But narrow corners are never
for the versatile and eclectic. Ravindra Randeniya is both these things. A
narrow corner could never have been for him. To have been so would be to fit a
square peg in a round whole. Conversing with him on a leisurely Thursday
morning, I am left with a deep sense of awe and admiration, not just for him,
but for his profession too. I hope that I may have made at least a passing
attempt to be faithful to what he shared with me in what I write of him. I pray
that it be so. Here goes.
We begin in 1945. That was
when Randeniya was born, in Dalugama, Kelaniya. Randeniya’s father, a self-made
businessman, put him in the church-run St. Francis School nearby. Two years
later, he went to St. Benedict’s College, a school which he regards with the
deepest, but most rational, nostalgia. It was there, he tells me, that his
interest in the arts was established.
This was in the 1950s, a
most turbulent decade in our country. Flings at the unconventional – in the
cinema, the theatre, and music – would be attempted by various artistes, and
Randeniya, caught in this era, found himself addicted to literature. “At a time
when everyone indulged in pulp fiction, I was reading Martin Wickremasinghe,
Tolstoi, Chekhov and Gorky with immense pleasure. I remember being teased about it,” the avid reader tells me, half-smiling. Surely, with his enthusiasm
over the arts and letters at this stage (one of his contributions to the
college magazine won him a Best Short Story award), there would have been at least
a passing interest in his profession to come, right?
Wrong. “I was never
interested in acting,” he tells me. Acting to him was, in college, limited to
one major performance – in a fifth standard production of Sigiri Kashyapa,
in which he was Kashyapa. His main interest, he insists, was in literature, not
in the performing arts. Even today, he cannot quite explain what drove him to
his career. “It’s unfathomable,” he half-jokingly observes. Not that he
detested it, but, at a time when infinite pleasures were to be had from Gorki’s
and Wickremasinghe’s writings, acting simply would not have been in his scheme
of things.
The “unfathomable” began to unravel
itself in 1969. That was when Randeniya joined the Lionel Wendt Theatre
Workshop. Dhamma Jagoda, enfant-terrible of the acting trade, who was
seeking to move it from the stylized form it had grown accustomed to, had
inaugurated it. Randeniya remembers his years at Wendt in almost a reverie. For
him, all he could learn about acting, and indeed about the arts, was taught
there. “Jagoda had gone to America on a scholarship, and had learnt all he
could about the acting fads current there at the time.” Bursting with new ideas,
Jagoda had returned with an almost feverish intent to preach his gospel.
A gospel yet to reach
Randeniya, who, however, did not concern himself with acting initially. “I went
for the screenwriting, directing and stage décor lessons at Lionel Wendt.”
Through some quirk of fate, however, he was destined otherwise. “Somehow or the
other, I found myself in the acting class.” A class that was to open to him the
textbook which would prove essential in the years to come.
Then came his first role, as
the younger brother in Gunasena Galappaththy’s Muhudu Putthu. His first
film role, in Kalu Diya Dahara, came in 1970. Lester James Peries came
to him with Desa Nisa one year later. But the real turning point was to
come with Siripala saha Ranmenika, in 1977. Here, more than with any of
the films preceding it, he was compelled to absorb his experiences at Lionel
Wendt. “I had once acted as Samson, the Sinhalized version of Stanley Kowalski,
in Ves Muhunu, an adaptation of A Streetcar Named Desire. I feel
that this character’s near-bestial savageness was transplanted into my
performance in the film. It was a landmark for me.” From then on, it was a mere
climb up the hill.
It is from this point that
one can assess his performances, all of which, at least in the serious films,
demanded enormous reserves of dedication. Jagoda championed the Method, a style
of acting which called for just such dedication. And Randeniya, the chela
to Jagoda’s guru, has nothing but praise for it. Think of Daniel
Day-Lewis’ notorious “selectivity” when it comes to his roles, and you can
imagine just how well Randeniya pushed himself to his performances. “I can
never understand all this talk about ‘alienating’ oneself from one’s acting,”
he tells me. For him, the highest potential an actor can reach is in his
ability to blend in with his role – but not, he tells me, to the point of “complete
immersion.” In striking a balance between the need to be oneself and one’s
role, Randeniya seems to have struck a chord.
In any case, one is left
with the thought that no other actor could have played his characters with as
much painstaking intensity. Think of Maya (1984), where he invests his depiction
of an unwitting but desperate murderer with solidity; of Janelaya
(1987), where for a full 40-odd minutes he is a mute murderer intent on silencing
the only witness to his crime; and of Siri Medura (1989), where he is a cripple
unable to move or talk. No other actor could have played them, and for good
reason too. They all demanded a shying away from melodrama and sensationalism,
two fatally easy traits to have attributed to them.
If one couples them with his
most shocking role, that of the “most hateful villain in our cinema” (his own
words) in Vasantha Obeysekera’s Dadayama (1984), one can guess how much
inbred dedication needed to be there even with the minutest emotion,
sensitivity and gesture in them all. Viewers tend to consider them trifles, the
easiest things in the world. The truth is, and I have his own reminiscences to support
it, that the hardest job for an actor is to play out without words or speech.
Think of Chaplin the silent
Tramp, bumping his way with the deepest subtleties from one street-corner to
another; and of Chaplin the witty murderer in Monsieur Verdoux, making
up for his lack of movement with metaphysical abstractions. Randeniya’s
intensely felt dedication is to be seen in the former, not the latter. This
explains his admiration for Marlon Brando. It need not be added that Brando once
played Stanley Kowalski, a role Randeniya had once adapted successfully to a
Sinhala setting.
It has been more than 40
years since Randeniya’s schooling under Dhamma Jagoda began, and a lot has
happened since. The acting profession is certainly a noble one. It may have
languished a little in today’s culture of specialisation. But for Randeniya,
there can be “no regrets,” looking back at his career. Indeed. A sentiment shared
by all his peers, no doubt: his partners in a trade that, in its heyday, left
no room for a narrow corner.
Written for: Ceylon Today LATITUDE, July 20 2014
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