By Ajith Rajapaksa –

Ajith Rajapaksa

On March 9th, I watched Rāni, the latest film by Ashoka Handagama, at Hoyts Chadstone in Melbourne. The theatre was packed with film enthusiasts, and I approached the screening with an open mind, despite having read numerous reviews in the preceding weeks.

As a cinema lover, I found Rāni to be a powerful and masterfully executed work. The criticisms levelled against it by so-called critics seemed largely unfounded, often reading more like personal attacks or intellectual posturing rather than well-reasoned critiques. Some even attempted to discredit Handagama by linking his film to his hometown, school, class background, and profession; criticisms that had little relevance to the artistic merit of the film itself.

Controversy and Criticism

A major point of contention was whether the film misrepresented or tarnished the real lives of Dr. Manorani Sarawanamuththu and her son, journalist Richard de Zoysa. Some critics took issue with Rani’s depiction of alcohol consumption and smoking, arguing that these elements distorted the characters. Additionally, one critic accused the film of attempting to absolve former President Ranasinghe Premadasa of Richard’s murder, suggesting it could serve as political mileage for Sajith Premadasa. Others speculated that the film’s producer, Subaskaran Allirajah of Lyca Mobile, had planned its release during an election period for political reasons.

Further criticism focused on what some perceived as Handagama’s reluctance to directly criticize the state, pointing to the absence of overt references to the military, police, and religious institutions. Another key debate revolved around the film’s ambiguous ending, which some argued implies that Richard’s murder was the work of intoxicated thugs rather than a state-sanctioned act. Critics like Bupati Nalinda have questioned: Who ultimately benefits from this film?

Blending Reality and Fiction

It is evident that Rāni is a fusion of reality and fiction, incorporating documentary-like elements, a technique commonly used in artistic works inspired by real events. Even if characters such as Lalith, Mahinda, and Mangala had been given fictional names, audiences would have inevitably speculated about their real-life counterparts.

The performances were outstanding, with Swarna Mallawarachchi delivering an exceptional portrayal of Rani. Both the film’s artistic quality and narrative structure deserve high praise.

Even if the real-life Dr. Rāni was not an excessive drinker or smoker, I do not believe the film portrays her unfairly. These elements serve a deeper symbolic purpose, illustrating the relative privilege and autonomy of upper-middle-class Sri Lankan women compared to others. Richard is depicted not only as Rani’s son but also as her closest confidant, someone with whom she can openly discuss anything, sharing drinks and cigarettes. These recurring symbols highlight the immense psychological strain the characters endured rather than serving as character defamation.

While Rāni primarily focuses on its titular character, it also offers a broader commentary on her social class, a class largely detached from political violence until it directly impacts them.

Depicting State Terror

The film makes it abundantly clear that Richard’s abduction, along with other killings and disappearances of that era, occurred with the knowledge and involvement of politicians and the state. This is particularly evident in a conversation between Rani and her servant after Premadasa’s assassination, where Rani openly acknowledges this fact. The public’s celebration of Premadasa’s death reinforces the idea that those in power eventually face consequences.

Whether or not politicians explicitly ordered these killings is irrelevant, what matters is that they happened at their behest, a reality widely accepted by society. The film does not need to spell this out explicitly. It also symbolically addresses the brutal assassinations carried out by so-called “patriots.”

Since Rāni focuses on personal experiences rather than broad political dynamics, it does not deeply analyse the ideological forces that fuelled the violence from both the state and its opposition. Criticisms on this front may not be entirely justified.

The film’s final scene effectively captures the chaotic and unpredictable nature of the assassination culture of that era. Life was fraught with danger, and people often had no idea where threats were coming from. That’s how deeply embedded death squads were in society. In the closing moments, a group of intoxicated men leaving an elite’s mansion casually discuss Richard de Zoysa, barely acknowledging him as more than a nuisance. A high-profile figure whose identity remains deliberately ambiguous refers to him dismissively as a troublemaker.

It doesn’t matter who this elite figure is. The film subtly clarifies that it is not Premadasa by portraying him as a heavy drinker, something inconsistent with Premadasa’s public persona as a disciplined leader. It could be someone like Ranjan Wijeratne, but ultimately, the specific identity is unimportant. What matters is that the film illustrates how assassinations were sanctioned within this system. The political establishment not only activated state repression but also enabled it through legal mechanisms. No one in power is absolved of responsibility.

Additionally, the film does not need to explicitly depict assassins in uniform to establish their connection to the state. Many of the killings of that period were carried out by unknown death squads. However, Rāni does depict state complicity, when her son is abducted, Rani recognizes one of the perpetrators as a uniformed police officer. Later, when she reports this, she receives a death threat from the police itself, under the guise of a message from “patriots.” This makes it undeniably clear that state forces were involved. For this reason, I find the criticisms against the film to be weak and unfounded.

Final Thoughts

I do not know what motivated the producer of Rāni to finance this film, nor do I care about his personal sincerity or integrity. What matters is the film itself. The suggestion that Handagama created Rāni to serve a political agenda feels like an overreach.

The film vividly portrays the brutality of politics, its cruelty, and the way even well-intentioned individuals become tools of the system. As Rāni suggests, whether knowingly or unknowingly, everyone becomes entangled in this political machinery. Despite knowing that she is being used by the opposition, Rāni does not reject the movement for political change. She asks, “What alternative do we, the mothers of the disappeared, have?”

Recent history has seen multiple political upheavals fuelled by similar injustices. Yet, the tragic reality remains, these changes in power have only driven the country further into chaos rather than leading to meaningful progress.