Blurring the line between performance and reality, Rajkummar Rao has taken the art of method acting to a whole new level.
Back in 1976, during the shooting of 'Marathon Man', actor Dustin Hoffman had a scene where his character hadn’t slept in three days. To make it real, Hoffman himself stayed awake for 72 hours. When he told this to his co-star, the great Laurence Olivier, Olivier said something that has since become legend, “My dear boy, why don’t you just try acting?” And that witty remark captured the eternal debate about performance: should actors live their roles or simply play them with skill? Now, for Rajkummar Rao, the answer lies somewhere else entirely. When reminded of this story in an interview with Anupama Chopra, Rao acknowledged Olivier’s genius but added his own belief, “Of course, what he meant makes sense. But that’s one process. For me, going deep into a character’s psyche gives you a chance to experience something so fun and interesting. I want to enjoy that.” And that’s what makes Rao special. Whether it’s watching strangers on the street, adjusting his body language, or reshaping his inner world, he builds characters from the inside out. Call it method acting or whatever, what he brings out on the screen is his own brand of magic.
Today, on the 'Stree' actor's birthday, let’s look at some of the many ways Rajkummar Rao transforms method into mastery.
For Rajkummar Rao, acting often begins in silence. He lingers in railway compartments, at tea stalls, and in busy markets, watching how people fold their hands when they talk, how a pause stretches between sentences, or how a shopkeeper leans on his counter. And these fragments later become the grain of his characters. In 'Bareilly Ki Barfi', it was the slight hesitations and small-town rhythms that gave Vidrohi Ji his comic spark. In 'CityLights’, it was the weary slump of a man trying to keep dignity alive in the city’s margins. For the actor, observation is less a research assignment than a living notebook, which he flips open each time a script demands the ordinary made specific.
Take a quick look at Rao’s characters, and you'll realize that they are rarely generic. Their words belong to the places they inhabit. And that's why for 'Bareilly Ki Barfi', he absorbed the cadences of Uttar Pradesh, especially those stretched vowels, the clipped interjections, and the little pauses between thought and speech. It gave Vidrohi’s voice the unforced warmth of someone you might meet on a Bareilly street. In 'Newton', by contrast, his delivery was taut and clipped, the rhythm of a man bound by procedure. The choice turned what could have been a satirical sketch into a painfully believable government clerk. For 'Stree', he borrowed the speaking style of a Haryana Bus conductor.
Sometimes, observation alone is not enough. For 'Trapped', where a man is locked for days in a deserted high-rise, Rao pared his body down to skin and bone, surviving on coffee and carrots so the hunger on screen would not need acting. “It was physically and mentally exhausting,” he admitted, but the rawness showed in every trembling gesture. For 'Srikanth', the recent biopic of a visually impaired entrepreneur, he wore contact lenses and lived among people who could not see. He trained himself to navigate space without sight so that each movement on screen felt unstudied.
Rao has never been the kind of actor who protects himself from the bruises of a role. In 'Shahid', his breakthrough and the performance that won him the National Film Award, he stepped into the life of a lawyer and human rights activist who was assassinated in Mumbai. And the film demanded stripping away of safety nets. One of the most searing moments comes in a prison sequence where his character is tortured. Rao later recalled in an interview that during filming, “I felt no shame. I could only feel the pain”. It wasn’t acting in the conventional sense, but surrendering and letting the moment consume him until only the rawest nerves remained visible.
That approach wasn’t limited to 'Shahid'. On different sets, Rao has asked for conditions that make him uncomfortable, whether it's an unheated room, a lack of rehearsal, or a camera positioned so close it captures the tremor in his breath. Rather than shield himself from vulnerability, he leans into it, believing that a hint of real embarrassment or real exhaustion can turn a good performance into one that unsettles the audience. And this ethos has become part of his reputation. Directors often speak of Rao’s readiness to “go there,” to risk physical or emotional unease if it makes the work truer.
Some roles linger long after the cameras stop. To inhabit terrorist Ahmed Omar Saeed Sheikh in 'Omerta', Rao steeped himself in archival footage and disturbing propaganda videos. The research, he later said, left him drained, pulling him into mental spaces hard to climb out of. Director Hansal Mehta, his frequent collaborator, has noted how Rao “surrenders himself” to difficult material. That surrender is what shifts his work from impersonation to conviction, though it sometimes exacts a psychological toll. Rao himself has admitted that certain parts require time to shake off.
And his transformations are never (I repeat, never) empty gestures. In 'Trapped', the visible ribs and hollow cheeks made the desperation undeniable. In 'Newton', it was his posture involving the slight stiffness, the meticulous walk, and the careful placing of files, which made honesty itself feel like a bodily stance. These adjustments are subtle, often invisible if you are not looking for them, yet they breathe life into the illusion.
Happy Birthday, Rao!
