by dương (ari) nguyễn
Viet & Nam, Trương Minh Quý’s first narrative feature, is quiet with an ever-swelling undercurrent. The film tells the love story between two young coal miners, Viet and Nam (Duy Bao Dinh Dao and Thanh Hai Pham), as Nam looks for the body of his deceased soldier father and while also gearing up to migrate abroad for better opportunities. The film depicts familial affection and sensual romance with unmistakable warmth and lightness, as the viewers are steadily and tenderly guided through each character’s internal journeys. In the background there are assorted uncertainties, personal and national, a shaky and unyielding world where one generation seeks to weld together fragments left from the war, and another generation seeks to carve out their place in the world.
This interview was originally conducted in Vietnamese and translated by dương (ari) nguyễn.
Duong: Thank you for agreeing to today’s interview—I want to firstly congratulate you on all your successes with the film! Let’s start with a question about your choice of sounds and music in the film. The ending credits include the song at Viet & Nam’s birthday party, but beyond that, the film contains a lullaby, and also a Buddhist chant at the war monument that was not credited. Can you expand on this aspect?
Quý: I find it interesting that the music was impactful to you. For me, this film doesn’t have music. I typically don’t use soundtracks, I find the use of music challenging. I prefer to build the film’s story and world, and the sound-image interaction through diegetic sounds. I wouldn’t consider the Buddhist chant to be a typical ‘song’. The decision to use the lullaby about the stork came during editing, because I thought it needed something. The decision to use a sound could be either narrative and artistic or technical, like for a transition. In this case, Miss Hoa’s lullaby also speaks to her affections for her son.
The viewers have indeed interpreted the film to their own vision. “Con cò” (“The Stork”), to Vietnamese people, is an ordinary lullaby, the most recognizable one amongst only a handful. But to international audiences viewing with subtitles, the mention of elements like murky or pure waters became linked with other images of water in the film. I was asked if that was my intention, but it was not. Decisions start in emotions, then technique—like what editing is called for, then suitability. Interpretation comes last, at the viewer’s disposal—which I find fascinating.
The sounds in this film are an important element, since the film does not have background music. I did not intend to build emotions in a way that was fixed, like whenever a certain piece of music comes on the viewer is instructed towards a certain feeling. In this sense, I think the film is closer to European cinema than American. In French cinema, for instance, soundtracks are rarely used, but sound is prioritized for world-building. In Viet & Nam, even though the visual frame is limited, we hear an abundance of surrounding sounds, building a world we cannot actually see. For instance, in the first scene in the film, we hear something mysterious, like sounds of water, sounds inside the mine, so although we see quite little, it evokes something beyond the frame. Or the scene at the container docking point, we can hear the port through the sounds of its workings, of ships, but we do not see the port—sight and sound complementing one another.
For the sounds in this film, of course technically and editorially, it is bound to evoke layers of emotions and spaces. For instance in Miss Hoa & Nam’s home, we can hear the sound of trains from afar. Given the space, we may imagine that is a train carrying coal, or just a passenger train—sounds allow the audience an imagination of the space.
The film doesn’t have a soundtrack, but I found there were lines that almost resemble poetry, or lyrics, like “What could I still hear when you are no longer here?”
I think what this film’s sight and sound primarily create is musicality and rhythm.
Yeah, I think the English word ‘musicality’ seems to be more accurate for what I was asking, than being concerned with songs. Like, the Buddhist chant is not a song, but there is definitely musicality.
For instance, the scene in the hair salon has a somewhat different editing idea, with the close up of Nam laying on the motorbike. The editing is obviously influenced by musicality, and the emotionality that this quick shot brings, next to a longer shot, for instance.
Yes, the lighting was very theatrical, and focused solely on the couple, as if something completely belonging out of the space of the hair salon was happening.
My second question is also a little related to what you were talking about with the lullaby, which is that it expressed the mother-son affection. Can you elaborate on the way you wrote these really intimate, affectionate scenes? The immense warmth and love your characters have for one another sometimes stands in stark contrast to their own circumstances, which could be harsh and suffocating. Yet, I found so much comfort and warmth when these characters interact, like when the four characters were sharing a meal, or when Miss Hoa asked her son to invite his friend home for breakfast, or how strangers interacted with the four main characters when they were at the memorial… Can you elaborate on the way that you build the emotional trajectories of these characters?
I think how characters talk, interact, or look at one another, also comprises the film’s narrative and stylistic specificity. The dialogue is intentionally, stylistically not the same as real-life everyday talk. When I create a character, I always perceive them as humans, as reflections of the people I observe from my surroundings, like my loved ones, neighbors, or friends. I think the gentleness of these character’s interactions may come from the way I observe people, and how I personally perceive human-to-human relationships. Moreover, I have the chance to perceive characters as humans with their own lives and values, as a way to keep my distance. As one watches the film, one feels distanced from the filmmaker, or the film, to the character—we are looking from afar, as if observing them.
I also consciously did not dramatize the acting, characters’ internality, or background stories. The tragedy, or what is generally heavier in the film, is more perceivable through the stylized images in the film, sounds or other factors, but not through the acting. At the end of the day, formal choices and observational choices are all subjective, and express my nature. Another filmmaker may perceive interpersonal relationships to be more dissensus, or more violent, and they will shape the film to reflect that.
Or like what you said about this unintentional contrast between the warmth of the characters’ relationships and the drama that surrounds them in the film. I find that interesting as well. For example, between Nam and Viet, they treat each other very normally, at moments, even a bit shy, for fear of other people’s gaze. The very natural way in which they are in love also evokes a sense that this relationship is something that lies outside of reality, further reminding us of a reality where such a relationship between two men may still be quite difficult. Not in this film. It is a contrast that reminds us of a reality that still exists. For some other films, and a majority of gay films, gay relationships could be different, perhaps more dramatic and tragic.
Indeed, when the two look at each other, it feels like we are in their own world. As for the relationship between the mother and son, I felt the most safety when they were inside the curtain together, before bed—when they were the most affectionate and honest to one another. Or when Mr. Ba gets angry, but immediately apologizes. It is almost as if I could place my trust in the characters, in that not only are we on a journey with them, but we also feel safe with them, like a companion.
In this film, the characters may express themselves in an impassioned way, at times poetic, a little bit theatrical, but overall expository. I allow the characters to reveal their feelings in a way that perhaps Vietnamese people, in their everyday lives, may not. The intention was not to portray relations, or portray the way Vietnamese interact with one another on a daily basis, but to create a contrast from which we can reflect on the reality of our lives.
I noticed that there were many details relating to the human body in the film, which is interesting since the film simultaneously centers on a lack of bodies, like corpseless soldiers, bodies buried underground, away from visibility. There were also extremely striking bodily details, like the black hand-print on the glass of the coal company’s booth, or the son talking to his mother about having coal in his lung, while painting her nails, or the earwax scene that you mentioned earlier. Can you speak more to the importance of the body in this film?
It is hard to talk rationally about this because indeed, this film requires, for instance, building the world of coal-miners, whose bodies are unmistakably telling. They are greyed with coal dust. Finger prints and dark marks we may see everywhere. So I try to recreate that, as part of the “documentary” element. In this aspect, I want the film to feel as realistic as possible, as seen in the two men’s bodies. When depicting a romantic relationship, there is a lot that is quite sensual and private. In this sense, the human body holds a connection to the earth. There is a transference between these two elements, two materials, at the end of the day also one material(ity). For instance, the coal miner descends into the earth looking for coal; or the soldiers, as they pass, their body is also a part of the earth, that is also transference. Or the scene where they were making love on the earth, on the coal, that is also something that reminds us of the transference between the human body and the earth. There is also transference between their bodies—like picking earwax, passing water to one another. There is always transference between bodies, and between bodies and earth. Of course, also between bodies and water; by the end of the film we see that pretty clearly. I always think the human body is very essential to filmmaking, and in this film there are bodily specificities, especially with the miners’ bodies, or conceptually, of the transference of the human body with memories, earth and water.
The body of those who cross the border as well, right? Like the scene where they saw their own bodies, breathing into the bag. My next question is very related to that, as I want to inquire about the portrayal of Vietnamese culture. One thing I found quite impressive about the film is the way it addresses post-war Vietnam. There are multiple directions this could have gone in, like human development stories, or industrialization, economic growth, etc. But you address how we perceive death, which is obviously pre-war, with cultural elements like the medium, or funeral practices—all having different manifestations because of the war. Or more idiosyncratic aspects like, the news report on TV of families looking for soldiers’ graves. The film not only addresses a historical narrative, but also a story about culture. It’s still a bit hard to put into words, because those are images and customs that are commonly understood, but hard to single out and point to as “our culture”. I wonder if that’s relevant to the way you think about the film?
While making this film, I wasn’t thinking consciously about culture, but since I’m in that environment, everything I do comes from my observation and memory, or simply actors’ input. For instance, the scene with the rich aunty, the altar actually comes from the actress, as she also has some spiritual practice. It is also a natural process of adoption or elimination. I don’t intend to make a Vietnamese culture that has a specific image or standard. Foreign filmmakers, when they make films in or about Vietnam, may adopt such a perspective; they have a fear that if it doesn’t feel realistic, how else they are supposed to portray a culture that they’ve recently just learnt, so sometimes films may feel sentimental or particular, like films that foreigners make while travelling, for instance.
Overall, characters in this film share a common way in which they perceive death, which is a custom, habit and lifestyle that they spoke of the dead as if they are still here—you get it, so there’s no need to explain. Here, the film creates not a contrast, but a parallel—many images and elements in this film are in parallels. The characters speak of the dead but we don’t see them, obviously; but it creates a presence, a world, a personhood that is always there but nobody can see.
There is one element in this film that is a cultural characteristic, very local, which is the character of the medium. This character is a bit outside the system of characters, her construction a bit dramatic, theatrical, and intentionally exaggerated. This character needs to be distinct because the dramatization is necessary for us to feel like we are somewhere in-between, that we are not sure whether she is ‘real’ or not. Most non-Vietnamese audiences don’t believe that she is, but her emotions, the screaming and wailing creates authentic feelings. So it’s an interesting contrast, being stuck in an emotion versus an objective view. In the film we’re not sure if she is really effective or not, and by the end of the film it seems like she was. But again, you’re unsure.
What’s important is the feeling, which is what this medium, or spiritual culture, in some aspects, helps us, the living. As mentioned previously, after someone passes, a part of them already returns to the earth, that part is no more. Therefore, the fact that people could hold onto a handful of soil, a piece of memorabilia or past possession—in real life there are definitely scamming mediums, but in the case where we think that we’re not sure if they are scamming, many people can’t tell or they wouldn’t want to know. They usually choose to place faith in the fistful of soil or the possession supposedly belonging to their loved ones. Then they can be at peace. I think in some ways, it is therapeutic for the soul, therefore we should see its value for what it is. It is the same way in this film, the daughter character was very touched to be holding the fistful of soil. We can imagine that her life would have become a bit easier, less worrisome, less in a trance.
When you talked about a non-Vietnamese audience, it reminded me of the “fact” that when a non-English speaking or non-Western culture appears on a screen, there is always a difference between culture and something that is quintessentially Culture, like something we can point at and say this is quintessentially Vietnamese, and something that is a lot more about how people live to interact with their surroundings. What I love about your film(s) is that they focus so much more on this aspect of how people live with each other, the more ordinary aspects of culture, how people choose to live with their past and present.
This film has some details that foreigners may not immediately catch. Like the “beehive” coal in the film. I think some foreigners did not really understand what the mother and son were doing, though it is more than familiar to Vietnamese people. The film did not offer an explanation—many viewers or members of the press thought they were making bricks.
Or the mother & son’s dwelling, I thought the production designer must have been so thoughtful to specifically wrap plastic bags into each other, or stack and stuff household items on top of each other as such. I really appreciate seeing images that are instantaneously recognizable, perhaps not specifically tailored for Vietnamese people, but it’s much better than creating something that isn’t there.
That was a real house, a real set. I always prioritize finding an authentic set where as you walk in, you’re walking into a life, a living environment, a material, a history of that space, a spatial memory that is both visually and emotionally striking. I’m a little “allergic” to building a set because I always feel like I could tell it is not real by looking at it.
My last question is actually about the fictionality of the film. I think to some people, the film could feel somewhat surreal, or contain surrealistic or imaginative elements. I perceive this film in a way where everyone carries their own narrative, like the mother had a narrative about how the father was before he enlisted, carrying over into the husband in her dream. The comrade also has his own narrative about his time in battle. There are also larger narratives, like the narratives of success from those who managed to cross over foreign borders—the stories that those at home tell each other, and perhaps decide to migrate because of them. Then, contrastingly, the story from the barbershop client whose wife never returned.
It also implies a narrative of Vietnam, of its past, of how we allow our past to be told—what is “appropriate” or “reasonable” and what is too gloomy or unsavoury. Or the story of the future, our future as an industrializing force on the backs of its children. I’m not sure how you perceive the element of “stories” in the film, as I don’t think they are in any way fictional or separate from reality—they are what makes reality. People must dream, desire, or remember, so they can live. I’m not sure if that distinction is clear-cut for you. I think this is a film where it is important to carry your own narratives.
I think when I’m choosing a backdrop for the film, the material for such a backdrop usually comes from something more realistic and adjacent to documentaries. For instance, the veteran I constructed from my neighbor who is a veteran. Same with the mother, or the medium. All are parts of the realistic backdrop for the film. I don’t think about it in terms of whether my film is fictional or surrealistic, that is up to the viewer or critics. In my filmmaking, what’s important is the emotion, the feeling. The feeling inside the barbershop signals something different because it was constructed differently from most of the film, where I really wanted to channel romance and reverie. At times, that choice is quite simple, not something rational. From what you said about how this film is about personal stories, combined together into a story of Vietnam, the title of the film is also an invitation, a connection.
Of course, to the majority of the audience, the title already gives them an idea of what they are about to see. This film has many narrative elements that reflect on filmmaking in general, or a discourse about Vietnam that has existed in some ways to have become the discourse about Vietnam. For instance, relating to post-war, immigration, industrialization, those are discourses we could see in Vietnamese films, or foreign-made films about Vietnam. So this film is also a reflection on that, by naming it into a narrative, an honest divulsion, a reflection that is very clear emotionally and ideologically. It also creates a parallel with another discourse, like Viet and Nam is not entirely Vietnam. They are names of particular people, with their own stories, own emotions, that are caught up in this larger discourse about Vietnam as a country.
Personally, when I was making this film, similar to what you said, I also felt like there were stories that I must tell. Even though I’m someone who was born into the post-war era, not directly involved either as a victim or a fighter, I live inside and grew up within that discourse. As someone who makes art and research, that discourse plays a huge role. And we may feel like we’re stuck in that discourse, for instance, whenever we make a work, audiences, especially international audiences, always perceive your work through this discourse about Vietnam, about the war and all that.
I think this film is a way for me to face that discourse directly, in its face. Then we make compromises, make peace, or we can create our own freedom as an artist. It’s because—I think you would know as someone involved in the arts or research—there is this inevitability of the artist saying: “why am I always making films about the postwar condition, about memories?”, yet they continue to make work about such topics. It is a feeling of being stuck between what is responsibility—and responsibility has its value. Like in a family, you’ll feel responsible towards your memory and your history. Yet it is simultaneously an inquiry into one’s internal freedom, like a young person wanting to escape the weight of your parents’ memories. The Vietnamese artists are also in a similar bind and struggle. So this film places that state into its central topic, and as for the title, nothing could be more direct.
Yeah, sometimes I think that discourse about Vietnam is also a part of our memory. I grew up in Hanoi before moving abroad, that grand discourse—how Vietnam talks about itself and the world beyond—rings similar to missing your home or your alley. It feels like a force that pulls you forward when you’re in Vietnam or abroad, looking back on such memories, and comparing and engaging in dialogue with it. Perhaps you agree or disagree with it, or deem it insufficient. History still continues to unfold, and I feel like so much of recent Vietnamese history is also the history of those who left it. But the country is constantly looking back upon its past in its process of looking ahead until infinity, infinitely engaging in retrospection.
Yeah, I also read audience comments, and someone, likely a Vietnamese, said something that sums up what I want to say, “when may we be able to express our feelings in an honest way”. I think the film also reflects that. And sometimes we do manage to reveal all our feelings or introspection about past-present-future in an honest way, it will surely encounter problems or sensitivities. But that’s the price we must accept.
I think from now until forever, a personal motivation could be to truly express one’s thought, because I feel like sometimes, we only know a thought once we’ve traversed the distance we hold from it.
dương (ari) nguyễn is an art writer from Hanoi (Vietnam), now based in Brooklyn. They’re interested in all things Southeast Asia, ecological, and time-based. They’ve written for BOMB, FAR-NEAR, Metrograph, Saigon Experimental and more. You can find out more about their work at their website.
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