The Gift of Music: Sons and Fathers a film by Sumathy

“Ecstasy and hypnosis. Colours do not move a people. Flags can do nothing without trumpets… The potential fascism of music” Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari (A Thousand Plateaux)

“Schuman’s theatre [Bread & Puppet] bypasses individual characterization & motivation. This might be a way for theatre to retrieve its liberty of fabulation, freeing story from the restrictions of plot constructions (as ridiculous nowadays as wilful rhyme).”

Stefan Brecht (son of Weigel and Bertolt)

by Laleen Jayamanne

Sumathy Sivamohan in her three feature films (Ingirunthu, 2013, Sons and Fathers, 2017 and A Single Tumbler, 2021), seeks freedom to tell stories (several in the one film), without tightly plotting a sequence of actions. She appears to have a cinematic project to explore the hidden aspects of Lankan history from the perspectives of its minority communities. But she is indifferent to ‘the arch of a three-act structure’ mandated by script writing manuals, a commonplace now. Not only are her films structured in a manner unusual for Lankan cinema, the stories themselves are as unusual in that they focus on inter-ethnic relationships among Lankans in very specific social environments, marked by the history of racialised violence. In Sons and Fathers, she creates a flexible loose narrative structure, drawing on a hybrid historical ‘archive,’ as well as living memory gathered from oral histories by interviewing relatives of musicians still alive who remember those early days of the film industry, and also from the next generation of musicians, their sons. She is interested in intergenerational transmission of musical skills, traditions and values as much as in the emergence of something new, even unforeseen. Sumathy’s 2021 documentary Amid the Villus; Palaikuli deals with the repatriation of the Muslim population to their homelands in Puttalam and the consequent difficulties, after their near overnight mass expulsion, in 1990, by the LTTE seeking a pure Tamil homeland. Just as the traumatic partition of Bengal at Indian independence became the burning heart of Ritwik Ghatak’s cinema, an exploration of interethnic relations and the violence of Sinhala and Tamil nationalisms, from the point of view of the ethnic minorities and the dispossessed, are part of what drives Sumathy’s film praxis. I use the old-fashioned Marxist term ‘praxis’ to signal the self-reflexive aspect of her political understanding of film history and film theory, especially within India, and this aspect rather unusually combines with a wild (uncensored) imagination. These are some of the reasons why I think of her work as belonging to a tradition of ‘experimental cinema,’ known for its fearless exploration of new ideas and techniques.

Here I wish to explore Sons and Fathers (Puththu saha Piyavaru), which is perhaps the only Lankan film to base itself within a certain ethos of the Sinhala film industry itself in its production of music by a multi-ethnic group of musicians. While from its very inception in 1947, many highly popular Sinhala genre films were produced and directed by Tamils, Sumathy is the first Tamil female director to do so. But her films are not generic, nor are they ‘Art-House films.’ They have modest budgets with access to independent distribution in alternative international circuits, but drawing on a team of professional technicians who work for her at reduced pay and, often, non-actors.

Sons and Fathers

is the story of an ethnically mixed family (consisting of Rex Periyasami, his Sinhala wife Kanthilatha, step-son Luckshman and their biological daughter, Mala) and their relationship to music production in the film industry and elsewhere. It is set within the central events of the July ’83 race riots, both the lead up to it and also its aftermath. We also see how this lower-middle-class family becomes comfortably middle class in the ’70s, through Rex’s talent as a successful music director for profitable films, while the children were still young. He is loosely based on the very highly regarded composer Rocksamy who suffered grave property loss in repeated race riots, including the one in July ‘83. Rocksamy’s real wife, Indrani, is seen reminiscing about her husband with Sivamohan, at the very end of the film, seated below a large framed photograph of the garlanded, bespectacled musician. Rex’s wife Kanthi is a Sinhala widow with a young son (Lucky), from a previous marriage to a Sinhala man and has a natural talent for singing. This love story (within one of the most tender marriages I have seen in the Sinhala cinema), spans the ’70s and the’80s, capturing the direct, devastating impact of the race riots of 1983 on the film industry and ends in the period of the JVP and State terror of the late ’80s. The latter is casually indicated in passing, when we overhear in an eatery that K. Gunaratnam, the owner of Vijay Studio, had just been shot dead by a gunman. His name reverberates to those who know Lankan film history, which I researched for my doctorate. Certainly, the man serving at the eatery and his female customer knew who he was. Lucky, who is also having breakfast there, overhears this exchange. Gunaratnam was a pioneer film producer, (astutely making Lester James Peries’s popular film Sandeshaya, after Gamperaliya flopped at the box office), and the nearest we had to a movie mogul (along with Sir Chittampalam Gardiner of Ceylon Theatres Ltd and Jabir Cader), owning the exhibition circuit Cinemas Ltd and Vijaya Studio which we saw being burned down in the July ’83 riots, shown at the beginning of the film and also repeated later. He controlled all three tiers of the film industry and was also an industrialist who astutely diversified his assets into tourism and plastics (employing hundreds of people), and had escaped the anti-Tamil mobs who hounded him in the July ’83 riots, but was gunned down by Sinhala nationalist JVP terrorists in 1989.

Songs and Sinhala film fans

Sumathy

Songs are central to Sons and Fathers, just as they were to the South Indian-derived Sinhala genre films’ appeal, where 10 songs were not uncommon. The difference here is that just four songs, (two written by Sivamohan herself and one written and sung by the director of music, Anthony Surendra, and one popular Sinhala song, ‘Pita Deepa Desa’ from the 40s), are repeated as leitmotifs. This principle of orchestrated repetition of the few songs, in counterpoint to films mounting political violence, deepens their expressive powers. Though simple and lyrical in melody, one in particular (sung by Kanthi, referred to by Lucky as his ’mother’s song’), through its complex repetition by different voices, feels like Indian ragas created for particular moods, sensitive to time of day and the seasons and the exact present moment. All the songs carry a historical memory of Sinhala cinema’s link to Indian cinema and the contributions of Muslim, Malay and Tamil musicians and singers to the success and immense popularity of Sinhala genre cinema in the first two or three decades of the industry. Also, the popular songs became ways of expressing feelings, pathos, which are not easy to express more directly through plotted, enacted narrative scenes of the melodramatic genre films, without often falling into bathos (trivial, ridiculous). However sentimental or simple, the genre cinema’s popular movie music had the power to engage audiences and became very popular in those early days through Radio Ceylon broadcasts across the island, availability on gramophone records and the attractively produced song sheets, with images, sometimes in colour, sold cheaply at the cinemas. This large fan base sustained a film industry in the first two or three decades of Sinhala cinema (no mean feat), in a country where Indian films and Hollywood had controlling interests in distribution and exhibition.

It’s this period of the popular cinema, with its connections to South Indian films, which is the musical milieu of Sons and Fathers, where Rex Periyasami is a successful composer, addressed as Master. At the same time, the film presents a not entirely smooth intergenerational transmission of musical knowledge from a Tamil stepfather to Lucky his talented Sinhala stepson who at first resists it, refusing to practice the keyboard saying, ‘why should I learn music, you are not my father!’ His unexpected, quietly delivered, measured response is exemplary of this musician; ‘Whatever you think, you have to live with us son. Life is a beautiful song, but there will be discords, too.’ The second part of the film is more focused on the direct effects of the ’83 anti-Tamil pogrom on the family and on both Rex and Lucky in relation to their music itself. Kanthi, who sings Rex’s love song (Tharuka Hanga), tries to mediate and calm them while Mala is mostly folded into a book, perhaps in defence, as Rex’s employment is threatened and he says the music has dried up in his soul, directly changing his personality, becoming more inward and brooding. When Mala comes over to show him that she can now play a chord on his guitar, he snatches the instrument and yells at her never to play it, violently pushing aside Kanthi who tries to intervene. Lucky has become a musician playing the guitar and singing in a band in both English and Sinhala but is repeatedly taunted as a ‘Tiger cub,’ excluded from it by his musical friends, despite his protestations; ‘I am not Tamil, I am Sinhala, my father has a coconut estate.’ ‘Then why do you play that guitar!’ is his friend’s retort. Though Sinhala, at home both he and his mother do speak Tamil with Rex at tense moments and we learn that Lucky has a Malay and a Burgher friend, both living in their rather seedy lower-middle-class, multi-ethnic neighbourhood.

Experiments in story-telling

The song, in the dance sequence which opens Sons and Fathers, is a pastiche of a song from the hugely popular Indian Tamil film, Chinthamani (but with original satirical lyrics in Sinhala on the national addiction to all things foreign). A short clip from the original film is shown sung in a classical style, with a very chastely dressed star walking through landscapes. The Sinhala version was a hit song sung by Laskshmi Bai (of Malay ethnicity), at the Tower Hall Theatre of the’40s, with a large fan base. It was also popular on radio and is still heard, I gather. Not being the usual love song, it sets an unusual tone to the opening dance sequence of Sons and Fathers, modelled on routines familiar from the ’50s and ’60s Tamil cinema which the Sinhala films copied. The dance by Sumathy’s niece Maitreyei (a trained dancer from Britain) takes the cue from the satirical lyrics and adds a parodic edge to its seductive gestures when she smoothly adds an original clawed ‘lion mudra’ (with a mischievous smile) at the mention of the ‘Sinhala people.’ This song and dance sequence, chiding Sinhala folk for their lack of jathi ale (love of race), is repeated at the very end of the film in a most startling and baffling sequence, to which I will return later.

Filmic overture

Rex, Lucky, Kanthi

The opening 10 or so minutes of the film works really as an overture (realised only on a second viewing), introducing fragments of scenes as motifs, which are later elaborated on in the body of the film. It is thereby creating a remembrance of things past. I list the segments to clearly understand how Sivamohan structures her several stories focusing on the racism and violence of July ’83, through Rex’s family. Rex and Kanthi’s family story connected to the film industry can’t be told without the intersecting history of political violence based on ethnicity bleeding into each other.

1. The opening song and dance sequence (in b and w), discussed above.

2. A recording studio (in b and w). A singer (in a sari with her head covered like Lakshmi Bai), sings, in accented Sinhala, the opening song, Pita Deepa Desa with an orchestra, establishing an audio-visual montage between the dubbed song and the dance.

3. A mob of men in sarongs, carrying fire torches, run around shouting.

4. Rex Periyasami and family (who we have not yet been introduced to), are hiding submerged in water, in a lake, in the dark, while shouting anti-Tamil mobs run wild.

5. Repeat of opening song and dance sequence.

6.Vijaya film studio sign and building are set on fire by a Sinhala mob.

7. K.Venkat, a Tamil film director of genre films (including a film about the Buddha’s Sacred Footprint called Sri Pathula), is dragged out of a building by a mob.

8. A white car is set on fire

9. Repetition of the mob with firebrands.

10. Repetition of Rex and family submerged in water, hiding from the mob.

11. Repetition of burning car, with someone inside it screaming, who is later identified as Venkat.

12. A room seen through a broken glass pane, darkly, as Rex and family return to their trashed home.

13. Inside the room the four family members stand around traumatised by the violence, but find strength to speak. The following exchange marks the end of the overture and the beginning of the main story Rex was determined to tell, which desire sivamohan actualises in her film, Sons and Fathers.

Kanthi (wife/mother): We must begin again (amidst the debris of their possessions).

Rex (husband/father/step-father): Are we not human? Are we refugees?

There is no more music, it’s all a dirge. Yes, I must tell my story to the world.

(The stepson Lucky then speaks to his stepfather in Tamil).

Lucky: Appa, what will you say? To whom? In what language?

Where is your music now? Did it save you? Or did it save us?

Kanthi: No, the music saved us!

‘Appa … in what language?’

Sivamohan takes up the challenge of Lucky’s anguished question, spoken softly but felt like a wounding rebuke to his Tamil stepfather, because the only language he knows is the now proscribed music. Focusing on an ethnically mixed family, Sivamohan creates her own language, a cinematic language replete with songs, honouring the memory of our much-maligned popular cinema, woefully derivative though it was of Indian genres, but what the people did embrace as our own. In attempting to do this, the film opens up our ethnically polarised minds to new possibilities through the power of music and song, integral to the popular Lankan cinema and the livelihood of its multi-ethnic technicians, entrepreneurs, actors and musicians and the lowly working-class men who ran and cleaned the cinemas. This is a very ambitious film in that Sivmohan has dared to go out of her linguistic comfort zone (she says her mother tongues are Tamil and English between which she translates), and worked with a multi-ethnic cast and crew to create a film in Sinhala (encoding a historical memory), about the virtual potential for a rich multi-ethnic hybridised Lankan culture (‘Thuppahi’ Baila like Bombay meri hai also included). The multi-sensory powers of film ‘language’ (freed from constraints of plot) is Sivamohan’s answer to Lucky’s question, ‘Appa, in what language?’