Reposted below is the article of the World Socialist Web Site published on 10 September 2025.
Acting as a cultural arm of Canada’s imperialist ruling elite, the Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF) will be rolling out the red carpet Wednesday for the world premiere of a film about the events of October 7, 2023 that provides propaganda cover for Israel’s genocide against the Gaza Palestinians.
The Road Between Us: The Ultimate Rescue, from director and producer Barry Avrich, is entirely silent about the Israeli state’s decades of brutal oppression and dispossession of the Palestinian people, and the violence and terror it has inflicted on the residents of Gaza and the West Bank over the past two years. The documentary film’s lens is exclusively focused on the efforts of retired Israeli Major General Noam Tibon to rescue family members caught up in the October 7 Gaza Palestinian uprising against the Zionist regime, which for more than 15 years had subjected them to a brutal and ongoing economic blockade.
The film presents Tibon as an heroic figure. While Avrich emphatically—and laughably—claims the film is “non-political,” the not-so-subtly inferred message is that Tibon personifies the “plight” and “courage” of the Israeli people.
The documentary centers on Tibon’s obstacles in reaching his family, who had come under fire during the attack, when Palestinian fighters entered Kibbutz Nahal Oz, which lies less than one kilometer from the Gaza border. Tibon responded to a text from his son and, as the film’s website breathlessly puts it,
With no time to spare, Noam and his wife, Gali, embarked on a ten-hour mission across a country under siege to save their family… Noam navigated ambushes, roadblocks, and a collapsing security system in a relentless race against time.
The film is described in the synopsis given by TIFF as “a profoundly human story about courage, family, and the power of love in the face of unimaginable terror.”
This is foul Zionist propaganda. The constructed and entirely contrived narrative treats the events of October 7 entirely outside of history—as if they fell from the sky. Its narrative frame conforms to a “T” with that of the Israeli state and its western imperialist backers: the Hamas-led uprising was “unprovoked.” Indeed, Avrich submitted his film to TIFF under the title “Out of Nowhere.” It was the festival organizers, clearly in the interests of obscuring the film’s pro-Zionist line, who persuaded him to rename it The Road Between Us.
Anyone who has followed the decades-long persecution of the Palestinians by the Israeli regime can only feel outraged by claims that Israel, which has been armed to the teeth by Washington and its allies, was a “country under siege” in October 2023. Since 2006, Israel had effectively maintained Gaza as an “open-air prison,” repeatedly bombing and terrorizing its population, not to mention the systematic seizures of Palestinian land and episodes of mass ethnic cleansing going back to the very formation of Israel in 1948.
Nor can there be any other legitimate response but hostility to complacent references to “courage” and “family” after almost two years of a non-stop genocidal onslaught by Israel, backed by the imperialist powers, on the Palestinians, whose families have been torn apart, massacred, starved and left destitute. The only “unimaginable terror” is that carried out by the IDF against Gaza’s population.
The attempt by TIFF to wash the blood of the Palestinian people from the IDF by finding a “hero” among its senior ranks could not have served as a better piece of propaganda for the Netanyahu regime if they had paid for it themselves. To tout such a film as a legitimate artwork is as repugnant today as claiming that Leni Riefenstahl’s propaganda efforts were a legitimate expression of life during the Third Reich.
There are many issues a serious documentary about October 7 could have taken up, including interrogating the conditions that caused hundreds of Palestinian fighters to embark effectively on a suicide mission, and the reasons for the alleged and thoroughly unconvincing state of “unpreparedness” of the Israeli military and intelligence.
The Zionist state and military boast about their technological capability and skill at every turn when it serves their ideological and political purposes. But world public opinion is supposed to believe they found themselves entirely blind-sided in October 2023.
Extensive evidence suggests that elements high up in the Zionist regime were aware of the Islamist Hamas’ plans for October 7 well in advance, and chose to ensure that Israel’s security forces stood down to create a pretext for a long-planned onslaught on Gaza to ethnically cleanse its population and seize the tiny enclave, to implement, in fact, the “Final Solution” of the Palestinian question. After the uprising began, the IDF invoked the so-called “Hannibal Directive,” which allows the military to kill Israeli civilians rather than let them be taken hostage.
The decision to screen the film at TIFF, which has reserved the 1,800-capacity Roy Thompson Hall for Wednesday’s premiere, has nothing to do with questions of artistic merit. On the contrary, the sordid process by which the film, initially excluded from one of the world’s most important film festivals, became a—if not the—marquee event of TIFF 2025 underscores the central role that financial and Canadian imperialist foreign policy interests play in the festival management’s decisions and those of the country’s other major cultural institutions.
The phony furor over TIFF “censorship”
On August 12, media reports emerged that TIFF had reversed its decision to screen The Road Between Us at this year’s festival, citing legal concerns that some of the footage recovered from captured GoPros by Hamas fighters had not been cleared for use, as well as a “potential threat of significant disruption.”
These reports met with an immediate outcry of protest from the Zionist lobby in Canada, quickly joined and encouraged by the political elite and right-wing press.
On August 13, Toronto City councillors James Pasternak and Brad Bradford issued a joint statement on X, declaring, “TIFF should not be banning or censoring films and should respect the freedoms of the arts community,” and concluding that the decision to cancel was a “moral failure.”
The very next day, TIFF capitulated to this reactionary campaign, now less than 48 hours old, and announced it would ensure the film would be screened during what is the festival’s 50th edition. With The Road Between US’s producers, explained TIFF CEO Cameron Bailey, “We have worked together to find a resolution to satisfy important safety, legal, and programming concerns.”
This quick retreat did next to nothing, however, to appease the film’s ruling class promoters, who in the name of denouncing TIFF censorship, lashed out at the supposed intolerance of anti-Gaza genocide protesters.
The National Post gave feature coverage to an op-ed penned by Sharren Haskel, who self-identifies as Israel’s “Canadian-born” deputy foreign minister. She voiced her outrage that TIFF sought “the ‘approval’ of terrorists,” who carry out “murders, rapes, and kidnappings,” and charged the festival with complicity “in silencing the truth.” She also slammed the Carney government for its empty announcement it would recognize a Palestinian state.
Canada, like the US and the other imperialist powers, is a key supporter of the Gaza genocide. Whether under Mark Carney or Justin Trudeau before him, the Liberal government has backed Israel’s genocidal campaign against Gaza and rampage across the Middle East to the hilt, shipping tens of millions of dollars in weaponry to Israel, while clamping down ruthlessly on anti-genocide protests at home.
Within Canada’s film industry the most prominent public statement of support for the screening of The Road Between US’s came from Susan Reitman Michaels, sister of the late producer/director Ivan Reitman, whose family is a major benefactor of TIFF. The family donated land for the home of the festival, the TIFF Lightbox complex in downtown Toronto.
In an open letter Michaels wrote, “The irony is unbearable. My family’s gift of land to TIFF was intended as a memorial to my parents’ faith in freedom of expression, only to see that very principle eroded… What it looks like, and feels like, is the silencing of a Jewish voice at a time when Jewish voices are already being marginalized.” As intended, the letter elicited a thoroughly stage-managed “torrent of outrage,” with the festival reportedly receiving 60,000 emails objecting to the initial cancellation of the film.
The hypocrisy of Michaels and the other would-be warriors for “free speech” is staggering. None of them batted an eyelid, but on the contrary cheered on the political establishment when it systematically smeared and sought to intimidate hundreds of thousands of Canadians who participated in anti-genocide protests over the past two years. Anti-genocide activists calling for an end to Canadian imperialism’s supply of military equipment to Israel have faced arrest and harassment by the police, and in some cases the loss of their employment. The few voices who raised any criticism of the genocide within the political establishment, like former NDP member of the Ontario legislature Sarah Jama, were politically sidelined and silenced.
Moreover, the claim to be defending rights of “freedom of expression” on the one hand, while invoking the special rights of wealthy benefactors to influence programming decisions, reveals the class character of the objections.
In announcing the festival’s renewed commitment to screen The Road Between Us, TIFF CEO Bailey issued a cowardly mea culpa. “I want to apologize,” he declared, “for any hurt, frustration, or disappointment that our communication about the film has caused, and for any mischaracterizations that have taken root. We’re working now—and we will be for a while—to clarify things and to repair relationships.”
Bailey offered his fawning and, frankly, disgusting reassurance:
I want to be clear: claims that the film was rejected due to censorship are unequivocally false. Both TIFF and the filmmakers have heard the pain and frustration expressed by the public and we want to address this together.
The “pain and frustration” were not expressed by “the public,” but by TIFF’s wealthy donors, the Zionist lobby, and powerful sections of the corporate and political elite—many of them the very same forces who last year demanded that TIFF cancel screenings of a documentary that humanized Russian soldiers fighting in Ukraine.
It should be remembered that TIFF has a record of celebrating Zionism and Israel. In 2009, eight months after one of the Israeli military’s murderous assaults on Gaza, the film festival decided to honor Tel Aviv as the first city to be the subject of its new program, “City to City.” The decision provoked widespread outrage and protest.
Avrich, a Montreal-based filmmaker, has less than convincingly sought to talk his way out of any political intention behind his decision to make the film. Avrich told an interviewer for Deadline, “This film is not about politics, it’s about humanity, family and sacrifice.”
Avrich and the IDF Major General Tibon used a joint interview with the Globe and Mail, published September 6, as an opportunity to double down on this transparent falsification, presenting their film, in the postmodernist jargon so prominent in artistic and academic circles, as simply one “story” among others. In a remark that reveals at best his indifference towards and more likely support for the greatest crime of the 21st century so far, Avrich blandly told the Globe that he was just “a guy in Canada who is attracted to a great story… I didn’t see anything outside that story.” The same line was taken by Tibon, who adds in the same interview that ”we didn’t say one word of politics.” Anyone who believes a word of this rubbish …
When the Globe interviewer gave them the opportunity, to say something about the plight of the Palestinians and the ongoing genocide, both Avrich and Tibon pointedly refused to do so.
An artist unmoved by genocide and who, in the face of the systematic destruction of an entire people, “didn’t see anything outside” the fate of a senior officer in this machinery of mass murder and his immediate family, deserves only contempt. This is not a matter of artistic freedom. Rather, it reflects a tendency to revel in a kind of cold indifference to mass human suffering cultivated within a privileged layer of the middle class, whose expanding stock portfolios and bank balances are tied up with the eruption of imperialist wars over the past three-and-a-half decades, culminating in the Gaza genocide as part of a rapidly developing third world war.
Malaka Dewapriya’s film Bahuchithawadiya(The Undecided) is an ambitious but ultimately disoriented work that attempts to offer a portrait of the youth adrift in post-civil-war urban Sri Lanka. The film takes the form of a character study, which according to Director’s own introduction, “presents a reflection of the youth of this time, who are searching for easy ways to survive due to lack of job security and are immersed in the dream of escaping this country, using social media, smartphones, and iPhones to achieve their old dream, and making all connections their victims.”
Bahuchithawadiya. Image courtesy of film’s official facebook page.
The film has garnered attention for its experimental tone and portrayal of alienation among the impoverished unemployed – jobless or precariously employed and exploited in the gig economy – youth in Colombo. However, beneath its cinematic form, the film offers a bleak, superficial depiction of social decay and a disheartening and ultimately reactionary indictment of working-class and unemployed youth—not as victims of capitalism, but as the agents of their own moral downfall.
The protagonist, Sasitha (Kalana Gunasekara), is a delivery worker in Colombo, the industrial capital of the country. He is employed under precarious conditions by a miserly boss. With no prospects for economic or social mobility, Sasitha turns his attention to seducing women online—married, unmarried, older, younger—all in the hopes of securing a visa to a European country or gaining some financial benefit. His duplicity and exploitation of these women are portrayed not as unwilling and temporary predatory responses to a brutal economic system but as intrinsic and permanent features of his character. What emerges out of him is not a layered human being, but a cypher of cynicism and indecision. Herein lies one of the film’s most serious failings: the absence of any serious attempt to explain the portrayal of Sasitha’s behavior through the social forces and material conditions in which he lives.
Dewapriya has captured certain surface features of social life. The film presents a series of acidic behaviours—adultery, betrayal, cheating, exploitation, desperation—yet none are given sustained focus or examined in depth to reveal their underlying contradictions. As a result, the viewer is left with a collection of symptoms, rather than an understanding of the social reality that gives rise to them. This is not merely an aesthetic or artistic shortcoming, but a deeply ideological one. An artist does not simply replicate life; he is not a photographer. He bears the responsibility of discovering truth. By isolating Sasitha’s personal corruption from the real world that produces it and stands in contradiction to it, Bahuchithawadiya, despite its claims to realism, ultimately proves to be profoundly evasive and dishonest.
It is not enough to show that a character, representing “contemporary youth”, is indecisive, manipulative, and amoral. One must ask: why? What has shaped this poisonous character? What forces act upon him? Who is responsible for his life? Is his behaviour inevitable? Dewapriya seems uninterested in these questions. The result is a film that verges on character assassination. Sasitha is not portrayed as a victim of the capitalist system, nor as someone with even the faintest sense of resistance to its injustices. Instead, he appears as its willing accomplice—both seeking to benefit from its corruption and attempting, paradoxically, to escape its consequences. In the final analysis, he is shown not as someone shaped by a toxic social order, but as one of its architects. “The youth”, as we have known it, has ceased to be!
The viewer is invited to conclude that the crisis of contemporary youth lies in their own character: their indecision, their dishonesty, their lack of conviction. This is an old slander, repeated countless times by the middle class and its intellectual spokespersons, who recoil in fear at the sight of the impoverished, unemployed, and restless young. That this view should find cinematic expression in a country that in 2022 witnessed one of the most significant mass uprisings of youth in recent history is both telling and damning. Ultimately, the youth does not happen to find their class enemy.
The film’s final scene shows Sasitha mechanically resuming his practice of seducing women online, without the slightest remorse—even after having been caught red-handed in his previous deceptions. This serves as a conclusive testament that the filmmaker is less concerned with exploring the real social and psychological dynamics shaping youth behavior, and more intent on confirming a middle-class ideology that views oppressed youth as inherently selfish, untrustworthy, incorrigible, and erratic.
The film’s central concept—”Bahuchithawadiya”—suggests a permanent, innate condition of moral and psychological ambiguity. This is entirely ahistorical and unscientific. The youth of Sri Lanka are indecisive not because they are naturally cynical or morally bankrupt. They are uncertain because their lives are uncertain: jobless, underpaid, precariously housed, exploited. The labor market offers no security. Political parties offer no hope. Trade unions have betrayed them. Their so-called indecision is not a failing; it is a symptom of a broader social crisis.
Indeed, the idea that Sri Lankan youth are fundamentally morally degraded is refuted by events themselves. In 2022, tens of thousands of young people took to the streets in an unprecedented mass uprising, protesting the unbearable cost of living, fuel shortages, authoritarian repression, and the corruption of the ruling political establishment. This movement did not emerge suddenly from a generation lost in nihilism, but from a population forced to resist and confront the consequences of decades of neoliberal policy and imperialist subjugation.
To assert, as the film does, that youth have no direction because, in the backdrop of a predatory economy, they are inherently flawed, is to participate in a reactionary ideological project. Dewapriya offers the youth no future and no past. They are merely floating signifiers of decay, cynicism, and amorality. They are uninfluenced by any sense of resistance, struggle, solidarity, or political awakening. Even in Colombo, the epicenter of industry and protest, Sasitha never encounters a strike, a rally, or even a conversation that hints at collective resistance. There is not even a passing allusion to conscious class war measures–austerity, privatization, debt crises, or the militarization of public life following the end of the civil war—realities that are inescapable features of everyday life in the country. The working class —despite its overwhelming presence and historical importance—is nowhere to be found. Instead, we are shown a hermetically sealed world of urban apartments and transactional relationships, in which everyone is either a victimizer or a dupe.
Sasitha flicks through television channels airing religious sermons, astrology segments, and reality shows—programs ostensibly meant to shape the youth—but never news, politics, or protest. The enemy is distant, and the struggle is futile. This is no accident, but a deliberate artistic choice—one that lays bare the filmmaker’s class perspective.
Class struggle is the highest expression of both class resistance and solidarity—one that leaves no room for pettiness, selfishness, or moral cynicism. It imparts to working-class youth a profound sense of social responsibility, discipline, and empathy forged through collective struggle. To preserve the middle-class caricature of youth as aimless, self-serving, and unreliable, it becomes essential that they not be shown to be confrontated with class struggle. This is precisely the path the filmmaker has chosen: by omitting any encounter with collective resistance, the film ensures that its protagonist remains trapped within a framework that validates bourgeois prejudices rather than illuminating social truth.
Bahuchithawadiya shares a great deal with the postmodern cinema that has emerged internationally in recent decades—films that purport to critique society by depicting its filth and moral decay, but which in reality offer no understanding of why things are the way they are, and certainly no path forward. These are not works of art that cognize life in its fullness and movement—but snapshots of despair, stripped of causality and agency.
One would compare this to a film like Dharmasena Pathiraja’s Ahas Gauwa (1974), where the main character Wije is shaped by his encounters with the working class. That film ends not with resignation, but with the protagonist joining a trade union struggle, suggesting a transformation in consciousness. Or consider Boodee Keerthisena’s Mille Soya (2004), which, while also centered on the desire to migrate, does not present its characters as predators or cowards, but as desperate and conflicted individuals shaped by historical pressures. In these works, characters evolve, struggle, and relate to the social forces around them. They are alive in history. In today’s society, gripped by deep crisis, a heightened degree of class resistance is not only inevitable but increasingly evident.
Sasitha—so too his roommate—is not shown looking for work: he submits no job applications. He engages in no political talk at all. He has no interest in news. He speaks of migrating to Europe but takes no meaningful steps to do so. The film ends as it began: in stasis. This is not an artistic exploration of paralysis, but a refusal to engage with reality. Real young people in Sri Lanka today are not simply wallowing in nihilism. They are searching for work, forming relationships, joining protests, and trying to understand their place in a collapsing world. Dewapriya‘s Sasitha is not a representation of this generation; he is a libel against it.
Commenting on the depiction of unemployed youth in Take Me Somewhere Nice (2019), written and directed by Ena Sendijarević, David Walsh observes that the filmmaker “underestimates the extent to which the younger generation globally is still at sea, looking for a new orientation, for some stable, coherent political and moral reference point. Many young people, refugees or not, from the Balkans or not, are ‘in-between’ at present, disgusted by the existing set-up and not yet having found an alternative. This ‘in-between-ness’ is bound up with the ‘on-the-eve’ quality of the present moment.”
Walsh’s comment is equally applicable to Dewapriya and his approach in his film. Bahuchithawadiya captures the uncertainty of youth but fails to grasp the transitional, searching character of that uncertainty—its link to a broader historical moment in which masses of young people are questioning the existing order and beginning to look for alternatives.
Moreover, the film is an ideological fodder to the petty-bourgeois strata from which it emerges. It confirms their defeatist view that the poor and unemployed are to blame for their own fate, that they are lazy, treacherous, corrupt, and oversexed. It paints the working class not as the agent of social transformation, but as a cesspool of moral degradation. The youth are not portrayed sympathetically. In this way, the film serves the ideological needs of those who have no intention of challenging the status quo. This is the hallmark of postmodern pessimism—a worldview that substitutes irony for resistance and pathology for class analysis.
There are moments in the film that suggest Dewapriya is not without talent. A number of his previous “radio stories” confirm that he is a promising artist. He has a feel for visual composition, a sensitivity to language, and a certain flair for portraying claustrophobic urban life. But these gifts are, at this stage, limited by a worldview shaped by the narrow horizons of a disoriented middle-class layer, a worldview that remains unable to grasp the full social and historical dynamics confronting the working class youth.
A work of art does not need to be optimistic, but it must be truthful. It must seek to reveal the underlying forces that shape human behavior. An artist should not only cognize life, but should attempt to partially lift the veil of future. When he is dissatisfied with today’s reality, he has to see it through the prism of an ideal “tomorrow” and “show man in his ideal”.
As A.K. Voronsky wrote:
“The dream, yearning and longing for man drawn up to his full height has been and continues to be the foundation of the creative work of the best artists” (Art as the Cognition of Life, and the Contemporary World, 1923)
In this sense, art becomes a means of historical cognition. Bahuchithawadiya fails in this task. It is a film that flinches from the real struggles of our time and retreats into a cold, contemptuous portrait of human failure.
In the final analysis, Bahuchithawadiya is not a film about youth, but about the inability of a certain social layer to comprehend the youth—to see in them not just a mirror of society’s decay, but the potential for its renewal. That is the tragedy of this film.
We are posting here a brief obituary of Sri Lanka’s veteran actress Malini Fonseka, written by comrade Sanjaya Jayasekera and published on his personal website and social media on 25 May 2025. This articles was also published by the daily newspaper themorning.lk Here. Nearly six-decade of the cinematic career of actress Fonseka deserves a full and extended review.
Malini Fonseka
The demise of actress Malini Fonseka on May 24, 2025, marks the end of a cinematic epoch. She is undoubtedly the “Queen of Sinhala Cinema,” as she has been often referred to by millions of her fans, aged and young. Nearly six-decade of her career was not a simple arc of celebrity, but a deep and continuous cinematic identification with the lives of ordinary people, especially women, under the weight of history, patriarchy, backwardness and class oppression. In a country where cinema often struggles between the tides of commercialism, populism, nationalism and repression, Fonseka remained a moral and aesthetic lodestar, truthfully imbuing her characters with emotion, quiet resistance, and tragic insight.
To merely describe Fonseka as a beloved actress is to evade the seriousness of her contribution. She was an artist of social consciousness—her performances bore the weight of Sri Lanka’s post-independence traumas, its unfulfilled democratic promises, and the contradictions of a backward capitalist society pressing in from every side.
In Lester James Peries’ Nidhanaya (1972), one of the greatest Sri Lankan films ever made, Fonseka plays the innocent, ill-fated woman preyed upon by a man whose wealth and obsession lead to murder. Her character is not merely a victim but a mirror held up to a crumbling feudal order. Fonseka conveys, through silence and subtle gestures, a person slowly awakening to the forces arrayed against her. Her sacrifice is not just personal—it is metaphorically the death of innocence in a society entrapped by its own past.
In Beddegama (1980), based on Leonard Woolf’s The Village in the Jungle, Fonseka as Punchi Menika inhabits a world of colonial exploitation and rural destitution. This is not melodrama but precise, economical realism. Fonseka does not “perform” poverty and female endurance—she lives it. Her face, increasingly lined by anxiety and despair, communicates the pain of a society ground down by injustice, hunger and disease, made worse by the cruelty of an indifferent state.
Equally remarkable is her performance in Dharmasena Pathiraja’s Bambaru Avith (1978). In this film, Fonseka delivers one of her most restrained yet potent performances of the role of a young lady in a coastal village caught in the maelstrom of social disintegration and the predatory arrival of urban outsiders. Fonseka’s portrayal is marked by an acute sensitivity to the class tensions simmering beneath the film’s surface. Her role is not simply a symbol of rural innocence but a deeply aware, emotionally complex figure who senses the destruction bearing down on her community. In a film that critiques both the romanticization of village life and the corrosive effects of capitalist intrusion, Fonseka embodies the silent tragedy of a society being commodified. With minimal dialogue and subtle expressions, she gracefully communicates despair, resignation, and the quiet resistance of a woman rooted in her world but unable to halt its unraveling.
Bambaru Avith: Malini Fonseka with Vijaya Kumaratunga
In Akasa Kusum (2008), directed by Prasanna Vithanage, as Sandhya Rani, a faded film star confronting the ruins of her career and personal life, Fonseka embodies the alienation and disillusionment of an artist discarded by an industry that once idolized her, and without any social insurance. The film alludes to the stardom of Fonseka herself. Vithanage’s film, while ostensibly a character study, inadvertently exposes the broader social decay under capitalism, where cultural memory is short and individuals are reduced to commodities. Fonseka’s restrained yet deeply expressive performance underscores the tragedy of a woman whose labor and talent have been exploited, then abandoned—a microcosm of the artists’ precarious existence in a profit-driven system. The film’s critique of bleak nostalgia and the fleeting nature of fame resonates with the broader crisis of art under conditions where everything, including human creativity, is subordinated to the market. While Akasa Kusum does not explicitly engage with class struggle, Fonseka’s portrayal of Sandhya’s isolation and resilience speaks to the perseverance of ordinary people amid systemic indifference.
Fonseka’s performances in a wide range of other films—including Eya Dan Loku Lamayek (1977), Siripala Saha Ranmenika (1978), Ektamge (1980) and Yasa Isuru (1982) —as well as in teledramas such as Pitagamkarayo (1997), are etched into the collective memory of Sri Lankan audiences. In each of these roles, she brought to life women shaped by their social conditions, investing them with dignity, emotional depth, and a quiet intensity that transcended the screen. Whether portraying the struggles of urban motherhood, the constraints of poverty, caste and patriarchy, or the conflicted desires of village life, the veteran actress was able to truthfully reveal the deeper realities of the society around her.
Like several other leading actors of her generation, Fonseka was a significant historical product of her time. By the 1970s, Bollywood’s musical and melodramatic cinema exerted a powerful influence over Sri Lankan audiences, who flocked to theaters largely drawn by star appeal. Sinhala cinema, still emerging as a serious artistic medium, had to contend with the commercial dominance of Indian films. Fonseka’s rise to stardom was not merely a matter of charishma; her compelling screen presence, combined with the emotional depth and authenticity she brought to nearly every role, enabled her to capture the imagination of a broad audience. In doing so, she played a crucial role in affirming the cultural legitimacy and artistic potential of Sinhala-language cinema, as part of the world cinema.
Fonseka’s popularity, unmatched for decades, was not simply built on glamour but on the deep compassion she earned. For the oppressed, she did not offer escapism; she offered recognition and fight. Her status as “queen” is a title she earned from the sincere presentation of the struggles of those who loved her.
Her art reminds us of what cinema can be: a site of conscience, a record of the oppressed, and a spark of rebellion. She belongs to that rare tradition of film actors—like Smita Patil, Giulietta Masina, and Liv Ullmann—who made of their bodies and voices a battlefield of history.
In the later years of her life, Fonseka became associated with the bourgeois nationalist establishment, serving as a Member of Parliament from 2010 to 2015 under the government of then-President Mahinda Rajapaksa. While no political concessions can be made to her alignment with Sinhala nationalist politics, her profound contributions to cinema—rooted in social realism and the depiction of the oppressed—remain of enduring artistic and historical value. Her body of work deserves to be critically appreciated, drawn inspiration from and preserved as a significant part of both Sri Lankan and world cinema.
Malini Fonseka will be remembered not merely as a great actress, but as an artist of the oppressed masses. Her characters will continue to live, as all genuine art does, not only in memory but in the continuing struggles of those they represented.
Anidda, February 2, 2025, A discussion with Ashoka Handagama by Upali Amarasinghe, p19. ↩︎
‘[A]ntisemitism moved many thousands of “ordinary” Germans—and would have moved millions more, had they been appropriately positioned—to slaughter Jews. Not economic hardship, not the coercive means of a totalitarian state, not social psychological pressure, not invariable psychological propensities, but ideas about Jews that were pervasive in Germany, and had been for decades, induced ordinary Germans to kill unarmed, defenseless Jewish men, women, and children by the thousands, systematically and without pity.’ Daniel Goldhagen, Hitler’s Willing Executioners: Ordinary Germans and the Holocaust, (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1996), p. 9. ↩︎
