Gamini Fonseka
died 10 years ago. I remember tributes flowing in plenty. A show or two on
television. A radio program. Colleagues, personal friends, those who knew him
offhandedly but still well enough to warrant comment, eulogised him. They went
to great lengths to summarise the man in words and verse. They did his memory
proud. Gamini Fonseka left us that day in September leaving behind a void in
our cultural firmament unfilled or un-fillable by anyone else. There were those
who claimed and vouched for him a “giant”, “icon” status. Inimitable by anyone
else. Right they were. Right all the way.
As for me, I
grew up with the cinema. In general, though, my first love in a film was for
the actors in it. There was a time, back in my naive days, when I thought the
director dispensable. Erroneous though this view was, it left me room to
adulate and dote on the “stars”. One by one, they would come, alighting on the
screen and frequenting the films I watched, so much so that I simply couldn’t
fail to take note of their trademark, individual characteristics.
There was Joe
Abeywickrema, for instance, with his unparalleled ability at teetering between
pathos and seriousness in a medium that had seen lesser comedians take to the
fatally easy path of overacting. Then there was Henry Jayasena, attributing to
his performances a degree of charm and quiet dignity which, considering the
low-key nuanced breadth of his film roles, seemed erroneously incongruent with
his more high-powered, intense theatrical life.
And then,
perhaps rising above anyone else, there was Gamini Fonseka. The man had grit. A
lot. At a time when acting, in the West that is, was being stripped of all its
theatrical accretions, at a time when there was an increase of acting schools
emphasising heavily on natural acting, he stood out from the rest of the crowd
here by deciding to topple the stage-based style our actors had grown
accustomed to.
I have read
somewhere that Dilip Kumar (still among us) popularised this fad in Asia.
National icons are not made through imitation of this fad or the other. Dilip
Kumar knew this. He wisely, then, went to synthesise what he had learnt with
what his land of birth, India, demanded of him in the films he took part in.
Fonseka was no
different. I remember watching those films which had him when I was little. The
list, of course, would be endless in a way and quite unnecessary to include in
its entirety here. I had my favourite performance, of course. Without a doubt,
it was that of Willie Abeynayake, that brooding, impassive, but scheming
aristocrat who marries Malini Fonseka’s character to offer her as a sacrifice
in Dr. Lester James Peries’ Nidhanaya.
I have been
told, a long time back, that the amount of dedication he put into getting his
performance right showed on-set and off-set in that remarkable film. No-one who
has seen Nidhanaya – who has seen Willie’s epileptic fit, the hypnotic spasms
he invokes within himself while praying to the gods before sacrificing his
wife, to name just two scenes – can deny that what the man was reputed for in
his profession, he could put in with a film which demanded potential and
nothing less. Sinhala cinema didn’t produce any more Nidhanayas. That’s
sad, not just for the director, but for the actor too.
I know I can’t
go beyond this in my little tribute. Gamini Fonseka really was a “sakvithi”
(emperor) in our cinema. Across the Atlantic, a new breed of actors and
filmmakers was coming up. The age of the Western, of cowboys and gangsters, and
the celluloid world of good-vs.-evil where good triumphed, were soon to be
over. Out went the Golden Age of Hollywood. In came the freewheeling world of
Jack Nicholson and Al Pacino. Fonseka had triumphed at a time when acting had
come to a twilight world – when every trace of the epic, the larger-than-life, and
the pretentious was being spurned and shrugged off.
At this point,
he had arrived. Aptly. No other time could have been riper.
Perhaps,
however, I should stop here. I am not qualified to continue and indeed wouldn’t
want anyone to think otherwise. Where should I end, though? The sad truth, as
we all know it, is that Gamini Fonseka left a void. He had his political life,
as susceptible to praise and blame as had been his acting. Ideologically,
though, he was committed. Very much. Both Sagarayak Meda and Nomiyena
Minisun bear testament to that. Perhaps those two films, more than anything
else, showed him at his best, representing a fusion of everything he had
cherished and stood for.
Fonseka as
actor, as director, as political man, and, in the final analysis, as man
himself. That’s a lot of places to fill. He has his legacy. We continue it. And
it remains, even after 10 years, a chasm and an empty shell waiting, indeed
shrieking, to be filled. It cannot, of this I’m sure. Maybe that’s the biggest
tribute we can all pay him. After all, some gaps just can never be filled.
Written for: Ceylon Today ESCAPE, September 30 2014
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