'Trojan Kanthawo': With or Without Olympus

“The consummation of a great conquest, a thing celebrated in paeans and thanksgivings, the very height of the day-dreams of unregenerate man – it seems to be a great joy, and it is in truth a great misery.” – Gilbert Murray, Introduction to “Trojan Women”

One of the biggest strengths of Trojan Kanthawo is that it strikes at us immediately. The play is set in Troy, yes, but its writer, Dharmasiri Bandaranayake, has scripted it in such a way that it forces comparison with the present. I wonder whether a prologue claiming its “timelessness” was really needed given this, but that was all the more reason to enjoy a playwright and text I haven’t seen or studied before. Yes, this was the first time I saw Trojan Kanthawo. No, I haven’t studied Euripides. That however does not disqualify comment.

Trojan Women affirms the futility of war. More significantly, the play focuses on and condemns war by depicting how maternity and womanhood are affected. This is the emotional centre of the play, and after more than 15 years I suspect Bandaranayake has still stuck to it. Commendably.

What is the political centre of the story, however? Is it merely in the ravaging of Troy and the deportation of its widows? Or is it in the politically motivated monologues of its central characters? I was moved (as were the rest of the audience) by Anoja Weerasinghe’s portrayal of the aging Queen Hecuba. Anoja told me how each year she finds her role more relevant. Does that make her monologues all the more pertinent?

Not really. Why? Because the play jars at some points. For me at least.

Let me explain. The main problem I have with Trojan Kanthawo is not its dialogues. One can argue that enough verve has been spent in writing them down. They sometimes totter and more often than not seem to strike at us emotionally too much. But that is not a weakness. That is a strength. It is from those monologues – I was moved particularly by Yasodha Wimaladharma’s speeches in the first half of the play – that one can infer the political subtext of the play.

The problem is in how Bandaranayake, while rooting his play in Troy and making it relevant to Sri Lanka (I was frankly disturbed at the interspersion of Sinhalese soldiers with Greek soldiers), has retained what I personally think is an aberration. This is in how the writer (almost) reduces the entire conflict of the play – between the Greeks and the Trojans – to the quirks of the gods.

Why should this trouble me? In a story that attempts to be “timeless” while at the same time rooting itself in Troy, such a conflict – between gods and mortals – tends to become an add-on. This is not to say that every political interpretation or rather rewrite of a play should weed out divine intervention – Jean-Paul Sartre’s version of the play, after all, gives more focus to Athena than in Euripides’ original.

What troubles me rather is why this should intrude on Bandaranayake’s adaptation at all. It jars. I know that the “quirks of Olympus” play a major part in the story. But why should this factor in a plot that tries to move into our time? The setting is in Troy, granted, and Bandaranayake tries to remind us constantly that what happened there is in a way happening here as well. By (slightly) reducing the conflict of the story to Athena’s and Poseidon’s fury, however, we are lost as to why Euripides remains relevant to our time, and, more importantly, to our setting.

This brings me to another point. The intrusions of Sinhalese soldiers remind us constantly that the women of Troy are symbolically ravaged not just by the Greeks but, in another time, by “our boys” as well. Hecuba’s constant nostalgic yearning for the glory of Troy, now lost in war, is a reminder of how futilely nationalistic the defeated can be as well. But in the use of contemporary soldiers, what exactly is Bandaranayake aiming at? Some in the audience, who may have come expecting a direct political statement, would have readily inferred a comparison between Greece/Troy and Sri Lanka.

I have a problem here too. In a context where neither side won and neither side was free of fault (in a sequence in the play, Hecuba representing Troy and Menelaus representing Greece spurn and condemn Helen of Troy for her romance with Paris), most commentators won’t find it odd to draw comparisons with the civil war in this country. But which side is the aggressor and which side is the passive, innocent party? And how does this bear relevance to the civil war?

I admit I’m too intrusive here. But I persist. Where’s the comparison to be drawn and if so how relevant does it become? Trojan Kanthawo, let’s not forget, was staged 15 years back. That was a time of shelling, suicide bombs, and unilateral action by terrorist and soldier alike. This however doesn’t make it less compelling today.

My only question is this: to which side do the conflicting parties in the play belong in contemporary Sri Lanka? The Trojans are the defeated, certainly. The conquered are its women (which is where the tragedy of the story is rooted in) and the “victors” the Greeks. Are we to then consider that the defeated here were those demarcated as terrorists and the victors those who triumphed over them?

Bandaranayake’s vision is more penetrative than this simplistic comparison, I suspect (and hope). The play after all is about how no one wins in wars. Neither side really emerged as victor in the Trojan War. Deceit won where strategy lost (through the Trojan horse).

In the original text, Euripides reinforced the then commonly held view that the quarrels of Athena, Hera, and Aphrodite began the war (in a sequence in the play, Helen condemns the latter for having chosen her to fall in love with Paris, which Hecuba ridicules, pointing out angrily that her frailty and flesh are to blame).

At the end of the play however, with or without gods, Bandaranayake is successful in depicting that men make wars and lose them. It is human frailty that begins them. It is human frailty that ravages the defeated. The only ones conquered in the play are the widows of Troy. Does this warrant or rather provoke comparison with our setting? Maybe. But how? Bandaranayake chooses not to answer that. Wisely.

At the time of its debut, Trojan Kanthawo certainly stood out for this reason, though one can argue that the political establishment at the time probably would have condoned what Bandaranayake hinted in his play (which makes it all the more relevant now when popular opinion would seem to rebel against it). 

The final sequence, of Hecuba lamenting over the remains of Astyanax (Andromache’s son) is genuinely touching. It is in Astyanax (representing not the women but the children of Troy) that Bandaranayake’s statement is felt most strongly. For this reason, his death rightly remains the emotional centre or pivot of the entire play. All the more reason to condone rather than condemn its message.

I can write more. But I will conclude with a brief overview. For a play that tries to be politically relevant, I felt there were too many songs (the music is composed by Rookantha Gunatilleka). The cast stood out however, in particular Anoja Weerasinghe and Yasodha Wimaladharma, although the minor parts, played among others by Neil Alles (as Poseidon), were impressive too. My only problem with the cast was with the actress playing Helen, who seemed to mumble and lack the impudence and verve required of that character.

Apart from that, however, the political subtext caught me, the plot moved me, and the frequent intrusions of the soldiers through the aisle genuinely thrilled me. It reinforced the message that Euripides’ Greece still lives on, within (and beyond) us. With or without Olympus.

Written for: The Nation INSIGHT, June 13 2015

Zorba the Greek

Zorba the Greek was made for $750,000 back in 1964. It remains, rightly, the most beautiful story ever filmed of a friendship between two men. No two words about it. I saw it immediately after leaving school; suffice it to say that its impact has still retained with me today. This is not surprising, because Zorba the Greek is a film that should be watched with absolutely no ideology in mind. It is, simply put, as it is: the beauty of human companionship.

The story was adapted from a novel by Greek writer Nikos Kazantzakis. I remember reading it, and rereading it. Its message, to be honest, is more philosophic and mumbo-jumbo than the film. But this does not discount the book: its splendor is just as evident. The story, if one looks at it carefully, has been used time and time again by so many movies.

Basil (played by Alan Bates) is your archetypal introvert. He spends his time reading books, contemplating philosophies, and being extremely serious. Down with a severe dose of writer’s block, he travels to Crete to reopen an old lignite mine owned by his late father. Along the way he meets his doppelgänger, in the form of Alexis Zorba (Anthony Quinn), who is everything Basil is not: rapturous, reckless, the eternal optimist. Together they make up the most beautiful friendship ever shown on film.

Along the way, each learns from the other. Well, Basil learns more from Zorba than Zorba does from Basil. He learns, for instance, how to love – and how to face disappointment when his love, after being conquered, is killed by a group of villagers. He learns how to look at the darkest of life’s troubles with glee and hope. So much so that, at the end, when all his hopes and aspirations literally topple down, and he is left with no other choice than to return to England (his place of birth), all he asks of his satyr-like friend is: “Teach me to dance”.

This leads to doubtlessly one of the most inspiring of endings from any movie you can every watch. We see the two of them dancing away. They know that they are on the brink of separation: that they may never see each other again. Yet, for one instant at least, they forget all that and dance. The camera slowly pans away, and we look at the two of them, dot-like figures in the distant, as they rhythmically dance away their troubles.

What could all this mean? Is it merely the simple thesis that life is meant to be enjoyed? That, as Zorba puts it, “a man needs to be mad, or else he never dare cut the rope and be free”? I think there’s something more to it, but dash it all, I couldn’t care less. It’s an inspiring story for all to see, and one that touches on the most wonderful aspect of human life: the beauty of eternal companionship. Zorba and Basil may have separated in flesh, but certainly not in spirit. Zorba’s brotherliness, after all, is not much different from (some of) your closest friend(s). Watch Zorba the Greek, and you shall see life gushing out at you, in every shot and sequence. I am not bluffing.

Written for: Ceylon Today GUYS AND GIRLS, January 5 2014

A (not so) belated note to Lyceum

22 years isn't much. There are schools that have passed that period and contain more students and teachers. Some haven't and hence have less of both. A few have mushroomed here and there. They come and go.

My school wasn't "epic" like other institutions. But it's epic on its own right. And at the end of the day, that is what matters. To us.

Lyceum wasn't the first choice for us back then. It was new and built at a time when private schools weren't "favoured". It still isn't, but that's another story. The point is that building and developing a school from scratch this way isn't easy. The point is that Lyceum has "made it". It's still "climbing", yes, but developed far beyond what you'd expect with 22 years. It turns 22 today.

There are those who've lived with my school since then. Some have left. Others have remained. They've aged well and my guess is that what's ours has become theirs as well.

But why? Is there a "Lyceum touch"? Some secret that only those in it can understand? Yes.

I've come across people who've changed allegiances after they shifted schools. People who've taken in Lyceum even though they left early on. People who've refused to "accept" Lyceum for the simple reason that they'd been in another school before. Human beings aren't one-dimensional and nor for that matter are children. They change quickly. Lyceum's a school, after all. There are others like it. Older ones. Popular ones.

Let me explain. It isn't age that sets us apart. The "Lyceum touch" (if such a thing really exists) comes from togetherness. Togetherness in what you do. Togetherness wherever you are. No alienation. No snobbery. No separation based on class or race or whatever "mark" you may have. In other words, no distinction. You hobnob with everyone. Regardless of background.

What's the secret to all this? One word. Discipline. That's scripted into everything we do. Whether we're in or out, that stays. At times, I admit, this jars. At times we wonder why we have to practise abstinence in everything, even celebration of victory or mourning of defeat. But gradually, we understand. It is because victory and defeat, like every other thing in life, can change. Victory is not about going jeering at the loser. Defeat is not about getting angry at the winner. There's something else to them. Something more.

Other things count as well. We study and are expected to study. When a match or competition comes around, when we're more concerned about scores and winning, study is prioritised. Not that this takes away fun. But if fighting for "colours" means sacrificing that test or getting your grades down, there are no two words about it. Study you must.

And by a miracle, this works. I personally never played a sport, but I knew and saw friends who played what they loved but almost never lost their grades. We didn't have heroes venerated in stadiums and matches who didn't win back pride at academics. That wasn't just the school, of course. But it factored in.

Ms Jamna Padmanaban, my O/Level English Literature teacher, wrote a piece for Lyceum's 20th. That was two years ago. This is what she had to say:

"It has always been a strong belief of the school management that what builds society is creative, inventive, vital activity, and this is fueled by integrity of mind and purpose, a spirit of tolerance and hard work. In order to achieve this, we need a very vital ingredient: 'discipline'. In Lyceum, it is clearly evident that even though students work and play together, bound by a dynamism and energy, there is a heightened sense of discipline and restraint in all activities. There is a unique awakening of awareness in every heart."

That spirit of tolerance isn't a cover, by the way. I've come across children who've been taught to tolerate inclusiveness on one level but who unfortunately never abandoned those class distinctions which were inculcated in them. Lyceum isn't like that. It's "private" as far as schools go, yes, but for those who are in, there's no alienation. There's no inclusiveness-in-name-only here. You have genuine friendship. Genuine togetherness. That's what Ms Jamna referred to as "dynamism and energy". That is what fuels both.

I never got to enjoy school the way others did, but then again I never got to enjoy anything until the 11th hour. I didn't make use of time the way I should have. Looking back now however, seeing all those memories, wondering whether I should have taken to mischief more, the least I can do is be thankful. To all those teachers, to all those headmasters, to my first mentor (Mr Dimuthu, whose birthday is Lyceum's as well), and to all those memories that seemed bitter then but have grown sweeter since.

Time flies. This we know. For Lyceum, it's flown a little faster that it has for others. That is how we've gone up. For the most.

We are grateful.

Maithripala Sirisena's moment

It is necessary for politicians to talk. Necessary to explain. Necessary to meditate on some issue or the other. Talk is cheap, however. Rhetoric too. When concerns are raised and people are with one cause or the other, lip-service is easy to get. Actual support isn’t. That is why the 19th Amendment was badmouthed, scuttled, and in other ways cut down. That is why the 20th Amendment is said to face an even bigger setback. Politicians are frail, after all. They’re human.

The SLFP has not split to the extent where every issue being debated on has splintered and fragmented between two or more sides. That is why last Monday’s gathering of the SLFP and UPFA near Town Hall stood out.  It was not just Maithripala Sirisena’s faction that stood there. There were other people. Other names. Some didn’t turn up, but they were mentioned too.

The 20th is not the 19th. This we know. While the 19th cut down the powers of a man who still can and does call the shots, the 20th is wider and more all-encompassing. It affects everyone and for this reason not everyone wants to see it through. The SLFP’s position is clear, however. It wants enactment. The UNP on the other hand is pettifogging. So is the JVP.

There were people who came and spoke at the rally. For the first time since his coming to power, Maithripala Sirisena acknowledged that other parties (he did not mention the UNP explicitly but he needn’t have) were in his way. Rajitha Senaratne asserted the SLFP’s mandate and authority in passing it. So did Susil Premajayantha and Anura Priyadarshana Yapa. So did Thilanga Sumathipala. And so did D. E. W. Gunasekara.

The Mahinda faction did not attend (though SLFPers were present whatever their affiliation) but that didn’t show. The gathering was significant not least because the 20th Amendment is seen to be “authored” by the UPFA. The SLFP and more importantly the Sirisena faction showed that they were capable of assertion. There were accusations aimed at the UNP and other parties. Senaratne in particular was vocal. He lambasted the UNP’s role in scuttling the proposed Amendment and accused it and several other parties of hypocrisy.

He is correct. The UNP supported the 19th. So did the JVP. Both parties are now silent. The JVP has all but completely given up its (earlier) stand on reform. One can argue that electoral reform and the abolition of the manapa kramaya (which is what the 20th aims at) will fare badly for it. But the Jathika Hela Urumaya (JHU) supports it. So does the Liberal Party (Professor Rajiva Wijesinhe was present at the rally). So does the TNA (though it wants adjustments to guarantee representation for minorities). That’s courage. That’s statesmanship.

In this context the SLFP’s stand on electoral reform needed to be clear. Both Senaratne and Sirisena spoke for everyone when they mentioned that the 20th is more important than its predecessor. This is true. While pruning the powers of the Executive was all fine and well, one can argue that they didn’t detrimentally affect other parties. Not even the SLFP.

Electoral reform is different, however. It can dampen and reduce parliamentary presence. As Premajayantha, Yapa, and even Sirisena reiterated, fears of enacting the 20th on this count are natural. But I believe Premajayantha got it right here: “We must put national interest ahead of personal want.” If the 20th will reduce numbers and support, and this is why certain parties are opposed to it (in secret of course), that is not statesmanship. That is duplicity.

Let’s not forget that the electoral system we have at present is flawed. It aggravates inter- and intra-party rivalries and, as seen in the last few years, can even provoke crime and dissension within party. It’s all about big bucks. All about money and power. Now it is true that extrapolating wildly and blaming everything and anything on the system is easy, but then again even such problems as intra-party rifts can be traced back to the manapa kramaya. That is why it must go. Period.

There is another reason. Ranil Wickremesinghe was not elected as Prime Minister. His party has relegated the SLFP to the opposition and continues to be in power courtesy of a pre-election agreement with Sirisena. The president is not a puppet, however. He can’t afford to be seen as one. He can assert. He must. The 20th gives him an opportunity to do so.

There may be an underside to all this, of course. We can assume that the likes of Senaratne want “show”. We can assume that they are accusing the UNP of not “toeing the line” when it comes to reform to show that they can represent the SLFP that way. That’s coalition politics. We have seen it before, especially during the years 2001 to 2004.

But times have changed. The president supports what the government opposes. Whether or not he genuinely opposes the UNP, we don’t know. Nor do we care. What we want is reform. We want to see that through and anyone who wants to scuttle it for reasons of expediency must be scripted out. Purely and simply.

Rajitha Senaratne was probably trying to unify the SLFP’s stand on this matter when he referred to both Mahinda Rajapaksa and Maithripala Sirisena as “president”. He called Chandrika Kumaratunge “mathiniya”. Whether or not that was a slip of the tongue, he made one point clear. The SLFP and the UPFA need to be in on this. It has the numbers in parliament. The Cabinet is in the hands of another (unelected) party, but if the president can deal with that (with or without exercising the “Chandrika option” of dismissing them), obtaining support will not be difficult.

The message was clear, hence: “Everyone in the SLFP and UPFA is with us. We admit their role in what we’re doing whether they’re here or not. They were with us once, after all: Comrade Vasu, Dinesh Gunawardena, and even the former president to name a few. Besides, it was the SLFP that reformed the Local Government electoral system three years ago. We have the mandate to continue. We can oppose the UNP. And at the end of the day, we will.”

Point well made, Mr Senaratne. And well taken.

Written for: The Nation INSIGHT, June 13 2015

From the far side of the lens

Donald Karunaratne is no Raoul Coutard. He needn't be. He hasn't shot a great many films, but genius they say comes from quality and not quantity. He has taken part in several landmarks in our cinema, and has added to them that inexpressible quality of "timelessness" which sets them apart. He is also a firm individualist.

Thinking back, he tells me he has much to talk about and very little time to explain them all. I caught him at a busy time one Wednesday afternoon. He tried to explain them all. Time flew. We didn't notice.

Like most of his contemporaries, Karunaratne hasn't compromised. As I've pointed out before, Sri Lanka hasn't exactly had its share of director-cameraman relationships like other countries, particularly in continental Europe. It takes an Ingmar Bergman to couple up with a Sven Nykvist, after all.

Not that we haven't had such relationships at all. A case in point is of course Lester James Peries and Willie Blake. The key to such longstanding professional friendships however has been a willingness to let off one's ego to devote oneself to the other's vision. This explains, in part at least, why Subrata Mitra left Satyajit Ray, and why Ray did his own camerawork and music after Teen Kanya and Charulata.

Karunaratne hasn't "let off". He tells me that he has always accommodated himself to every director he has worked with. Accommodation however does not indicate a coming together. In his perceived preference for the former over a wholesale "giving up" of personal vision, he has ensured that with every director he has worked with, he has gone through and learnt about his or her vision.

And in this I believe he is right. A confluence of director and cameraman does not always mean that both are needed everytime or everywhere. Orson Welles, for instance, was brilliancy personified as director of both Citizen Kane and The Magnificent Ambersons. As Satyajit Ray notes in Our Films, Their Films, however, there is little to distinguish between the two when it comes to camerawork, even though different cinematographers (Gregg Toland in Kane and Stanley Cortez in Ambersons) worked in them.

It is very usually a strength on the part of a cinematographer that s/he can adapt. One can note a particular difference between two periods of a director's career by reference to his or her choice of cameraman. This is what distinguishes the early period of Lester James Peries, rooted as it was in the camerawork of Willie Blake, and the middle period, which used Donald Karunaratne. As Karunaratne relates to me his experiences in Kaliyugaya and Yuganthaya, not surprisingly, I can feel the difference in key and tone between those two masterpieces and Gamperaliya. And not without reason.

In Gamperaliya, under Willie Blake's able camerawork, the film, though shot in black and white, achieves a poetic, almost indefinable grace. The sequences of Piyal walking down the beach and observing the setting sun with frustration, of Nanda being consoled by Anula while the former sees her husband Jinadasa leave their ancestral home, and of the unresolved finale of Piyal flaring up with jealousy: in all these, the camera moves very rarely, but minimal dialogue and subtlety of expression lend to them that same poetic, indefinable grace I mentioned above.

In Kaliyugaya and Yuganthaya, the serenity which marked out their predecessor is left out. Karunaratne in both films rarely if at all moves the camera. He has shot each according to a set theme. In Kaliyugaya, the family has begun to disintegrate under a monetised, divisive society; in Yuganthaya, a radical uprising to challenge it begins. Moving away from Willie Blake's reflective, vignette-like cinematography, Karunaratne shows in these two masterpieces, through the use of close-ups, freeze-frames, and flashbacks, a different kind of poetry, free of frill and more raw and intimidating than before.

The rift between letting go of one's vision and accommodating the director's ideological parameters has never been easy to cross, particularly for a cameraman. Notwithstanding Satyajit Ray's belief that the director is ultimate, and notwithstanding the auteur theory with its emphasis on the director as creator, the cameraman is indispensable to any film. Karunaratne has proved time and time again that he can change with different directors and yet refuse to give up allegiance to firm principles.

For one thing, as he tells me, he is not a fan of intercutting. He relates to me the first time he saw Alain Resnais' Last Year at Marienbad, which set the standard by which every avant-garde director since then, from Andy Warhol to Christopher Nolan, has measured his or her film. He admits he admired it. He still does. But when I prod him about the work he has done with directors known for their preferences for quick, showy editing, he respectfully admits his divergence from them.

He also dislikes Expressionism. I spoke with him about several films made here which were acclaimed but were in other ways marred by theatrical sequences. He readily admits their shortcomings. Karunaratne's high regard for the cinema in this sense makes one feel that he believes in an unbridgeable gap between film and theatre.

Shooting Kaliyugaya

I've written before and I still think that he is no Coutard. He needn't be because this isn't France and Sri Lanka hasn't had its share of director-cameraman collaborations the way continental Europe has. Karunaratne was of course a longstanding collaborator with nearly every filmmaker he came into contact with. It is a sign of his professional competence, after all, that can make a film like Bambaru Avith stand apart from Ganga Addara, not just in depth but in terms of camerawork as well.

Here he talks about Dharmasena Pathiraja, arguably the filmmaker under whom Karunaratne really "bloomed". "When we were filming Ahas Gawwa, we were newcomers to the field. We knew each other as friends: Wimal Kumar da Costa was one of my classmates at Gurukula, while both Amarasiri Kalansuriya and Daya Tennakoon knew Pathiraja at Dharmaraja. There was a sense of camaraderie in whatever we did. Inevitably, the film was rooted in that camaraderie, and all our efforts were hence born out of sheer personal commitment."

"Sheer personal commitment". I did not ask him whether this differentiated Ahas Gawwa from Pathiraja's later films. Karunaratne after all didn't shoot all his films. He did not shoot Para Dige, for instance. But in what he filmed and shot, particularly Bambaru Avith, arguably Pathiraja's breakthrough, I feel that same "personal commitment" factored in, particularly given that the director almost always chose the same cast to feature in his films.

There is something which divides Ahas Gawwa from Bambaru Avith, however, and as Karunaratne himself admits he had to listen to Pathiraja's explication of the ideology of both films. "He was a firm realist and philosopher," he recalls further, "Listening to him was fruitful wherever we were." He says that while Ahas Gawwa was born largely out of a sense of togetherness and personal camaraderie, Bambaru Avith was more serious, on another plane altogether.

This is true. Like Rekava and Gamperaliya before it, Ahas Gawwa and Bambaru Avith redefined the film-going audience in this country. While both Rekava and Ahas Gawwa were marred by what Regi Siriwardena referred to as the "inevitable technical roughnesses of a first film", Gamperaliya and Bambaru Avith refined the vision of the original film and improved on it. Much of that refinement came through in the camerawork of both films.

Karunaratne's photography in the latter film stands out not just because of how "novel" and "expository" they are, but how with the sun-baked landscapes of Kalpitiya, he captures a mood perfectly resonant with the period in which they were shot. It is the same, I should add, as when Willie Blake's use of poetic imagery in Rekava, which at times superseded the substance of the film itself, was improved on to keep a near-perfect balance between form and content in Gamperaliya. Karunaratne then well and truly found himself in the second wave of our cinema.

Time doesn't permit me to get into anything and everything. I have tried to locate Donald Karunaratne at the forefront of our cinema. He has achieved a near-perfect balance between letting go of ego in the face of the director's vision while, quietly and reflectively, maintaining his views on the cinema and camerawork. He has read about films and about filmmakers. He professes admiration for many of his contemporaries, particularly M. S. Anandan ("I admired his work on Nidhanaya very much").

There is something more to Karunaratne than this, however. I have mentioned that in Sri Lanka we have not had firm director-cameraman collaborations. But nor for that matter have the roles of director, cameraman, and scriptwriter been shared by one. Vasantha Obeysekere, with whom Karunaratne has worked frequently, has directed and scripted all his films, which makes them truly personal. But that is an exception. In this country's cinema, the director hasn't always ruled supreme the way they do in continental Europe. The actors have, but that's another story.

The point is this: Karunaratne, in his agility in maintaining both his and the director's vision, has kept aloof from that director-cameraman conflict seen even in cases where the two have teamed up in film after film. I remember mentioning this in my essay on the late Andrew Jayamanne, especially these words:

"Collaboration presupposes a relationship, a common link between two minds. When the link becomes stronger, individuality creeps in, and both collaborators develop a style of their own. Few filmmakers have become auteurs in Sri Lanka, and fewer cameramen."

Karunaratne isn't an auteur. He shouldn't be. None of his films really contains anything personal (to him, that is). They are differentiated from the other based on the whims of the director, and in my view that remains his greatest strength. "To know the film, you must know the man who authors it" seems to be his credo. This doesn't duplicate unconditional obeisance to the director, however. It merely indicates that in a world where cameramen and director have got together and then later engaged in conflict, he likes to step aside. He develops from the far side of the lens.

We should be grateful, I think. Not because that has made every film he shot diverge from the other and hence vary our palate and enjoyment of them. No. We should be grateful because he has taught us a lesson: that maintaining your independence can and will go along with respect for another's vision. That's a lot, at any rate.

Written for: Ceylon Today LITE, May 7 2015