters’ virtues. His most popular song, ‘Naan aanaiyittal, adhu nadanthuvittal, ingu yezhaigal vethanai padamattar (If I give an order, and if that happens, the poor here would suffer no more)’ was seen as the clarion call of a mass leader.
However, it was once he got power that he really changed the script. The welfare schemes he started, particularly the midday meal scheme, deepened his emotional bond with the people and helped him transcend traditional politics.
Cut to 2026, and another star is walking that path. Like MGR, Vijay, too, used his films to signal his intent of one day running for office. And the fans ate it up. In 1969, MGR’s Adimai Penn set the record for the largest opening week audience. In 2004, Vijay’s Ghilli surpassed it. This was the first sign: the new people’s hero had matched, at least in audience size, the old one.
While the movie itself had no explicit political speeches, it did send out a message—by showing a protagonist with no institutional power outlasting an adversary with every advantage, the film fostered a sense of kinship with the masses. They began to see Vijay as one of them. That bond only grew with each movie. While MGR was seen as the guardian who was almost god-like in purity—his characters were morally perfect with no room for any grey—Vijay was seen through a lens of aspiration. His fans were not only admirers, but also footsoldiers in a movement that could one day take them, too, to the position of commander. Vijay was the street-smart rebel—flawed, aggressive and heavy on swagger. This was not a deferential relationship.
When Ghilli was re-released in 2024, again to packed theatres, it was seen as the culmination of a promise. The film came on April 20; on February 4, Vijay had launched the TVK.
And in two years, he scaled the summit. This was in part thanks to an army of supporters online. While MGR’s fandom was broader, Vijay’s is concentrated among the youth, predominantly in urban areas. That perhaps explains the chain reaction on the internet to the blocking of Jana Nayagan earlier this year. When the Central Board of Film Certification delayed its release because of some “objectionable” content, the outrage travelled faster on social media than any film clip ever could. MGR’s cinema reached voters through theatres, but Vijay has digital fury on his side, too.
One of the most notable images from Jana Nagayan teasers was Vijay cracking a whip. This was a direct homage to MGR’s Enga Veetu Pillai, and was seen as the passing of the torch. What Vijay does with that torch is now the question. Sure, he has made it to power, but his legacy now depends on whether his institutional competence can match his popularity. The election story was a blockbuster, but the script for governance is still being drafted.