After a prolonged pause from grand theatrical ventures, Prof. Sunanda Mahendra has returned with Confucius. It is a work that is at once quiet and confrontational, meditative and piercing. The stage play premiered at the Lionel Wendt Theatre on June 21 to an audience that was palpably expectant—and it did not disappoint. For those familiar with Prof. Mahendra’s philosophical theatre, Confucius feels both like a continuation and a reinvention, building on the intellectual legacy of his earlier work Socrates but shifting its cultural gaze Eastward.
Though Mahendra has staged several minimalist works in recent years, Confucius is a full-bodied return to his signature scale—complete with a rich ensemble cast, layered sound design, symbolic staging, and philosophical resonance that ripples far beyond the theatre.
From Socratic inquiry to Confucian reverence
At first glance, Confucius echoes the structure of Socrates. Both plays place their titular figures amidst students. Both are driven more by dialogue than plot. Both create theatre from the fabric of ideas. But Socrates was confrontational, brimming with dialectic tension. Confucius is more fluid and reflective. If Socrates thundered questions from the agora, Confucius meditates beneath a cherry blossom tree.
Here, the students do not merely question their master. They become the conduits through which his parables are performed. They embody tales. They re-enact conflicts. They are both seekers and stories. This internal multiplicity gives the production a dreamlike rhythm, as if one were flipping through a scroll of moving brushstrokes.
And unlike Socrates, where the audience could immediately identify the presence of a seasoned star in Jayalath Manoratne, Confucius challenges recognition. Kingsley Loos, who plays the title role, is almost unrecognisable beneath the carefully constructed costume and makeup. This erasure of ego—where the actor vanishes into the character—is a testament not only to Loos’ discipline, but to the exceptional work of the make-up artiste. The make-up artiste deserves praise not merely for crafting likeness, but for creating a convincing illusion of cultural immersion.
Casting as collective voice
The production does not rely on celebrity to carry its weight. With the exception of a few familiar names, the cast is largely composed of relatively less-known performers. And yet, there is no amateurism to be found here. The cast performs with commitment, subtlety, and a restraint that elevates the material. Daya Sri Narendra Rajapaksa is commanding as Mencius—Confucius’s philosophical heir—offering a performance that balances intellect with human tenderness. Nihari Somasiri, as Confucius’s mother, brings gravity and lyricism to the emotional undercurrent of the play. Her voice, particularly in the musical sequences, is hauntingly elegant and remains one of the evening’s most indelible elements.
Supporting actors—Anura Dahanayake, Jayani Sarathchandra, Janith Wipulaguna, among others—transition seamlessly between roles, historical eras, and moral temperaments. They are not just characters. They are questions, archetypes, echoes. Their physical presence becomes part of the philosophical grammar.
Several scenes distill the soul of the production. In one, an arrogant emperor—accustomed to being feared—finds himself ridiculed by a thief. The confrontation is laced with irony and subversion. The thief, played with sharp wit and deliberate restraint, dismantles the emperor’s illusion of power not with violence, but with clarity. His laughter slices through the regal posturing, exposing how authority built on fear collapses when confronted by truth. The emperor masterfully conveys the slow, dawning horror of a man who realises he is no longer invincible.
In a contrasting moment of solemn beauty, a woman stands alone and laments—not loudly, but with a quiet ache that expands into the theatre’s every corner. Her monologue is not directed at the audience but at the void. She mourns the death of compassion in society, the silencing of the feminine voice in a world enthralled by conquest. It is a performance that doesn’t just evoke emotion—it demands reflection. The actress’ delivery hovers between poetry and prayer. For a moment, it is as if the whole world has paused to listen.
Mythical thread
Perhaps the most visually arresting and thematically rich motif in the production is the appearance of the Qilin—the mythical, unicorn-like creature from Chinese folklore. Known as a harbinger of sagehood, the Qilin is said to have appeared at both the birth and death of Confucius. In Mahendra’s version, the Qilin is not merely a costume or a symbolic flourish. It becomes a kind of spiritual punctuation, a cosmic exhalation amid the human drama. Its presence bridges legend and stage, myth and history, reminding the audience that some lives are lived not just in time, but in meaning.
In Socrates, the emotional crescendo was clear and inevitable: the philosopher dies on stage, surrounded by his followers, leaving the audience with a raw, lingering ache. In Confucius, Mahendra takes a more symbolic, almost meditative approach. Confucius does not die before our eyes. Instead, it is his alter ego—the Qilin—that meets its end on stage.
The mythical creature, a gentle guardian of wisdom and virtue, embodies Confucius’s moral essence. Its slow, solemn fall is not just the death of a character, but the passing of an age of thoughtfulness, an elegy for lost clarity in the modern world. As the Qilin takes its final bow—not with drama, but with quiet surrender—the emotional crescendo is carried not by words but by voices.
One rich soprano voice rises like incense, joined by the ensemble in a harmony that blurs the line between lament and liberation. It is not a scene of grief, but of profound release. In that moment, death is transformed into continuity—the body of Confucius remains unseen, but his spirit, having passed through the Qilin, ascends into the collective conscience.
Another memorable moment unfolds when Confucius, rather than exiting the stage in death, simply vanishes—melting silently into the audience. It is a subtle but powerful gesture: the philosopher stepping down from the pedestal, dissolving into the very people his teachings are meant to guide. The lights dim. For a few seconds, there is only silence and darkness.
And then—light. A single beam picks him out again, this time at the edge of the audience, as if reborn among us. It is here that Kingsley Loos delivers his soliloquy in a deep voice carrying a quiet authority that evokes the great soliloquists of stage history. There is more than a passing resemblance to Laurence Olivier’s Hamlet—not in imitation, but in the same weight of introspection and cadence. The words do not seek applause. They hang in the air like a question left unanswered, a truth not yet fully understood.
Mahendra does not localise Confucius by force. He does not wrap him in a national flag. Instead, he places him in conversation with us—modern, tired, confused us. That is his political gesture: not to appropriate, but to reflect.
Prof. Mahendra invites a conversation across time, across cultures, and across the noise. Whether or not one agrees with its form or pacing, the invitation stands. To think. To listen. To be still. And perhaps, to begin again.
