My thoughts on Handagama’s “Rani”

The film reminds us that when violence becomes an ideology, no one is safe

In my opinion, this is one of Handagama’s finest films—one of his most multifaceted works— depicting the story of a mother whose son was abducted and murdered. The narrative unfolds through a series of deeply intimate and emotionally charged exchanges between the protagonist, Manorani, and five key characters: her son, a journalist; his friend, a political activist; a devoted servant; a longtime friend who is a politician; and a widow who seeks to befriend her. Below, I have organised my thoughts on the film under three main headings.

1. Authenticity and honesty/genuine engagement:

The film is a work of fiction inspired by the true story of Dr. Manorani Saravanamuttu and her son, Richard de Zoysa, a renowned journalist and activist who was abducted and murdered in 1991. While the film draws from real historical events, it does not claim to be a biopic of Dr. Saravanamuttu or a strictly factual retelling of the tragedy. Instead, it deliberately positions itself as a work of fiction, allowing for a broader and more layered exploration of the underlying social and political realities.

Rather than focusing solely on the historical accuracy of the events that led to Richard’s brutal killing, the film engages with a far more complex and unsettling question: What happens to a society when violence becomes systemic and normalised? It examines the ways in which authoritarian regimes perpetuate brutality for political gain and self-preservation, creating an environment where violence is not only carried out by those in power but is also internalised, accepted, and even participated in by ordinary citizens. In such a climate, even those with moral integrity can find themselves complicit—whether through silence, fear, or the gradual erosion of ethical boundaries.

For me, this is what the film captures with authenticity and emotional depth. It is not just a story about personal loss or political injustice, but a meditation on the broader societal consequences of living under oppression—how fear, violence, and complicity become woven into the fabric of everyday life, ensnaring even those who consider themselves beyond its reach.

However, the film must inevitably contend with the negative and dismissive criticisms it has received from those who personally knew the individuals and events that it draws upon. Given that the film is inspired by real people and historical incidents, its portrayal will naturally evoke strong reactions, particularly from those who lived through these events or were closely connected to the figures represented on screen.

The characters and moments referenced in the film are not distant or forgotten—they are part of Sri Lanka’s recent history, and for many, the memories remain vivid and deeply personal. As a result, some may find the film’s fictionalised approach unsettling or feel that it does not fully capture the complexities of the individuals involved. Such criticism is inevitable, especially when dealing with a past that still lingers in public memory and collective trauma. Yet, the film does not claim to be a documentary or an absolute historical record; rather, it offers an interpretation—one that seeks to engage with broader social and political themes rather than provide a strict retelling of real-life events.

But there is another way to engage with a film like this—by treating it as a work of art in its own right, analysing it through its material manifestations: its sounds, visuals, and the movement of scenes.

Rather than judging it solely in relation to real-life events or individuals, we can focus on how the film constructs meaning through its cinematic language.

In this approach, we may draw upon Roland Barthes’ famous theory that “the reader is born at the death of the author.” This perspective suggests that the meaning and interpretation of a work of art—or any text—do not reside solely in the authority of its creator but instead emerge through the engagement of the audience. Meaning, therefore, is not fixed or dictated by the filmmaker’s intent but is shaped by the way viewers experience and interpret the film’s narrative, imagery, and aesthetic choices.

In my notes on this film, this is the approach I aim to take. I do so because I firmly believe that this is a remarkable and significant film—one that challenges conventional ways of thinking about the relationships between power, politics, and violence, pushing us to the very edges of these established frameworks.

The six main characters of the film, including the protagonist, are deeply intertwined in each other’s lives. Yet, as the film unfolds, it becomes evident that no matter how much they rely on one another to navigate their ontological anxieties, they remain emotionally distanced—sometimes to the point of complete estrangement. There are moments when they cannot truly “see” each other, when their interactions reveal an almost spectral detachment, as if they were strangers trapped in the same space.

This profound alienation is not merely personal but symptomatic of a larger socio-political reality.

When societies endure prolonged brutality under oppressive political climates, individuals become collectively fractured, disconnected even from those closest to them. The structures of violence do not just inflict physical harm; they corrode the very fabric of relationships, creating an existence where trust is eroded, solidarity is weakened, and isolation becomes a shared condition. It is this tragic social disintegration that the film engages with so honestly, telling the story of Manorani and Richard as a lens through which to explore the deeper psychological and emotional consequences of political violence. 

One particularly striking moment that encapsulates this is the scene where Manorani smashes the teacup—a seemingly simple act that speaks volumes about the simmering rage, helplessness, and irreparable fractures that define both her personal grief and the collective trauma of a brutalised society.

2. Empathy, compassion, 

and the transformation of rage

How are empathy and compassion woven into the film’s narrative? Reflecting on these themes, my colleague, Dr. Prasanna Ranabahu of the Postgraduate Institute of Archaeology, pointed out a compelling connection between this film and Satyajit Maitipe’s Smarana Samapthi. I find myself in agreement with him. Both films subtly examine the limits of empathy and compassion, exposing their fragility within the personal and political landscapes they navigate.

In this film, empathy is neither sentimentalised nor presented as an inherent moral virtue; rather, it is tested, fragmented, and ultimately reconfigured through the protagonist, Rani. The film traces how Rani’s initial rage—rooted in profound grief—gradually transforms through activism. In doing so, it presents a powerful meditation on the interplay between sorrow and rage, challenging conventional narratives about mourning and resistance.

A crucial insight the film offers is that sorrow and grief do not fuel rage; they deflate it. Unlike self-pity, which sustains anger and entraps individuals in cycles of personal suffering, sorrow has a way of reshaping emotions, forcing one to confront loss in a way that is raw yet humanising. However, the film does not present this as a straightforward dichotomy. It suggests that a degree of rage is necessary—not as an end in itself, but as a force that propels grief beyond mere resignation, transforming personal pain into political activism. This delicate balance between anger and sorrow, between destruction and reconstruction, is what makes the film’s exploration of empathy and compassion compelling.

3. Hope and resilience

As mentioned earlier, the film offers a nuanced and complex exploration of the human condition within the brutality of political conflict. Rather than simply depicting oppression and victimhood, it invites viewers to reflect on the psychological and social consequences of systemic violence, urging them to seek strength and solidarity in the face of adversity. This, I argue, is the political action the film proposes—not through direct advocacy, but through the subtle yet radical ambiguity embedded in its narrative structure.

Consider the final scene—a kind of afterword, an afterthought—which leaves the viewer unsettled.

The film technically concludes with Manorani, now an aged and frail woman, gazing out at the vast ocean, the same ocean that had carried her son’s mutilated body back to her nearly nine years earlier.

This image of stillness and reflection suggests the weight of time, grief, and unresolved trauma.

Yet, the film does not end there. It introduces one more scene, shifting the focus to the gang responsible for her son’s abduction. We see them leaving a colonial-era bungalow, visibly intoxicated after drinking with their superior. Their casual, drunken conversation reveals a chilling truth: their decision to “teach the journalist a lesson” is spontaneous, not even a direct order from above. Richard, a young gay journalist, is merely a target of their collective impulse, a convenient scapegoat in a system that has normalised violence as routine and necessary.

As they drive through the dimly lit streets, one of them starts singing a patriotic song, describing an idealised land where people are well cared for, where harmony and prosperity reign. The irony is suffocating. The words of the song stand in stark contrast to the barbarity they are about to unleash.

Meanwhile, as the jeep approaches Manorani’s house, the camera zooms in on the front tyre, filling the entire screen—an ominous visual metaphor for the machinery of state violence, the crushing inevitability of what is about to happen. The film ends as the haunting melody of “My Son, Sleep” plays in the background, reinforcing the tragic weight of what we have just witnessed.

A crucial detail in this scene demands attention: the gang of thugs we see here are not exactly the same men we encountered earlier in the film. Before, they carried themselves with some degree of discipline and restraint—they operated within the framework of an organised, hierarchical system of power.

Now, at this moment, they are simply drunken men acting out violence with no direct command, no explicit order—only the vague ideological justification that it must be done. This distinction is critical.

This scene confronts us with the brutal truth: in those years, violence was not merely a tool of the State, it had become an ideological practice. It was no longer contingent on orders from a superior; it had been internalised, normalised, and justified as a necessary act for the greater social good. The film reminds us that when violence becomes an ideology, no one is safe. It does not require a dictator to issue commands—violence, once woven into the fabric of society, self-perpetuates, carried out in the name of an imagined cause, a leader, or a higher purpose. And that is precisely what the song they sing tells us. It is not just background noise; it is the ideological lullaby of a society that has rationalised its own brutality. Violence is always celestial!