There are stars who fade and those who don’t. There are also
those whose names are so etched in our collective memory, that to lose them
from our “caress” (so to speak) would be nothing less than a travesty, a
momentary lapse, on our part. We owe it to these men and women, these icons who
came and enriched our lives and experiences, to never forget and always keep to
heart, and for one simple reason: so as to bequeath them to generations that
followed them and generations that will follow us. If we forget them, we forget everything.
Gamini Fonseka can’t be written about. Not that easily.
There have been, to the best of my knowledge, books and essays and tributes
running by the dozen, all attempting to present the man and his career in the
best way possible. The problem with him however is that everyone has his or her
way of describing him, and it takes a while to establish a point of congruence
between them. For this man wasn’t just a fighter in the scripts he was in: he
was also a lover, a moralist, someone who spoke for justice and fair play the
way he thought he could. I saw him in Parasathumal
and I saw him in Sarungale, and to me
the two were (almost) one and the same.
That was Gamini. At his best.
There were, of course, those usual, less than memorable
roles. We remembered the fisticuffs in them, the lovers crooning by bushes, the
hero dashing his way to save the heroine. That hero was always Gamini. Even in
his less than conventional performances – in Koti Valigaya and in Parasathumal
– he couldn’t quite get rid of his bravado, that sense of daring and mischief
which won him everyone in his country. “He was an icon” is at best, I feel, a
clichéd and overused way of describing this, for the simple reason that he went
beyond being just an icon. He became a symbol. And like all symbols, he ended
up using the same trademarks. Again and again.
No, writers haven’t really done justice to the man. There
were those who referred to him as a “Method Actor”, a man who emulated Marlon
Brando and that in a way which was at best imitative, at worst crass. He was
not Brando, that much is clear. He had his affiliations, his devotion to
various stars held as sacrosanct in his day (including Paul Muni, the Austrian
actor). But to call them imitative and hence regard them as rubbish would be to
do a grave injustice to this man.
For the simple fact of the matter was, Gamini Fonseka knew
his people. I remember watching an interview of him conducted by the inimitable
Nuwan Nawayanjith Kumara sometime back. Gamini was, if memory serves me right,
asked about his background and roots. Having recounted his past for a few
minutes, he detoured and made a point which probably summed him up better than
anything else could. “Just because I was brought up in Dehiwela,” he said, “and
just because I was educated in Mount Lavinia, that didn’t
mean I forgot my roots. We were from the village too, you must remember. We
knew how to live with our community. We were hence never detached.”
He spoke with such conviction that I’m sure he was being
honest with himself. And anyway, even in his less than serious performances you
saw this pretty well. He was unparalleled in Chandiya and Yakadaya,
two films which had him play out the hard-bitten antihero. Perhaps that
accounts for how he could blend into other characters as well: he was
repulsively empathetic opposite Vasanthi Chathurani in Amal Biso, and quietly poignant (not to mention convincing) in Sarungale. The latter film,
incidentally, brought out and exemplified Gamini the lyricist (“Bambarindu
Bambarindu” remains, for me, a haunting tribute to the crisis featured in that
remarkable film, which at once personalises what Gamini, as the caste-conscious
but gentle Nadarajah, grapples with).
He was also not a populist. Observe the films he directed.
True, they were all concerned with the common man, but for Gamini what struck a
chord in them all was his personal, intense preoccupation with justice and fair
play. This could at times be a weakness, of course: it almost robbed Sagarayak Meda, which lampooned a
dictatorial minister in a fictional government, of human density, for instance.
His themes were all black and white, with no shades of grey. His world was
occupied by the good and the bad, and in the end, the good triumphed, even if
that moment of triumph could be bitter.
Towards the end of his career, his roles became less
sympathetic. He infused sensitivity remarkably into his depiction of Simon
Kabilana in Lester James Peries’ Yuganthaya,
who was at once authoritarian and unsure (Sarath Amunugama, in a speech on
Lester some years ago, once compared the final close-up shot of a distraught
Simon to those harrowing close-up shots in Eisenstein’s landmark film Battleship Potemkin, of people so
uncertain and afraid of the future), but he was repulsive as the mudalali in
Sumitra Peries’ Loku Duwa. I have
been told that he modelled himself on a real-life mudalali when he was acting
in that film. I am sure it was that conviction which came through. At once.
Actors sometimes tend to play themselves. They do this so
well that at times we forget the distinction between performer and performance.
Gamini was like that. In one sense Parasathumal
and Sarungale are clean different.
But in another sense – taking into account his performances – they were
virtually the same, because both had Gamini as Gamini. This is not a crude
simplification but a spontaneous reflection on the man’s talent. In the end he
won us. All those awards and titles he received, though rightly deserving, were
peripheral. What mattered was how the people viewed him. What matter was how his
name became his performance.
He was towering, this man. He knew when to step in a script
and how to contort gesture and feeling. He was quiet in Gamperaliya but could be brash. He was authoritarian in Yuganthaya but could be forlorn (and he
was, as Getawarayo showed). Together
with Joe Abeywickrama, the man who made you laugh, and Tony Ranasinghe, the man
who filled you with empathy for him from the word go, he formed the trinity of
actors who continue(d) to enrich our collective unconscious. If that isn’t
reason enough to celebrate him, I don’t know what would be.
Written for: Daily News TOWN AND COUNTRY, March 30 2016
Written for: Daily News TOWN AND COUNTRY, March 30 2016
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