Reflections on Akira Kurosawa

I didn't watch many films as a child. Perhaps this was because I didn't like them. It was after much wrangling and arm-twisting (by my mother) that I saw them. That was a time when there were classics which were shown on TV every other week. My mother, who wasn't really a film connoisseur but had taste when it came to these things, recommended watching them. I didn't take it to heart of course, but eventually relented. Some of those films impressed me. Some inspired me. The rest didn't. Naturally.

There was one that moved me, though. Its story petrified me. Four witnesses to a (samurai's) murder are brought to court. Each of them has a story to tell. At the end of it all, while neither story gets us any closer to the truth of what happened, they are told in a way that makes whoever tells them the hero of the incident. So when the samurai's wife tells her version of what happened, she is a paragon of virtue. When the samurai himself (through a "medium") tells his version, however, she is a betrayer. No one gets it right here. Ever. Predictably, we are left with no answers.

That film is loved for quite a number of reasons today. It has since become one of my favourites. And it wasn't too hard to see why or how. There probably were a hundred different ways of telling its story. For me, though, there could not have been a better way that it could have captured heart, mind, and soul. At the end of the day, if a film does that to me, I admire it. Unconditionally.

Rashomon was directed by Akira Kurosawa. Kurosawa directed other films. Other masterpieces. Having discovered my love for films, I dug into them all. At the end of my little journey, while I wasn't any closer to discovering him, I got to realise some essential truths about the cinema. I also got to know him. He wasn't just a director or a giant. He was a figurehead. And like all figureheads, he guided us.

He would have been 105 last Monday. He was 88 when he died. Tissa Abeysekara, in his essay "The Only One of His Kind", tried to judge the worth of the man. I can only quote what he wrote:

"No other director in the history of cinema has covered so much of life, observed so much, probed so deeply, and in such a variety of forms. From the sweeping tracking shots which open Rashomon... to the impressionistic visual rhetoric of Throne of Blood, Kurosawa has moved from one act to the other with the greatest of ease."

Rashomon

Some directors change. Some others, very rarely I should think, change so quickly that it's hard to keep track of them. Kurosawa was such a filmmaker. No single theme or subject-matter can sum up his career. At once fiery and reserved (he never talked about his films), he probed the depths of the human soul in so many ways. To list and examine them all here is beyond my task. For now, a few reflections would do.

Kurosawa was not at home in Japan. He took to Shakespeare and Dostoyevsky with the "greatest of ease", though he understood neither language. It was as if he were venerating a higher language here, one that wasn't spoken, read, or written. The language of the cinema.

And yet, he was never happy with what he filmed. You could see that with the way he progressed. Take his earlier works and compare them to his last few films to see the difference. As the years went by and the world grew darker, there was a pessimism in them that couldn't be defined. Unlike that other giant of the cinema in Asia, Satyajit Ray, Kurosawa couldn't maintain grace under pressure. True, his films were austere and free of frill. But as time passed, he couldn't handle that simplicity. He electrified us. And sometimes, as in Kagemusha, we were electrified so deeply that we just couldn't handle his world: cruel, savage, with no room for goodness.

Sometimes, gently and happily, he swerved. In Ikiru, his most moving story, there was that same goodness which seemed to elude his stories. Kanji Watanabe, the lonely hero in that remarkable film, is unloved. To him, there is no meaning in life. In his quest to find it, and to help others, he sacrifices and ends up ridiculing himself, to the point where everyone realises his worth only after death. His act of sacrifice serves as a lesson to his colleagues, until, towards the end, we realise that no matter how triumphant in death he was, Watanabe's moral is taken to heart by just one person.

Kurosawa didn't have room for stories like that, sadly. In his universe, there were very few Watanabes and too many samurais. There was evil, intrigue, war, and bloodshed. Out of them, in one or two sequences perhaps, there was also comedy. But in the end, this comedy deteriorated into pathos, leaving behind a shell-shocked world where good pitted against evil and evil won. Not that this absolved the "good", for even Kurosawa's heroes had their faults. Even Watanabe.

I think he realised this. Being the stubborn man he was, however, he persisted with his vision. While there were no set themes that defined the man, he always went for historical epics that ran well over budgets and frustrated his producers. After Red Beard and Dodes'ka-den, there was a period of exile. His return to the cinema, with the quiet, reflective Dersu Uzala (in 1975) was symbolic, hence: it began his last phase, one that would be marked by financial woes and creative lags. Inevitable, considering how stubborn he could be.

In Madadayo, his last and most personal testament, he tried to reconcile himself to the world outside. The attempt succeeded, well beyond what was expected. The story of a lonely professor, spanning over 80 years, was unusually calm, even comical. It reflected him in a way: formidable, stubborn, yet essentially well-meaning. In a world as far from Rashomon or Kagemusha as it could be.

Madadayo ends plaintively, almost innocently. The professor lies dying in hospital. He remembers one day when, as a boy, he played hide-and-seek with a group of friends. After hiding in a haystack, he exclaims "I am ready". No one answers. After a long time, where we see or hear nothing in particular, the boy crawls out. He sees a purple sky, as though from a fairy-tale. His friends are there, moving against the sky, looking for him. And the credits roll. Nothing is said about the professor. Maybe he's dead. Maybe he's not. In any case, through this memory, there is something of an apotheosis.

I'd like to think that this was Kurosawa's apotheosis. I'm sure it was. In any case, Madadayo was a fitting tribute to a master. A master who rebelled against the changing face of the cinema, at a time when several younger directors, George Lucas included, were borrowing and adapting his stories to fit their canvas. While these stories did bear some affinity to Kurosawa's world, they seemed too fast and nimble. Even for him.

But he didn't bother. He just went on. As he always had. Tissa Abeysekara put this best: "The ecology of film was changing, and he was the last of the dinosaurs".

Written for: Ceylon Today LATITUDE, March 29 2015

Memories of two giants

Like every other work of art, movies tend to come and go. They are advertised and in other ways promoted. They are targeted at certain audiences. We have family films and those made for children, even though some are clearly aimed at adults. Other genres crop up too, but at the end of the day these distinctions are forgotten and their stories remembered. Through this, their directors are celebrated too.

Sri Lanka can't really boast of a cinema culture. Our cinema began in 1947 and ambled along. At certain points it did rise up. But there were slumps, and very often these continued for too long. We saw directors rise and fall, but we also saw visionaries come and stay. The cinema, after all, is the youngest of all art-forms, and everyone from Sergei Eisenstein to Christopher Nolan has ensured that it's also the most powerful. It's only natural that icons from this field don't crop up that frequently, therefore. Not even here.

But we still have Lester James Peries. We still have Sumitra Peries. Together, these two have forged ahead. They have marked themselves well and earned a place in our cultural firmament. True, eight or 20 films over 50 years isn't much. But we're not talking about quantity. We're talking about other things. Like depth. Honesty. Breadth. The thing with both Lester and Sumitra is that they have all these. And more. Much more.

Two years ago, I attended an event at the BMICH. It was the second Lester James Peries Oration, organised by the Lester James Peries and Sumitra Peries Foundation. There were guests who came and spoke. Professor Sunil Ariyaratne, who has a knack for improvising and speaking straight from the heart, gave the first speech. I listened.

He pointed out some facts. He pointed out Lester's childhood and how insulated it was from his country. He explained how different Lester's and Sumitra's ancestries were. Characteristically, he commented on their traditional political preferences and how different even they were. The audience laughed. He laughed. Having won his listeners, he got serious.

Ariyaratne explained how close the two of them were. He also said, quite correctly, that this bond brought out masterpieces. I'm sure he implied that they could not have been made alone. They needed both giants. Together. That's where he made an interesting observation. He claimed that in no other country had a filmmaking couple lived and worked for long. He brought up James Cameron and Kathryn Bigelow, but then he rightly mentioned that they were divorced. He added that this has not been the case with Lester and Sumitra. Aptly.

I can't think of another couple who can compare with these two. Certainly not Cameron and Bigelow. Not that we haven't seen couples making films together. Robert Flaherty, who shook the world with his Nanook of the North, needed his wife Frances. The two went together and this showed in whatever he made. As Roger Manvell put it in his tribute to the man, Frances understood what he did and shared his near-nomadic life, so isolated from the civilised world. She stood by him. To the last.

Unlike the Flahertys, however, Lester and Sumitra are directors in their own right. Both of them have gone after individual careers. Both have made a mark for themselves, here and elsewhere. Both have set out trademarks that make their work distinct. That's where they become giants. All the way.

Personally, I believe that their films define my country. They have all caught my people. They have understood that we rarely break down into emotion. A smile here, a wink there, can express what tears and rages never can. That is why the characters they depict never resort to histrionics. Sometimes they do, as seen in both Awaragira and Loku Duwa. These are exceptions, though. They depict people who are frustrated with life and near to bursting with anger. Naturally enough, they break apart. But not always. Lester and Sumitra know this.

All this is peripheral. Beyond the point.

Sumitra Peries turned 80 last week. Lester James Peries turns 96 next week. Together the two of them have given much. They have contributed to our culture. They have defined us well. True, not everything they have made is perfect. But then again, which director has ever been perfect? Which film has ever been praised without that proverbial pinch of salt?

I have met these two icons over the last two years. I haven't come to know them that well. The best I can come up with is a personal tribute. Nothing more. But as a Sri Lankan and human being, I have always appreciated what they've done. They made up my childhood and taught me about my country. What Martin Wickramasinghe did through the pen and Sarachchandra did through the stage, they did through celluloid.

They say that history is best perused by the art and culture of any given period. I agree. Both Sumitra and Lester occupy a place in our culture. Their films speak from the heart and not the head. They depict a world we know and live in. Which is why they appeal to us. At once. Maybe that's the biggest tribute (personal or otherwise) I can pay them. Knowing them has been a privilege. It will be so for many years to come, I suspect.

Written for: Ceylon Today LATITUDE, March 29 2015

Celebrating Sumitra Peries

I was 10 when I first saw Sagara Jalaya. The story struck me. So did the actors. Swarna Mallawarachchi gave her finest performance there. She is a farmer's widow who loses everything. She loses her husband and has to look after her son. Friends and relatives verbally abuse her, while she takes their blows as they come. The son pities her. He wants to help. He writes a letter to his uncle asking for a job. A paying job.

That's where the story ends. We aren't told whether he gets that job. We don't know whether he gets to help his mother. Predictably, the ending left me cold. Now when a film does that to me, I generally wonder why. A film must resolve. It must conclude. This one didn't. Naturally enough, I was unhappy. Something was missing. Somewhere.

It took some time for me to understand that while I wanted a film to conclude well, what I'd really wanted was a happy ending. At that age, films were meant to be seen and not studied. Sagara Jalaya was different, hence. There was something in it that appealed to me. I couldn't describe it then and I can't describe it now. But seeing the way Mallawarachchi played her part, I felt sure of one thing: the director had understood and probed into her. Deeply. Given that I wasn't a fan of Sinhala films then, that caught me. At once.

Sagara Jalaya was directed by Sumitra Peries. Peries turns 80 today. She has directed eight films. While not all of them are masterpieces, they are truly "ours". Rarely has a director looked into our women so sharply. Rarely has a director empathised with them so well. More than any other director here, she has filmed their joys and sorrows. If that's not enough to earn her a place, I don't know what will be.

She wasn't just a filmmaker, of course. Right after they married, she edited several films by Lester James Peries. Look at them today to see how much they depend on her expertise. The mirror sequence in Ran Salu, the beach sequence in Golu Hadawatha, and the flashes of memory in Ahasin Polawata: they are all shot meticulously, to the dot. We remember Golu Hadawatha today, for instance, not only for its music, but also for how the right note caught the right mood. Editing figured in there. That's why we treasure it.

Perhaps she carried this with her when she took to directing. From Gehenu Lamai to Yahaluwo, she has a knack for storytelling. She edits sequences in line with a classical structure. It is this structure that guides her. Which is why she never obfuscates. Why she never uses quick cuts and other plot devices to confuse us. They are told the way they're meant to, from beginning to end.

Gehenu Lamai

Not that her films are flawless. For one thing, they tend to depict women sympathetically. But to win this sympathy, she depicts them as victims, not rebels. Vasanthi Chathurani in both Gehenu Lamai and Ganga Addara doesn't flout convention. She submits herself to it and loses everything. Sumitra doesn't criticise this. She just tells the story. Clinically.

All too often, this doesn't satisfy us. It didn't satisfy me. I think she herself understood this. In Yahalu Yeheli, Nadeeka Gunasekara rebels against her father (Tony Ranasinghe), who is a feudal overlord. When he plots against a poor cousin of hers, the entire village opposes him. After they confront and leave him, she follows them. He is left confused. Symbolically, the film ends with a freeze-frame.

Sumitra didn't direct more films like that, however. Thankfully, I should think. She has a vision and reflects it in her films. True, she depicts a patriarchal world. Other directors don't. But then again, other directors haven't come close to her. I can think of only two who could compare with her: Carl Theodor Dreyer and Kenji Mizoguchi. Both are dead. Both examined women reflectively, without sentiment or melodrama. Just like she does.

But she's different. She examines women and their problems so intimately that her films become personal testaments. They aren't always masterpieces, true, but some of them strike through. This might have something to do with how political they are: Yahalu Yeheli, for instance, depicts the transition from feudalism to communalism succinctly. She herself is related to the Gunawardena clan, which has claimed a place as one of our strongest Leftist families. This is reflected in her works. That differentiates them. To the last.

Directors change. Some of them don't. Sumitra has neither changed nor stayed put. Her stories have become increasingly (even excessively) allegorical in recent years. But they all stay true to her emotional centre: the anguish of women. Since I can't comment on this, the final word should belong to someone who can. I quote:

"Although she deals with the loves and lives of women, she is unable, in many of her films, to break out of the patriarchally sanctioned framework that has been privileged and has held sway in Sri Lankan cinema. Consequently, despite her best intentions, she ends up reinforcing the traditionalist views of society and the roles ascribed to women."

All Greek to me, but that goes a long way in establishing her strength and weakness. She has delved into our mothers and daughters and portrayed them frankly. While other directors have challenged our patriarchal society, they ended up contriving their stories. Women always triumph there, yes, but those triumphs are never true to life.

That is why Sumitra Peries is so different. She depicts a savage world. Women suffer and they bear what they suffer. Her films almost never end on a happy note. But then again, given how patriarchal our society has become, they can't end happily. Having realised this, she has gone beyond other directors in criticising our values. She is not a feminist. She doesn't need to be. She's honest. At the end of the day, when we are to judge her worth, that'll be enough.

Uditha Devapriya is a freelance writer who can be reached at udakdev1@gmail.com

Fusing Drum and Dance

Chandana Wickramasinghe is certainly no stranger when it comes to dancing here. He knows tradition and respects it to the extent where he understands that without revision and redefinition there can be no progress. Perhaps it is because dance is the least easy to preserve art, indeed because it can't be preserved at all, that it must be passed from one generation to the next. But it can't be passed on its own. Something must animate the dancer. Something must give life to rhythm and make its absence as conspicuous as its presence. There must be a coming-to-life that makes this handover memorable.

On the 27th of this month, Chandana will present an event that will oversee such a transfer and handover. "Drums and Dance - NAADRO & Chandana Live In Concert" will premiere at Bishop's College Auditorium to those who will appreciate what they see and remember what it leaves behind. I spoke with Chandana and founder of NAADRO, Rakitha Wickramarathne. They had much to say.

Concerts usually last for more than two hours and very often tend to totter along. Rakitha claims that their show won't go beyond the one hour mark and for a good reason. It's timed to be precise, to the dot, and free of frill. The event is supposed to evoke and awaken, and for this reason Chandana and NAADRO want to keep it short. Fitting 12 individual and two combined items within 60 minutes isn't easy. Still.

NAADRO is about percussion. It's about fusion and keeping up with the times. There are six senior members: Rakitha, Gayan Manokumara, Nalinda Dilupama, Ranga Nuwantha, Uthpala Iroshan, and Nupathi Nilambara. All of them are determined. They have purpose. It is purpose that has brought them together with Chandana. "We challenge ourselves," Chandana tells me by way of explaining how respectful they are towards each other despite the age-gap.

Chandana Wickramasinghe and his guild have performed in more than 60 countries. NAADRO has performed in nearly every continent. They've seen much, taken it all in, and adapted. What differentiates them from the rest, however, is that they are willing to stick to roots. Others aren't. While they don't believe that art can be free of accretion, they do believe that our traditional dance culture is being prostituted. That's true.

No art form can survive without assistance from another. This is reflected in the show's title. "Drums and Dance" isn't just a fusion of culture, it's a fusion of form as well. It's more about conjugation than about fusion, moreover. More about dancers complementing drummers and vice versa. With no excess. Perhaps that explains the absence of more-than-needed rhythm or twist in the event. Chandana highlights this when he says that they aim at a synthesis of "shabda" and "chalana". Movement gives rhythm. Sound animates rhythm. The two go together.

Chandana and Rakitha further tell me that no initiative has been taken so far to hand over our dance tradition to the next generation. What began with Chitrasena and went through Channa Wijewardena may well stop, Chandana explains, unless this step is taken. Without any hesitation, he claims that "Drums and Dance" will take it.

He also argues that while our dance tradition has been "reserved" (and "preserved") in its highest form for Colombo 7 society and in particular Lionel Wendt, he wants to see it reach nearly every area in the country. The show will be featured in other parts of the country as time goes by. So far, while no plans have been made for an around-the-country tour, he says that they have targeted other areas, including Jaffna.

Rakitha explains here that dancing groups and percussion bands don't usually get together. If that is so this makes the NAADRO-Chandana combine unique and in-your-face. What adds a personal touch to this is the lack of any major financial sponsor. It's financed by those who are organising it. As risky and unsustainable as that may be (a point conceded by Chandana), it shows just how involved both groups are. Doesn't mean there won't be any sponsor, but going by how far they've gone together, it's safe to say that their show will have a personal feel and flavour. Commendably.

In any case, it says much about the man behind all this effort. Chandana Wickramasinghe is unique in that he believes that whatever benefit derived from culture-innovation must trickle down. "We work and we innovate. We innovate and we earn. Those involved with us have a right to what is earned. They must be appreciated. That is why we try to aid them wherever we are. How can we develop if we don't?" Aptly put, I should think.

Rhythm flows from the moment we are born. It flows in our blood and compels us to move according to form and style, sound and melody. That is why we are rhythm-bound. As Sri Lankans and human beings. Put music and dance together and you get a fusion, hence. An ultimate rhythm.

"Drums and Dance" isn't showy. It's not saturated. Nor is it desaturated and colour-stripped. Nothing is over-the-top or superfluous. Nothing is modern-only here. There's room for verve and for self-reflection. Besides, none of the items planned for the event is new. They are all there according to custom and ritual. Balance is hard, yes. But it's maintained.

I can probably write more. But that would be revealing too much. All I can say is that the show will be attention-grabbing but not ostentatious. There'll be pomp but not too much. There'll be a fusion as well, but not to the extent where every culture-base is cast aside. A fitting tribute to the past gone by and the future to come. A triumph also, I am sure.

Written for: Ceylon Today LATITUDE, March 22 2015

Umberto D.

Umberto D is undoubtedly the saddest story ever filmed about a man and his little dog. It tells its story without the least trace of artifice whatsoever. Granted the story is sad: at times it evokes nothing but the most heartfelt tears from our eyes. But it is not the sort of emotion aroused by manufactured melodrama. We see Umberto, a retired Professor, as he grapples with poverty, an overbearing landlady, and indifferent colleagues, with no friend in the world except for, yes, his little dog. There’s a young maid who is always on his side as well, but, like the dog, she can do precious little to help him.

Umberto D was directed by Vittorio de Sica in 1952. By this time, Italy, in which this film is based, was emerging from the War. Filmmakers like de Sica wanted to portray life as it was: bittersweet and temptingly ironic. He made Shoeshine in 1946 and Bicycle Thieves in 1948. Both films won Honorary Oscars. Both appear in various best films of all time lists. And both portray their stories, and characters, as they should be portrayed: with a clinical, but nonetheless bitter, attitude.

This film is rightly considered his masterpiece – it was also his favourite. There is a special reason for it too. The formula – that of a man and his little dog – has been used over and over again, even to the point of overkill, by subsequent films. You can see traces of it in many modern “dog films” – from Shiloh to Marley and Me to Hachiko. To their credit, these are films that do justice to de Sica’s unsentimental vision. As a person who grew up watching Shiloh during almost every holiday season, I should know that.

But there is something in Umberto D that is different, unique. Perhaps this is owing to two key sequences from the movie. One is with the hero (played by a real-life Professor) frighteningly searching for Flike, his pup, in a dog pound, for fear that it has been “put to rest” after being rounded up. Flike isn’t dead, but the moment where the two reunite is a true tear-jerker. For Umberto, it’s as though the entire world has finally come back together again.

The second one is much sadder. Ground to his last, Umberto is forced to contemplate suicide. After hopelessly trying to lose it, he realizes that Flike will simply not leave him. So he decides to jump onto the train with it. I won’t reveal much – because to experience it fully you must see it for yourself – but if you don’t cry at what unfolds subsequently, then you’re no human being.

In any list of saddest animal films ever, Umberto D should reside at least in the top five. It has received more accolades than that, including a slot in Time Magazine’s 2005 list of the “All-Time 100 Movies”. As a compassionate person, however, I think its plot, which never ceases to move me, will be enough to convince you of this movie’s beauty. For that, however, you must watch it for yourself!

Written for: Ceylon Today GUYS AND GIRLS, December 29 2013