David Lean’s magnum opus, The Bridge on the River Kwai [TBRK], made nearly 70 years ago, wasn’t just a movie; it’s an epic.
Its award-winning cinematography, not to speak of a host of other breath-taking elements, so vital to making classy movies, was a landmark — a sentimental journey beyond the realms of time. Of human brutality, ingenuity, pathos, ego, dignity, and the meaningless medley of war and/or destruction. The film was produced with a whopping budget of US$3 million. The best part — on its first run, it grossed a record US$30 million.
That the wartime tale on celluloid went on to win seven Academy Awards, including the Best Actor for Sir Alec Guinness, is now part of film lore. If Guinness revelled in his monumental role as Colonel Nicholson, his histrionic brilliance in the movie may have also, perforce, played a major part in hastening his elevation to knighthood. Talk of the silver effect of the screen.
TBRK was inspired by the real life-story of Allied prisoners of war [PoWs], who were ‘forced’ by the Japanese to work in an ambitious railroad project in Japanese-occupied territory — from Thailand to Burma — and, most importantly, build the rail bridge across the river Kwai.
The film was shot entirely in Sri Lanka [then Ceylon], at a picturesque location, which was, to begin with, unknown to both producer Sam Spiegel and director Lean. The location that always came up for discussion was ‘in the jungles of Burma,’ but it was actor Jack Hawkins — Major Warden, in the film and ‘chief’ of the commando training camp in Sri Lanka — who got the first ‘spark’ in his imagination. As one who had spent a great deal of time in the Emerald Isle during World War II, Hawkins took Sri Lanka’s backdrop as a cinematic stand-in. The rest is history.
Hawkins’ memory bank conjured up a fascinating location: of a fantastic haunt, a scenic and forested riverfront. Soon, location scouts who returned from a survey were also cock-a-hoop with the spot. Everything was now in place. And, nobody could tell the real Kwai from its would-be-on-reel-look-alike. Or, so one thought — the difference being of degree, not imagery.
Kitulgala, an obscure but a picture-postcard village, about 90km from the capital, Colombo, was destined to be the historic location. The hamlet’s serene — but, at times, turbulent — river Maskeli Oya, became the site of the [in]famous bridge.
The vegetation is as thick, today; the eerie silence, and the sound of cascading waters unchanged. Time, it seems, has stood still at Kitulgala. Also, the proof of the making of TBRK is today a brace of deep holes ‘engineered’ in a big boulder, and rocks on either side of the river. But, for those who stayed at the location, this is what memories are made of. A spacious villa fitted and redecorated for film stars and other VIPs; the chalets in the grounds and/or the modest Kitulgala Rest House, for others.
Lean’s unit took nearly eight months to construct the wooden bridge — and, just 30 seconds to blow it up. More than 2,000 Sri Lankan extras worked in the film, including local Burghers of Dutch-descent. Thanks to their fair skin, the Burghers were used as British PoWs. One of them was Siegertz, whose celebrated rendition of ‘Colonel Bogey March,’ the whistling song — originally written by Kenneth Alford — was used by Lean as the movie’s musical leitmotiv.
The carpenters, or ‘builders,’ and others, were apparently not told that the bridge would be blown up until work was done. Once they came to know of its fate, they were awfully distressed. What’s more, they formed a ‘committee’ and met the producer to persuade and save their ‘monument,’ in some way. They had developed a special bond for the bridge, much like Nicholson, who wanted to show his captors the superior and advanced technical skills of the Brits — even under the most appalling of conditions.
The Japanese had set a deadline for the completion of the bridge, and Nicholson’s adversary Colonel Saito’s [Sessue Hayakawa] — the commander of the prison camp — life depended on it. He tells Nicholson poignantly, at the height of one of their wordy duels: “This is war, not a game of cricket.”
Interestingly, Nicholson’s hope that the bridge would stand as long as the London Bridge was an irony, though — something you wouldn’t connect to a British officer, totally committed to the annihilation of the Imperial Army’s war plans and capabilities. But, Nicholson had a vision, also, Brit grit and pride. He wanted to prove Britain’s summit of excellence to her enemy.
All the same, the project, in more ways than one, was a huge success — a precursor, or wondrous model, for an interdependent world. It generated employment and gave useful breaks to many Sri Lankans, who did not even know a smattering of English. More than that, it cast its magical spell: a touch of nostalgia. Lean, like several others, returned to visit the location of one of his most spectacular and best-remembered films. Call it empathy, or what you may, the aura of celluloid splendour with TBRK transcends time and space.
Lean also hired local Indians, and Chinese, for the ‘Burmese’ sequences. His was a class act, every frame, and every shot. Take the build-up to the film’s climax. He could not possibly show the approach of the troop train to the bridge because that would have required a long stretch of track. He opted for a short-run — the effect was dramatic. Lean knew in his psyche that the film was a winner.
Typical of the film’s enormous dimension, or undertaking, there were a few hiccups. The bridge almost came to being blown up during a fiesta of fireworks. Fortunately, one fireball, which had drifted in the wind, came down over the river, leaving the bridge unharmed. On ‘D-Day,’ the explosives could not be detonated. Worse still, the train lost its track and fell into the gully. The next day, though, things worked to a T. The ‘big-bang’ effect was glorious; it was absolute clockwork. So much so, for most of us, seeing TBRK once, isn’t enough — because, at one time, you may miss a great clip and, at another, you might let pass a dialogue — thanks to the film’s riveting storyline.
Today, the traces of the great blast that rocked the bridge are all gone. Not the river, not the vegetation, not the memories. As the Maskeli Oya river wends its way quickly through the rocky crags, you are once again drawn to the unforgettable opening shot of the film.
You see British PoWs, and you hear them tramping to ‘doom’ with the film’s signature tune — the sublime, soothing and courageous track, ‘Colonel Bogey March’ — for comfort.
— First published in BTW Magazine
