By Ajith Rajapaksa –

Ajith Rajapaksa

I watched Paradise for the second time, first in the cinema and recently on Netflix. On a second viewing, its political and moral layers felt even sharper. Paradise is a 2023 Sri Lankan-Indian co-produced drama film, co-written and directed by Prasanna Vithanage. The story unfolds during Sri Lanka’s “Aragalaya,” a period when ordinary people were enduring immense hardship amid economic collapse. Yet, despite the turmoil, tourists continued to arrive, drawn largely by the country’s affordability. While the film focuses on a seemingly intimate story of a couple on holiday, its real canvas is far broader. It quietly interrogates privilege, power, and the moral vacuum of those who hold power.

The film centres on a middle-class Indian couple, Kesav and Amritha, visiting Sri Lanka at a moment of deep national crisis. For them, the country is simply a cheap holiday destination, and the protests, shortages, and desperation of its people remain peripheral to their experience. A striking contrast emerges between the unrest in the streets and the insulated world of tourism. While citizens queue for fuel and confront systemic failure, tourists sip cocktails and pursue curated leisure. Meanwhile, locals cling to the comforting myth that someone, like the legendary King Ravana, will awaken to rescue the nation. This myth becomes symbolic, reflecting a collective longing for a saviour in times of despair. Vithanage amplifies the moral and visual divide between public suffering and private leisure, presenting tourism as a lens through which the dynamics of concentrated wealth and economic privilege are revealed: extractive, insulated, and fundamentally indifferent.

Kesav embodies a certain strain of opportunistic capitalism. When he spots a wild deer, he develops a craving to eat it. Though hunting it is illegal, he is willing to pay to break the law. This moment is deeply symbolic. In times of economic turmoil, assets even protected ones, become commodities for those with money. The powerful bend rules when it suits them.

Andrew, the local driver and guide, attempts to share cultural stories, including the Ravana legend. Kesav shows little interest. He is preoccupied with closing a business deal and constantly engaged in phone calls and online discussions about negotiating the sale of a drama production to Netflix. His singular focus is profit and self-advancement. In this sense, he resembles the archetype of the global financier, concerned only with returns, showing little empathy for the human cost of economic systems.

In contrast, Amritha listens more carefully. When Andrew presents the Ravana myth as historical truth, she challenges him, noting that there are hundreds of versions of the story. Andrew falls silent, perhaps embarrassed. Around them, traders commodify myth for survival, selling stories as part of the tourism economy.

Kesav’s attitude toward the law is revealing. He disregards it when it restricts him but demands its full force when it benefits him. When their phones and laptops are stolen, he insists on mobilising state power, using his connections to pressure authorities. In a country where many have lost livelihoods and basic security, his outrage over material loss feels disproportionate. Ultimately, innocent villagers bear the brunt of collective punishment for the crime of a few.

This dynamic mirrors Sri Lanka’s broader reality. For decades, minorities and the poor have paid the price for corruption, mismanagement, and systemic inequality. In the film, the victims are from minority communities, reflecting how ethnic and racial hierarchies have long shaped who suffers the most. When the economy collapsed, the burden fell not on elites but on ordinary citizens, with marginalized groups disproportionately affected. Protests were often met with violence, further highlighting the intersection of economic hardship and entrenched social discrimination. At the same time, the film portrays moments of solidarity across ethnic lines, suggesting that the shared experience of crisis has the potential to bring divided communities together.

Sergeant Bandara becomes a tragic figure in this narrative. He tries to explain the country’s situation to Kesav, but Kesav is unmoved, fixated solely on recovering his belongings. Bandara, caught between duty and conscience, is compelled to unleash brutality on the community. In one of the film’s most striking moments, he refers to himself as a “good dog” serving his master. The metaphor is chilling. The police become instruments of power, enforcing the will of elites and their financiers.

Amritha’s transformation unfolds gradually. She is moved by the suffering she witnesses, particularly in the hospital scenes, while Kesav avoids confronting that reality. When Kesav asks her what happiness is, it exposes his emptiness. He attempts to manufacture happiness through consumption and control, yet he remains disconnected from empathy and humanity.

Amritha begins to see that even myths, though not historically factual, can serve a purpose if they do no harm and help struggling locals survive. She also recognises her own complicity within a global system that exploits vulnerable societies.

The climax is shocking but symbolically loaded. Unable to tolerate Kesav’s escalating aggression and moral blindness, Amritha shoots him in a moment of desperation. Andrew, understanding the deeper context, helps frame it as an accident, allowing her to escape. The act is less about personal revenge and more about breaking a cycle of domination and indifference.

Paradise is not merely a story about a troubled marriage or a stolen laptop. It is an allegory of economic collapse, global inequality, state violence, and moral decay. It critiques a system where power protects wealth while punishing the powerless. On second viewing, the film feels less like fiction and more like a mirror, reflecting the painful realities of Sri Lanka’s recent past and the broader dynamics of global capitalism.