It was 2001. Aamir Khan had two films lined up. Neither stirred much excitement. Neither seemed interesting enough.The names behind them didn't inspire confidence either. One was helmed by Ashutosh Gowariker, whose previous collaboration with Khan, Baazi (there was a cameo too in Pehla Nasha) had faded from memory as quickly as it arrived. The other was led by a debutant director, Farhan Akhtar, whose only claim to intrigue seemed to be his lineage. The whispers didn't help either. One film had Khan playing a village farmer, hardly the stuff of blockbusters. In the other, he shared the frame with two relatively lesser known faces. Nothing about these projects suggested the seismic shift they were about to trigger. Perhaps everyone misjudged. Or worse, they failed to see what Khan had already glimpsed. Maybe they weren't paying attention. Maybe they couldn't see him at all.
The Slide Till 2001
After all, back then, Khan was just another actor whose filmography offered little to linger on, let alone celebrate. Yes, his magnetic debut in Qayamat Se Qayamat Tak had made him a heartthrob, but what followed was a stretch of misfires and mediocrity. For every Rangeela and Sarfarosh, there was a Mela and a Mann dragging him back to the ordinary. He flirted with fresher, independent voices (Aditya Bhattacharya, Ram Gopal Varma, Deepa Mehta), but more often, he leaned on the safety net of big-league filmmakers (Mahesh Bhatt, Yash Chopra, Inder Kumar). Occasionally, he strayed into something different, but his instincts kept circling back to familiar, romantic terrain. Even at the box office, his shine had faded. His last true blockbuster, Raja Hindustani, was already five years behind him. By 2001, the odds and perceptions were stacked against him. It seemed like he had everything to lose and almost nothing to gain.
However, If there's one actor who refuses to be pinned down, who defies, eludes, and shatters expectations, it's Khan. In 2001, he arrived twice, just two months apart, and each time, he tore through the rules of commercial Hindi cinema. He didn't just reshape the language of storytelling; he redefined the moment, and in the process, himself.
The Cult Of Lagaan
The first was Lagaan, a leap so improbable, it feels like myth. In retrospect, it seems destined for glory. After all, a perfect fusion of cinema and cricket, India's twin obsessions. How could it fail? But to read it only through hindsight is to miss its razor's edge. Its screenplay was a high-wire act, so delicate, so radical, that it was more likely to collapse under its own ambition than to succeed. And then, there was Dil Chahta Hai: so fresh, so disarmingly modern, that you had to experience it to believe it. Today, it might seem like an effortless breeze; a buddy film about love and friendship. But back then, it was nothing less than a rebellion. Its form, its content, its gaze, everything about it broke from the past. Only from the safe distance of retrospect does its triumph feel certain. In reality, few films have ever altered the landscape the way it did.
And since then, few actors have altered the medium the way Khan has. Almost overnight, his name was everywhere: on every screen, on everyone's lips. It felt as if he had emerged from nowhere and suddenly had it all. Next to him, the other Khans (Shah Rukh and Salman) seemed to blur into the background. With every new role, he appeared to shed his old self and become someone else entirely. He was no longer just any other actor: he was the most versatile, the most cerebral, and perhaps, the most secure. It didn't matter if he played second fiddle. It didn't matter if the director he worked with had never tasted success. What mattered was the pursuit of telling something new, something urgent. He wanted to tell stories that cut deeper, to stretch the language of cinema, to move audiences in ways they hadn't been before. In an industry that clings to the familiar, he became a beacon for risk. In a world where most play the same character on repeat, he chose to be a chameleon; always shifting, always one step ahead.
On The Up And Up
Mangal Pandey, Rang De Basanti, Fanaa, Ghajini, 3 Idiots, Dhobi Ghat, Talaash…the list really goes on. With each film, he unlocked new shades of himself, stretching his range, deepening his craft. Each role didn't just make him a household name (if he wasn't one already), it cemented his place as a cultural obsession. The audience wasn't just watching him anymore; they were waiting for him. Every year, they opened their hearts and their wallets, flocking to theatres in numbers that only grew larger. Inevitably, he became the most bankable, the most profitable. His films didn't just reshape cinema; they rewrote the business itself. Ghajini was the first Bollywood film to net Rs 100 crore in the domestic market. 3 Idiots pushed the boundary to 200 crore. PK shattered it again with Rs 300 crore. The records kept falling, and the list again kept growing. Perhaps, for the first time, he became the rarest figure in Hindi cinema: someone who effortlessly married art with commerce, and made both feel inseparable. Perhaps, for the first time, he was no longer just an actor who took risks, he was a star who could act.
But that's the thing about stardom: it demands to be the centre of everything. No matter how much Khan insists he is an actor first, no matter how much the world admires the actor in him, he remains…a star. And stars, by their very nature, cannot escape gravity—they pull everything towards themselves. What followed in his filmography is fascinating. On the surface, he seemed to continue the path he had carved for over a decade: taking risks, choosing stories that defied formula. But quietly, almost imperceptibly, he began to shape a formula out of what once felt formless. His films gave room for others to shine but only until he arrived. They weren't about him, until, suddenly, they were. And once he stepped into the frame, there was no looking anywhere else.
The Star In The Shadows
Take films like Dangal or Secret Superstar. Both widely acclaimed, both deeply loved, both massively successful. On the surface, these are stories where Khan steps back, allowing other characters to take centre stage. And yet, their journey toward fulfilment always circles back to him. In both films, his heroism is amplified by caricatured villains, who are conveniently one-note and easy to hate, ensuring that his presence remains the focal point. The same holds true for Taare Zameen Par, 3 Idiots, and even PK. Time and again, he becomes the voice of reason, the fountain of wisdom, the man who can do no wrong. The world around him is always in need of saving, and he is always the saviour. In this sense, Khan, despite his reputation as a rule-breaker, mirrors every other Bollywood star: upright, invincible, indispensable. No matter how unconventional his films may appear, they remain, at their heart, star vehicles. They are subtly designed to magnify his presence, to orbit his image, and consequently, to serve his myth.
The myth of the perfectionist. A label casually tossed his way, embraced by the media and audience alike. But perhaps he took it too seriously. Perhaps it now shapes the way he makes his films—subtly but unmistakably. Because by now, this pattern is hard to miss. Yet, there's another pattern worth noting: whenever Khan positions himself as the unambiguous hero, the cracks begin to show.
The Awkwardness Of Ghajini And Dhoom 3
This first became apparent in Ghajini. Even then (and more so now) his performance felt almost unwatchable. But back then, the film itself was such a novelty for mainstream audiences (never mind that it borrowed liberally from Christopher Nolan's Memento and was a remake of a Tamil blockbuster) that few looked past its surface. Since then, whenever Khan has tried to lead a conventional, hero-driven spectacle, the strain has only grown harder to ignore.
Sure, Dhoom 3 raked in bizarre numbers, but watching Khan lead a franchise built on sheer charisma and swagger felt oddly out of place. It felt like a guest overstaying a party that was never meant for them. The discomfort only deepened with Thugs of Hindostan, a pointless period actioner where the cracks were too wide to ignore. This time, the audience was sharp enough to notice, and the film collapsed under its own weight. It was Khan's first true disaster since his golden streak began in 2001. What followed was an even sharper descent. Laal Singh Chaddha became a lightning rod for mockery. His performance: broad, mannered, almost cartoonish, was ridiculed with rare ferocity. Sure, an argument can be made (and Khan himself has said this) that both Thugs of Hindostan and Laal Singh Chaddha failed because they were simply shoddy films.
We Expect Too Much
But there's another, more unsettling argument: the backlash, particularly against Laal Singh Chaddha, wasn't just about false notes in his performance. It was the sheer disbelief that a so-called ‘perfectionist' could stumble so spectacularly. Maybe then the real issue isn't just the films themselves—it's us. We expect every “Aamir Khan project” to carry weight, to deliver a message, to be a cultural event. Maybe we've grown incapable of accepting his films as just stories; as pure entertainment. We expect every character he portrays to align with the values associated with his brand: intelligence, morality, and social consciousness. Perhaps that's why a performance like Talaash rarely finds space in popular discourse. Simply because it doesn't serve his image. It doesn't seek to reassure or inspire. It just lets him be flawed, broken, and human. Indeed, it's an impossible paradox—one where Khan, ironically, has become like any other major star in India: bound by the expectations of his fan base. Indeed, it's a curious evolution—an actor who once took pride in doing things differently now finds himself pigeonholed in a cage of his own making.
Will There Be A Second Coming?
It's 2025 now. Khan is 60 today. He has a film on the horizon. But the landscape isn't what it used to be. The rules have changed since he last stood in the spotlight. The very genres he once championed are now relegated to the world of OTT. It's said only larger-than-life action (or horror) spectacles can draw audiences. His is a breezy, message-driven comedy. Remakes, they say, are a dying breed. His is an adaptation of a Spanish film. Nothing about it suggests it should work. But then again, nothing in 2001 did either. Maybe everyone is misjudging him. Or worse, maybe he's failing to see what he once was. Maybe they're still not paying attention. Because maybe—just like them—he, too, can't see that he's always been a perfectionist second, and a trailblazer first.
(Anas Arif is a film writer and a media graduate from AJKMCRC, Jamia Millia Islamia)
Disclaimer: These are the personal opinions of the author
