The world of cinema has great movie superstars and great actors.

Superstars possess the inexplicable magnetic qualities that draw audiences towards them and into the cinemas. Superstardom is achieved when the charismatic actor develops an on-screen persona or an image, usually by playing similar parts.

Great actors, on the other hand, may not possess the charisma of a superstar, but they do have a chameleon-like quality to seamlessly disappear and transform into the character they are playing. It's not just the look, but the body language and the manner of expression.

There is always an undeclared bitterness between these two groups.

Once superstardom is achieved, the star often craves to play parts that are complex and multilayered and unlike their on-screen image. But their managers and studio bosses don't want to hurt the cash cow. The superstar, who is accustomed to the adulation and the luxurious lifestyle owing to the image, unwillingly toes the line while being envious of the actor.

The actor resents the superstar and quips, "he looks the same, sounds the same, and does the same thing in every movie. He plays himself and yet he earns millions and the ladies love him. We strive to achieve realism and nobody cares". They are also envious of the power, fame, and wealth that the star receives.

There are some individuals to whom these norms do not apply.

They are both great actors and great superstars.

There are a few individuals who fit this category, one among them is certainly Sir Sean Connery.

During the '60s, Sir Sean was the biggest film superstar in the world due to his career-defining performance as British superspy James Bond.

But as the series became more successful, the makers felt the pressure to outdo themselves while delivering exactly what the audience expected. Since the formula was working, the makers kept the plots similar, while the gadgets and sets evolved significantly. Sir Sean realized he was playing second fiddle to overwhelming technical wizardry.

Connery’s hunger for artistic challenges was satiated with films such as Marnie (1964) and The Hill (1965), but the on-screen image of Bond never left him. No matter what he did, fans, critics, and studio bosses wanted him to go back to playing the martini-drinking, womanizing, intrepid world-beating agent 007.

Connery relinquished his on-screen licence to kill, albeit not permanently, following Diamonds Are Forever (1971), hoping for greener pastures as an actor.

His ambitions were realized in 1972, when he produced and starred in blistering Nietzschean psychological drama The Offence (1973), adapted from a stage play by John Hopkins called This Story of Yours.

Sir Sean played Detective-Sergeant Johnson in suburban Britain, leading a hunt to capture a serial killer who is preying on young school girls. The area is on high alert, and the police, led by Sir Sean's character, attempt to hunt down the predator. 

This isn't a typical crowd-pleasing cat-and-mouse thriller with contrived twists and turns; instead, this picture is a searing study of its principal character. When Detective Johnson interrogates a potential suspect, the audience realizes that there isn't much difference between protector and predator. Detective Johnson has gazed for long into an abyss, and the abyss is gazing back at him.

The audience is left to wonder if the character already possessed predatory proclivities, and the mayhem witnessed on the beat made it considerably worse, or perhaps the debilitating PTSD was caused solely by the relentless violence. 

The audience is also compelled to ponder if darkness within is essential for a law enforcement official to be effective -- how else can they catch psychopaths unless they understand them? How else can they understand psychopaths unless they have something dark within? 

Sir Sean's character is almost a personification of violence, both in his actions and his words. He's often unable to function without being demeaning or aggressive, or even violent towards those surrounding him. Sir Sean transforms into his character both physically, verbally, and psychologically.

Most superstars wouldn't dare to touch such a film or part with a barge pole for fear that their image would be harmed, but Sir Sean relished this challenge.

This was a career-best performance for Connery, right up there with the best of the best, such as Al Pacino in The Godfather or Marlon Brando in On the Waterfront (1954) or Gene Hackman in The Conversation (1974) or Ben Kingsley in Gandhi (1982), etc.  

It should have earned Sir Sean all the plaudits and awards. 

Unfortunately, the eminence of a film or a performance doesn't automatically earn awards. For award success, the film must receive a proper release in the U.S. and have a marketing campaign for the film to Oscar voters.

Alas, The Offence was inadequately marketed, and despite Sir Sean's presence remained unreleased in many markets and didn't receive a wide release in the US.

Sir Sean could have used his connections as a superstar to launch his campaign for the best actor at the Oscars, but that wasn't the manner in which he operated. Perhaps for him, the work and the satisfaction of portraying such a complex character was the highest award.

Sir Sean did win an Oscar in 1988 for his performance in The Untouchables, but he should have won it first for The Offence.

The Offence is a reminder that if Sir Sean wasn't blessed with the attributes that made him a global superstar, his talents would have enabled him a career as a character actor. 

This very dark, disturbing, and thought-provoking picture deserves a watch from fans of Sir Sean and fans of cinema in general.

Here's remembering and celebrating Sir Sean Connery, who would have been 95 years old today.