We have repeatedly seen how violence carried out in the name of authority can pose difficult questions about justice and responsibility. Although obedience is often considered necessary for managing a system, it becomes more complicated when following an order is directly in conflict with a person’s own conscience. Unfortunately, violence does not always leave room for simple answers, particularly when responsibility is passed from one person to another. Yet, director Lalith Rathnayake’s “Riverstone” does have all the necessary elements to turn this uncomfortable contradiction into a deeply human cinematic experience.
“Riverstone” mainly centers around four characters. Nanditha, who is an arrested criminal, is taken along with three cops, including the constable, the sergeant, and the senior cop. They travel with Nanditha to his village in the Riverstone area to recover the weapons he is supposed to have hidden. However, what initially seems like a journey to find the weapons gradually takes on a more disturbing meaning, as Nanditha understands that he is being taken towards an extrajudicial killing. Similar cases have been associated with Sri Lankan police encounters, where suspects are taken to supposedly show hidden weapons before being killed. During the journey towards Nanditha’s village, the personal encounters between him and the cops gradually become more noticeable.
The four characters can also be read as occupying different positions within the social hierarchy, and the film gradually exposes how their personal circumstances differ despite their shared physical confinement. One character is Nanditha, and during the road trip, we cannot see the replica of the criminal we have heard about. Instead, he appears as a much more thoughtful person, with a reputation among the people from his village and surprisingly good knowledge when answering questions on the radio program.
He even tries to help the least-ranked police officer when he learns about his financial crisis. Somehow, all of this happens alongside his own fear and desire for abandonment, making his character more complicated than the simple image of a criminal. Randika Gunathilaka, who is younger and less experienced than the other three actors, who have already appeared in several award-winning films, gives an outstanding performance as Nanditha, carrying the character’s quietness.
In my opinion, the director uses these characters to question the humanity of authoritative power as well as the hypocrisy of the class system. Although the senior officer holds the highest rank, he does not always come across as the most experienced of the group. The second officer, meanwhile, appears to have a better understanding of how to handle someone like Nanditha, yet the system still places him below the senior officer. At the same time, even these four characters are far from the top of the hierarchy, suggesting that they too are merely small cogs within a much larger system of power.
There is someone above them who remains invisible on the screen, but still controls the whole story and decides what is going to happen to Nanditha. The second police officer’s desire to win a two-door refrigerator through a radio competition also brings out another side of the class structure, while the youngest officer is struggling with financial problems and his wife’s health crisis. These details make the cops appear not only as institutional puppets carrying out an order, but also as humans dealing with their own problems, desires, and weaknesses.
The one thing in the film that keeps the audience glued to their seats is its suspense. From beginning to end, the screenplay keeps us wondering what will happen to Nanditha. Although he is introduced as a criminal, the film gradually builds sympathy for him, making us increasingly curious about whether he will actually be saved or whether his journey will end exactly as he expects. The repeated attention to his handcuffs, the guns, and the way he looks at the people around him subtly suggests that something could still change, keeping a faint sense of hope alive until the very end.
The film does not depend on constant action to create this tension. Instead, the confined space of the vehicle, the prolonged journey, the silences, and the characters’ small reactions gradually intensify the uncertainty surrounding his fate. While the first half can feel somewhat slow because of the deliberately measured pace and the exhaustion of the journey, the suspense slowly becomes the element that keeps the audience engaged.
The filmmaker illustrates the gap between the order given by the upper officer and the conscience of the officers, particularly inside the vehicle where they have to kill Nanditha. Although they are given a clear responsibility, Nanditha’s innocent behaviour and growing hopelessness make them increasingly ambiguous about the task they have been ordered to complete. It appears to follow a trajectory similar to Jagath Manuwarna’s “Whispering Mountains” (2023) and Steven Spielberg’s “Munich” (2005). However, the driving force behind these situations is the disturbing conflict between authoritative power and human conscience.
While “Munich” focuses on international political violence and “Whispering Mountains” explores political repression within Sri Lanka, “Riverstone” places this conflict inside a confined vehicle, where the officers have to confront the human consequences of an order given from above. Both films give attention to the guilt, uncertainty, and painful silence of people who are assigned to carry out violence. “Riverstone” further questions this through Nanditha’s statement that he kills people for rent, while the police officers kill for a salary, which gives a sharp hint about the hypocrisy of authoritative power. The difference between them is therefore not simply who kills and who does not, but who is allowed to call that killing a duty because it is done under the authority of the system.
Technically, the co-producer and cinematographer Prabath Roshan captures difficult cinematography through “Riverstone.” The landscape is extremely beautiful, but underneath that beauty, the violence of authority is constantly hidden. A similar use of cinematography can be found in Prasanna Vithanage’s “With You, Without You,” where the blue-toned atmosphere creates an ironic contrast with the violence and trauma of the post-war period. “Riverstone” uses its mountainous landscape in much the same way, placing the violence unfolding inside the vehicle against the beauty and serenity of its surroundings. The contrast makes the peaceful landscape increasingly unsettling, precisely because we know what is happening beneath its surface.
The music in the film is used less frequently, but it is creatively inserted through the radio programme according to the emotions of the characters. Particularly, the use of the song “Ammawarune” together with Nanditha’s reaction creates a powerful moment, as the music begins to carry an emotional meaning beyond the words being spoken. Roshan’s visual work, which has already earned international recognition for its atmospheric compositions, makes the natural beauty of Riverstone exist in almost ironic contrast to the violence unfolding within it.
As the journey unfolds, the film raises deeper questions about duty, conscience, and responsibility. How far can duty be taken against one’s conscience? Can someone escape responsibility simply by claiming to have followed an order? And how different is a criminal who kills for money from an officer who kills for a salary? These questions ultimately lead to the film’s most important concern: who is truly responsible for violence when the person giving the order remains invisible?
Notably, “Riverstone” was selected as Sri Lanka’s official submission for the 99th Academy Awards. More than a film about police violence, it becomes an examination of how ordinary people can become instruments of a system while still carrying their own fears, desires, and conscience. Despite the deliberately slow pace in parts of the film, Lalith Rathnayake uses the confined road-movie structure, restrained performances, and Prabath Roshan’s striking cinematography to create a tension that remains beneath the surface. For me, that is what makes “Riverstone” stand out. It does not simply ask who is guilty, but forces the audience to confront where guilt begins and where responsibility ends.
Shashin Prabodh is a writer and reviewer interested in cinema, literature, and contemporary culture. His writing explores films, books, and the ideas and emotions behind them, with a particular interest in independent and international cinema. He also contributes cultural and literary writing to publications exploring art, film, and contemporary culture. As a writer, he is interested in bringing thoughtful perspectives and overlooked stories to a wider audience. Soumalya is on Letterboxd .
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