Shakespeare is universal. Indeed, he may have
been the world’s first truly universal artist. That’s hardly a contestable
fact. But transposing him to another setting, and in the process spilling half
his essence in the dust, is formidable. It cannot be done. Lesser men have
given up. Nonetheless, from among those who tried and tested this incomparable
writer in their native background, there were those who succeeded. They were
rare. This week we mourned the passing away of one of these rare gems. By way
of tribute even, we can hardly repay, or even for that matter measure, the debt
we owe to him. Bandula Vithanage, one of the Sinhala theatre’s most treasured
icons, is no more.
Language and literature are not clean
different. They are interconnected in ways few would dare dispute. The problem
with Shakespeare, and indeed with many other playwrights, is that, sans his
text and idiom, it is difficult to convey to any audience his outlook. This is
a problem endemic to every language. Translation in a way castrates the essence
of any text. What Bandula Vithanage did was to strip his translations of any
dogmatic tendency towards embracing the vernacular while neglecting the Bard’s
locale. No-one who had the privilege of seeing his Venisiye Velenda (The
Merchant of Venice), as I did, can deny that. But I’m getting myself a
little too ahead here.
Bandula Vithanage was born in 1940, at a time
when the world had spurned colonialism and countries were striving to reclaim
lost identities. Educated initially at a school at Athuruwella, in Bentota, and
later at Carey College Colombo, young Vithanage completed his A/Levels at
Dharmasoka College Ambalangoda. While his primary education had been in
English, he opted for Sinhala in his later studies, a curious anomaly which
opened to him the best of both languages. He revelled in this twilight,
bilingual world, and his interest in the theatre was furthered by his encounter
with Shakespeare. Later, at Colombo University, he came under the influence of
Professor Ediriweera Sarachchandra. Here, arguably, he achieved a near-complete
fusion of East and West, creating the base on which his later career would
rest.
Not surprisingly, he began his career as
dramatist with a translation: a play by Harold Pinter. He began associating
himself with Sugathapala de Silva, then an unabashed critic of Professor
Sarachchandra’s stylized plays, and Simon Navagaththegama, the novelist and
playwright. Through de Silva he began his association with another Shakespeare
aficionado, Tony Ranasinghe. Meanwhile, of course, a whole spate of plays
continued, both translations and originals. These attempts all won award and
accolade, with his debut, Gangawak Sapaththu Kabalak saha Maranayak
(written by Navagaththegama) gaining two State Drama Festival awards.
To those who thought that an art medium
transposed to another setting must be stripped of all its foreign accretions,
Bandula Vithanage was an unforgivable rebel. His translations of Thornton
Wilder (Senehabara Dolly, Hiru Dahasa) and Jean Anouilh (Becket)
were “vernacular” in their language only: in pretty much everything else, the
“background” was decidedly Western. This didn’t seem to trouble him, though,
and we see the legacy of this anomaly in productions of foreign plays even
today.
Every playwright has his baptism of fire, his
vigil. Vithanage met his with Shakespeare. His friendship with Tony Ranasinghe
resulted in the first “real” translation of the Bard, with Venisiye Velenda.
It was first staged in 1980, at a time of deep social revolt. Shakespeare seems
to have struck ground with him, when, in a 2009 interview, he admitted that the
Bard could influence and indeed had influenced the Sinhala theatre. That’s
true. Shakespeare was not foreign to Sri Lanka the same way Brecht had been.
Henry Jayasena had brought Brecht to our country; Shakespeare, however, had
been with us since the days of Nurti and John de Silva. What Vithanage did,
however, was to make available to a lay audience, with no music or melodrama
(as was the case with John de Silva), Shakespeare in a local backdrop. That he
succeeded is in a large part due to his early schooling and childhood interest
in foreign plays.
More were to follow, of course: there were
translations of Twelfth Night, Macbeth, Hamlet, Romeo
and Juliet, and A Comedy of Errors. They all won him accolades, none
of which could ever hope to measure the ripples in Sinhala theatre he had
created.
Then there were his stints at the cinema. Like
all thespians deeply rooted in the stage, he exhibited a distaste for the film
medium. But he joined it nonetheless. There were roles in Ahas Gawwa, Viragaya,
Mathu Yam Davasa, and a whole lot more. There were also stints at
television, which is how I first got to see him. But nothing could compare with
the stage for him: “I hardly read novels,” he once remarked, “mostly plays.”
The only way he could have summed his interest up. It hardly needs to be added
that he rarely, if at all, watched films in his childhood. Plays occupied his
entire time. The stage was his vindication, an entire vista justifying his
career, illustrious as it was.
Looking back, it seems difficult to put down in
two or three sentences what more than 30 years accomplished. Writers can do
scant justice to monuments, after all. The Bard left us almost 400 years ago. His
legacy seems indomitable enough. What Bandula Vithanage, and indeed those who
followed him in school productions and elsewhere, did was to bring that legacy
closer to home. The Bard had hitherto been mainly confined to Dramsoc and
Nurti. Vithanage ensured that Shakespeare need not be open to only those who
enjoyed the perks of English education. He also ensured, however, that this did
not lead to the Bard’s language being castrated in the process of revealing his
magic to a lay audience.
A long time it has been since he caught us
unawares with Venisiye Velenda. A much longer time it has been since
Dramsoc fell apart in the wake of people like Sarachchandra and the 1956
cultural revolt. Much has happened. We can never pay back Bandula Vithanage for
what he unleashed. The greatest tribute to be paid to him, I think, is by
immortalizing his legacy. “How?” you may ask. By ensuring that what he
unleashed is not contorted, narrowed, or constricted in the pursuit of
short-term profit or pleasure. I am sure you will agree.
Written for: Ceylon Today LATITUDE, September 7 2014
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