10 October 2023

Jackson Anthony is a book and will be read

['The Morning Inspection' is the title of a column I wrote for the Daily News from 2009 to 2011, one article a day, Monday through Saturday. This is the 239th article in the new series that began in December 2022. Links to previous articles are given below]

He’s no more. No more curtain calls. The stage is empty. The movie is over. The credits roll. Jackson Anthony will no longer entertain except through archival reels. He won’t smile. His life’s work as a filmmaker, actor, television personality and so on will be talked about. Some will praise. Others may not. Some, indeed, would vilify as they have before the accident that rendered him unconscious and during the long, long, long months when he was without thought or voice to defend himself.  

Those who were opposed to Jackson’s political preferences took issue with him. That’s legitimate. He seldom got into arguments over politics. He did his things, others did theirs. Many of his detractors, it must be mentioned, were no saints when one considers their political choices, the positions they took and the benefits that accrued accordingly. It doesn’t make Jackson a saint either and it must be said that among those who took issue with him were people who had no known political affiliation. He never argued with them either, at least not in the public domain.

There were noises made when he was in hospital, on life support, and according to certain reports had been certified ‘brain-dead.’ People raised the issue of privilege. They asked whether doctors would accord the same privileges to a lesser known or rather unknown person in the same situation. Given economic constraints and serious shortages, these were legitimate concerns.

It is hard for anyone to say ‘pull the plug’ if the particular person was first asked ‘what would you recommend if it was your father, husband or son or even a close friend?’ People hope and pray for miracles.

There were none, clearly, for Jackson.  

Film critics will have their say. There were weak moments in all the films I saw, but Agnidahaya, Guerrilla Marketing and Ghara Sarpa were compelling enough. Jackson, playing the main role in each of them, was a powerful cinematic presence. That is in part attributable to the skills of the director, Jayantha Chandrasiri. His portrayal of the character Hitler in ‘Address Nae’ was excellent. In that instance, the fact that he wrote the screenplay would have helped. And yet, there was a striking similarity in the way he portrayed the characters in Agnidahaya (Punchi Rala), Guerilla Marketing (Gregory Mahadikaram), Address Nae (Hitler) and Gharasarpa (Kalu Kumaraya).

He was different as Peduru in Dharmasiri Bandaranayake’s ‘Bava Duka’ and ‘Bava Karma.’ More nuanced and certainly less predictable. Those who have seen all the films he acted in would be better positioned to offer a comprehensive assessment of Jackson the Actor. He was certainly among the top in his generation, especially in theatre, from Bera Handa to Dhawala Bheeshana. He will also be remembered as an accomplished dancer and singer.

He was versatile. When his biography is eventually written, the biographer would no doubt take account of his many ‘professions’ which include director, producer, singer, screenwriter, television host, novelist, columnist and lyricist. He was no historian but he was clearly a keen student of history. Some would argue that he was being mischievous and even quite subversive in ‘Maha Sinhale Wansakathawa.’

One thing is clear. Jackson put his heart and soul into everything he did. A colossus, in this sense.   He stood tall. He smiled. Even when he was roundly vilified.

Those in film, television and theatre would know what kind of professional he was. My encounters were limited to answering some language-related questions pertaining to his scripts, especially ‘Address Nae’ and in the yet to be released ‘Sambula.’

In both instances, Jackson got me to work on the English subtitles. I imposed only one condition: he had to present so I could immediately get him to clarify anything that seemed unclear. The first, ‘Address Nae’ was done in a studio in Polhengoda. ‘Sambula,’ at my place. We worked. We took unplanned breaks to talk about literature, films, politics, philosophy and random matters about the human condition. I asked the questions, for the most part. Jackson answered. Sometimes the exchanges were serious, sometimes we laughed together.

He was a colossus. And he was humble. That’s all I know of Jackson Anthony.

Social media was full of invective over his situation. Today, those voices have largely gone silent. Some of those who ranted and raved are now expressing sympathy to his wife, daughter and sons. Some say ‘rest in peace,’ and others wish him ‘nivan suva’ or the supreme bliss of nibbana, for although he was of the Christian faith, he also celebrated Buddhism. He loved Sri Lanka. He loved the culture, the civilizational ethos, the heritage and history, all of which he celebrated as per his understanding of these things. There was no malice in any of it.

The final curtain call is done. Credits have rolled to conclusion.

The End.  

It is the beginning of reading Jackson Anthony. That’s the thing: he lived a life that is worth reading. Not many do. 



Other articles in this series: 

A village called Narberth Bookshop

Gateway drugs to A-B-C

'Irvin' and other one-word poems

Earth pieces Kerala and Sri Lanka

Obligation as bomb and ocean

In the land of insomnial poets

In and out of shadows

Over to Eve

When you don't need an invitation, it's home

When the Canadian House of Commons applauded a Nazi...

Touching the touch-me-nots

The importance of not skipping steps

No free passes to the Land of Integrity

Hector Kobbekaduwa is not a building, statue, street or stamp

Rajagala and the Parable of the Panner

Let's show love to Starbucks employees!

You've got mail?

Octavio Paz and Arthur C Clarke in the stratosphere 

Enduring solidarities 

Coco 'Quotes' Gauff!

9/11 and the calm metal instrument of Salvador Allende's voice 

What a memory-keeper foregoes 

Whitman, Neruda and things that wait in all things

Thilina Kaluthotage's eyes keep watch

Those made of love will fly

Profit: the peragamankaru of major wars

Helplessness and innocence

The parameters of entirety

In loving memory of Carrie Lee (1956-2020)

Mobsters on and off the screen

Transfixing and freeing dawns

We're here because we're here because we're here

Life signatures

Sha'Carri Richardson versus and with Sha'Carri Richardson  

A canvas for a mind-brush

Sybil Wettasinghe's shoes

Love is...

A stroll with Pragg and Arjun along a boulevard in Baku

Meditation on tree-art

Daya Sahabandu ran out of partners but must have smiled to the end

Gentle intrusions 

Sleeping well

The unleashing of inspiration

Write, for Pete's sake

Autumn Leaves Safeness

 Sapan and voices that erase borders

Problem elephants and problem humans

Songs from the vaekanda

The 'inhuman' elephant in a human zoo

Ivan Art: Ivanthi Fernando's efforts to align meaning

Arwa Turra, heart-stitcher

Let's help Jagana Krishnakumar rebuild our ancestral home

True national anthems

Do you have a friend in Pennsylvania (or anywhere?)

A gateway to illumination in West Virginia

Through strange fissures into magical orchards

There's sea glass love few will see 

Re-residencing Lakdasa Wikkramasinha

Poisoning poets and shredding books of verse

The responsible will not be broken

Home worlds

Ownership and tenuriality of the Wissahickon

Did you notice the 'tiny, tiny wayside flowers'?

Gifts, gifting and their rubbishing

History is new(s)

Journalism inadvertently learned

Reflections on the young poetic heart

Wordaholic, trynasty and other portmanteaus

The 'Loku Aiya' of all 'Paththara Mallis'

Subverting the indecency of the mind

Character theft and the perennial question 'who am I?'


A degree in people

Faces dripping with time

Saji Coomaraswamy and rewards that matter

Revolutionary unburdening

Seeing, unseeing and seeing again

Alex Carey and the (small) matter of legacy

The Edelweiss of Mirissa 

The insomnial dreams of Kapila Kumara Kalinga 

The clothes we wear and the clothes that wear us (down) 

Every mountain, every rock, is sacred 

Manufacturing passivity and obedience 

Precept and practice 

Sanjeew Lonliyes: rawness unplugged, unlimited 

In praise of courage, determination and insanity 

The relative values of life and death 

Feet that walk 

Sarinda's eyes 

Poetry and poets will not be buried 

Sunny Dayananda 

Reunion Peradeniya (1980-1990) 

What makes Oxygen breathable?  

Sorrowing and delighting the world 

The greatest fallacy  

Encounters with Liyanage Amarakeerthi 

Beyond praise and blame 

Letters that cut and heal the heart 

Vanished and vanishing trails 


A forgotten dawn song from Embilipitiya 

The soft rain of neighbourliness  

The Gold Medals of being 

Jaya Sri Ratna Sri 

All those we've loved before 

Reflections on waves and markings 

A chorus of National Anthems 

Saying what and how 

'Say when' 

Respond to insults in line with the Akkosa Sutra 

The loves of our lives 

The right time, the right person 

The silent equivalent of a thousand words 

Crazy cousins are besties for life 

Unities, free and endearing 

Free verse and the return key

"Sorry, Earth!" 

The lost lyrics of Premakeerthi de Alwis 

The revolution is the song 

Consolation prizes in competitions no one ever wins 

The day I won a Pulitzer 


Ella Deloria's silences 

Blackness, whiteness and black-whiteness 

Inscriptions: stubborn and erasable  


Deveni: a priceless one-word koan 

Enlightening geometries 

Let's meet at 'The Commons' 

It all begins with a dot 

Recovering run-on lines and lost punctuation 

'Wetness' is not the preserve of the Dry Zone 

On sweeping close to one's feet 

Kumkum Fernando installs Sri Lanka in Coachella, California

To be an island like the Roberts... 

Debts that can never be repaid in full

An island which no flood can overwhelm 

Who really wrote 'Mother'? 

A melody faint and yet not beyond hearing 

Heart dances that cannot be choreographed 

Remembering to forget and forgetting to remember 

On loving, always 

Authors are assassinated, readers are immortal 

When you turn 80... 

It is good to be conscious of nudities  

Saturday slides in after Monday and Sunday somersaults into Friday  

There's a one in a million and a one in ten 

Gunadasa Kapuge is calling 

Kumkum Fernando installs Sri Lanka in Coachella, California 

Hemantha Gunawardena's signature 

Pathways missed 

Architectures of the demolished 

The exotic lunacy of parting gifts 

Who the heck do you think I am? 

Those fascinating 'Chitra Katha' 

The Mangala Sabhava 

So how are things in Sri Lanka? 

The most beautiful father 

Palmam qui meruit ferat 

The sweetest three-letter poem 

Buddhangala Kamatahan 

An Irish and Sri Lankan Hello 

Teams, team-thinking, team-spirit and leadership 

The songs we could sing in lifeboats when we are shipwrecked 

Pure-Rathna, a class act 

Jekhan Aruliah set a ball rolling in Jaffna 

Awaiting arrivals unlike any other 

Teachers and students sometimes reverse roles 

Matters of honor and dignity 

Yet another Mother's Day 

A cockroach named 'Don't' 

Colombo, Colombo, Colombo and so forth 

The slowest road to Kumarigama, Ampara 

Sweeping the clutter away 

Some play music, others listen 

Completing unfinished texts 

Mind and hearts, loquacious and taciturn 

I am at Jaga Food, where are you? 

On separating the missing from the disappeared 

Moments without tenses 

And intangible republics will save the day (as they always have) 

The world is made of waves 


The circuitous logic of Tony Muller 

Rohana Kalyanaratne, an unforgettable 'Loku Aiya' 

Mowgli, the Greatest Archaeologist 

Figures and disfigurement, rocks and roses 

Sujith Rathnayake and incarcerations imposed and embraced 

Some stories are written on the covers themselves 

A poetic enclave in the Republic of Literature 

Landcapes of gone-time and going-time  

The best insurance against the loud and repeated lie 

So what if the best flutes will not go to the best flautists? 

There's dust and words awaiting us at crossroads and crosswords 

The books of disquiet 

A song of terraced paddy fields 

Of ants, bridges and possibilities 

From A through Aardvark to Zyzzyva  

World's End 

Words, their potency, appropriation and abuse 

Street corner stories 

Who did not listen, who's not listening still? 

The book of layering 

If you remember Kobe, visit GOAT Mountain 

The world is made for re-colouring 

The gift and yoke of bastardy 

The 'English Smile' 

No 27, Dickman's Road, Colombo 5 

Visual cartographers and cartography 

Ithaca from a long ago and right now 

Lessons written in invisible ink 

The amazing quality of 'equal-kindness' 

A tea-maker story seldom told 

On academic activism 

The interchangeability of light and darkness 

Back to TRADITIONAL rice 

Sisterhood: moments, just moments 

Chess is my life and perhaps your too

Reflections on ownership and belonging 

The integrity of Nadeesha Rajapaksha 

Signatures in the seasons of love

To Maceo Martinet as he flies over rainbows 

Sirith, like pirith, persist 

Fragrances that will not be bottled  

Colours and textures of living heritage 

Countries of the past, present and future 

A degree in creative excuses

Books launched and not-yet-launched 

The sunrise as viewed from sacred mountains 

The ways of the lotus 

Isaiah 58: 12-16 and the true meaning of grace 

The age of Frederick Algernon Trotteville 

Live and tell the tale as you will 

Between struggle and cooperation 

Of love and other intangibles 

Neruda, Sekara and literary dimensions 

The universe of smallness 

Paul Christopher's heart of many chambers 

Calmness gracefully cascades in the Dumbara Hills 

Serendipitous amber rules the world 

Continents of the heart
The allegory of the slow road