Film & TV - Saigoneer

The Surprising Japanese Origin Behind the Vietnamese Term 'Ô Sin'

2025-07-21T13:00:00+07:00

It’s not uncommon to come across words in everyday conversations that have roots in the French language. Albeit less frequently, a handful of Russian and English loan words have also made their way into our lives at times, but for a term of Japanese origin to have taken root deep in the collective psyche of Vietnamese, that’s rare.

Ô sin is a common term used to describe domestic helpers in Vietnam, in addition to other words like người giúp việc, người ở, con sen, etc. — each with different degrees of respect. The term originated from a television soap opera that Japanese national broadcaster NHK aired in 1983–1984 by the same name, おしん (Oshin). The series was an epic chronicling the life of the main character Tanokura Shin from when she was born in the late Meiji period to the early 1980s. It was screened in Vietnam for the first time in 1994 on VTV1 and later in 2012 on HTV3.

Oshin is portrayed by three actresses, one for each life stage: Nobuko Otoba (middle-aged to elderly), Yuko Tanaka (adult), and Ayako Kobayashi (adolescent).

Throughout the 297 episodes of the series, Oshin’s life was marked by extreme hardships and poverty, especially during her childhood when she worked as a servant for two different families. These rather traumatizing events contributed greatly to the adaptation of her name in Vietnamese as a shorthand for servitude. During a decade with scant entertainment options, whatever was shown on state TV would inevitably become a national phenomenon, so Oshin became ô sin.

It’s interesting to note the differences in cultural impact Oshin had on two countries, though the series was widely popular in both. The Japanese practice of adding o (お) to a person’s name started from the Muromachi period (1336–1573) to show respect and politeness, so right from the series name, Oshin is already established to be a revered figure. In Japan, Oshin is often seen as a symbol of resilience and courage, and the “Oshin diet” refers to a period of economic downturn in the 1980s, when Japanese had to make do with eating rice with daikon. In Vietnam, however, the connotation of “ô sin” has gradually skewed negative over time, and is most often used in either humorous or derogatory contexts today.

Top photo via Sankei.

Remembering Thuy Trang, the First Vietnamese Power Ranger

2025-07-17T11:00:00+07:00

It was the late 1990s, and I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror of our childhood home, holding my dad’s solid-metal belt buckle up with a pseudo-serious expression on my baby face. Fortunately, I wasn’t doing a YouTuber-style makeup review, but was in fact mirroring the transformation sequence of my favorite TV idols, the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers.

Power Rangers are known in Vietnamese as “Siêu nhân,” and Mighty Morphin Power Rangers (5 Anh Em Siêu Nhân) was the first-ever English-language iteration of the long-enduring franchise that spawned numerous sequels from east to west. It was also my first and only brush with Siêu nhân, as Pokémon and Disney would arrive soon after, taking over my entire childhood and leaving little time for intergalactic crime fighting.

Created by a pair of Israeli entertainment producers after they came across its Japanese predecessor, Mighty Morphin premiered in 1993 with a cast of relatively unknown newcomers and a lot of doubts that America would take well to the violent nature of spacefaring fights. According to the plot, five high schoolers in California were given the ability to transform into Power Rangers, a team of superhuman soldiers tasked with protecting Earth against alien villains. Apart from a few racially insensitive casting decisions — Thuy Trang, of Asian descent, was given the role of the Yellow Ranger, while Walter Emanuel Jones, who is African American, plays the Black Ranger — the series was an instant hit across North America and even internationally.

The opening sequence of the first season of Mighty Morphin Power Rangers, released in 1993.

Thuy Trang was born in 1973 in Saigon, but migrated to the US with her mother when she was five or six on a cargo ship via Hong Kong. It’s also important to note that Trang was her surname and Thuy (diacritic unknown) was her first name. The family eventually reunited with her father and resettled in California in 1980. After graduating from high school, she got a scholarship to study civil engineering in college, but was spotted by a talent scout while hanging out with friends and switched her focus to acting, at least for a while.

Thuy Trang as Trini Kwan, the Yellow Ranger. Photo via BuzzFeed.

Thuy was officially cast as Trini Kwan, the Yellow Ranger in Mighty Morphin in 1993, from a pool of 500 other actresses. The casting process wasn’t race-specific, as Thuy recalled seeing hopeful Trinis from all ethnicities in the room, but little did the production or Thuy Trang know at that point that her role as Trini would turn out to be a groundbreaking role model for millennial Asian Americans during their formative years. The reception of Thuy’s portrayal of Trini was very positive, as she learnt over the course of her tenure at Mighty Morphin that an Asian superhero was an unprecedented point of pride.

“Asians are not portrayed in the media very well, and there are not many roles for Asian people except for the stereotypes — gangsters, hookers, things like that,” Thuy Trang shared in an interview in 1993. “A lot of older Asian people come up to me and say that I'm doing a service to the Asian community.”

Admittedly, primary school me didn’t even realize that she was Vietnamese, or Asian for that matter. The real name of the actress appeared for all of three seconds in the opening sequence, and, as an ethnic Vietnamese born in Vietnam, it wasn’t extraordinary to see an Asian person on screen, because, well, everybody else is Vietnamese on local TV. This undoubtedly wasn’t the case for millennials of Asian, and especially Vietnamese, descent in the US, as they could instantly connect with Thuy Trang’s Yellow Ranger and even her own personal background as a refugee in the US.

A fan art of Trini Kwan by Chris Jones. Image via Reddit/Instagram user @theoriginalmistajonz.

One of them is Chi-Hung Ta, who founded the Thuy Trang Tribute website in 1997. The site, still operational 28 years later, remains the most comprehensive multimedia resource on her to date, even though new materials are understandably scant, considering Thuy Trang had passed away for over 20 years now. “When Mighty Morphin Power Rangers debuted in 1993, I was slightly older than the target audience. But, I watched because of Thuy Trang's portrayal of Trini Kwan, the Yellow Ranger. I recognized Thuy as being Vietnamese, whose immigrant story matched my own,” Chi-Hung writes in the site’s About Us section.

Thuy Trang took over the role from actress Audri Dubois, who played the Yellow Ranger in the pilot, but over the course of 80 episodes of Mighty Morphin across two seasons, she made the role of Trini Kwan her own. Thuy Trang was also an avid athlete and martial artist, having taken up Shaolin Kung Fu since she arrived in the US, and even got a black belt. She was also a forthright young woman who wasn’t afraid to speak out against injustice, and perhaps, it was this bluntness that didn’t sit well with the network executives behind Mighty Morphin.

The original cast in a Japanese promo poster. From top to bottom, clockwise: Jason David Frank (green), David Yost (blue), Austin St. John (red), Amy Jo Johnson (pink), Thuy Trang (yellow), and Walter Emanuel Jones (black). Photo via Henshin Grid.

In 1995, in the middle of the second season of Mighty Morphin, it was announced that Thuy Trang was leaving the show, alongside Austin St. John and Walter Emanuel Jones, who played the Red and Black Rangers, respectively. The reasons given were contract disputes, though we have recently learnt that there were more behind the scenes, thanks to an episode of the docuseries Hollywood Demons, which delved into the seedy underbellying of the film industry.

According to the episode, titled “Dark Side of the Power Rangers,” merely a year after its premiere, Mighty Morphin was already shaping up to be a lucrative cash cow, earning its creators over a billion dollars in just toy sales. The actors, who were relative unknowns at the time of its launch, didn’t see a dime of the merchandise money. The jobs were non-union, and they were reportedly making just US$60,000 per year each, so when their first contract was up mid-season, the three joined forces to negotiate for better pay, a percentage of the toy earnings, and union recognition. “We were broke,” St. John said, detailing the financial pressures of having to take a second job on top of being on a demanding TV production, which was raking in big bucks for the execs.

The transformation sequence of Mighty Morphin.

The disputes reached the climax at a major presentation of FOX, with many of the network’s stakeholders present. Thuy Trang took the stage to deliver a blistering speech, chastising the show owners for failing to fairly compensate the actors while they were the ones anchoring the ratings. The network response was swift and straightforward: all three were fired from the show and instantly replaced. In the Mighty Morphin world, the reason given for the characters’ exit was that the three teens were chosen as representatives in an international “Peace Conference” in Switzerland, and their powers and colored uniforms were passed on to new faces.

One can’t help but wonder if things would have turned out differently had all the actors banded together to foot the demands, something Amy Jo Johnson, who played the Pink Ranger, also regretted not doing. The cast of Friends, another smash hit to have come out of the early 1990s, successfully negotiated increased and equal pay for the six friends, once the show became a household name.

Following Thuy Trang's departure from Mighty Morphin, she only appeared in two other film projects in 1996, and expressed struggles finding roles as an Asian American actress. Those wishful Hollywood aspirations would be shelved forever just a few years later. In 2001, she was in a car with actress Angela Rockwood and another friend, Steffiana de la Cruz, driving between San Jose and Los Angeles. The two girls were to be bridesmaids for Rockwood’s upcoming wedding with Dustin Nguyen. Cruz, the driver, struck some loose gravel and lost control of the car. The accident injured Cruz and rendered Rockwood paraplegic, while Thuy Trang succumbed to fatal injuries on the way to the hospital. She was 28 years old.

Thuy Trang in a promotional shoot for the first season.

Power Rangers have continued to put out successful iterations and introduced new batches of rangers since then, to the point where you can probably guess a new friend’s age by the generation of Power Rangers that they were obsessed with as a child. This ever-churning cycle might be what Thuy Trang and her colleagues didn’t realize at the time when they naively, but rightfully, stuck their neck out to ask for fair pay back then: Power Rangers are replaceable and kids abandon old toys for shiny new ones faster than you can shout “Saber-tooth Tiger! Transform!”

On Thuy Trang’s part, Hollywood might have been quick to replace her for fighting for her deserved compensation, but Vietnamese never forget. She was the first, and for 30 years, only Vietnamese Power Ranger — that is a pretty badass legacy to leave behind. Spoiler alert: the 2023 Netflix special Mighty Morphin Power Rangers: Once & Always revealed that Trini had a daughter, Minh Kwan, who took over the family business by becoming the Yellow Ranger.

Still, I wish Thuy Trang could be around now to see the 2020s, when the political and social climate, at least in Hollywood, has improved to the point when Asian-led rom-coms and all-Asian ensembles are much more prevalent. Perhaps she could have been the steely mother in Crazy Rich Asians instead of Michelle Yeoh, or the lovestruck sport writer in Set It Up in place of Lucy Liu? Wake me up before I subsume into the reverie of a Thuy Trang renaissance à la Ke Huy Quan's. Thuy Trang was an icon, and may she rest in peace.

The Charming 1990s Nostalgia in the Phim Mì Ăn Liền Cinematic Universe

2025-06-27T11:00:00+07:00

If you lurk around online discussions of Vietnamese cinema, you probably have stumbled upon the term phim mì ăn liền, or “instant noodles films.” This popular Vietnamese expression describes local motion pictures with low-effort production value. But the term is not merely a common moniker. It dates back to the 1990s, when a specific type of commercial flick got audiences flocking to the cinema.

Introduction to phim mì ăn liền

Since initiating economic reforms in 1986, Vietnam experienced major political, societal and cultural changes. This transformation extended to the film industry and Vietnamese cinema. Prior to this era, the state fully subsidized the production and distribution of motion pictures, but state funding for film production declined during the Đổi Mới era, so many film studios struggled to produce feature films with the resources available. More production companies therefore started seeking private investment to stay afloat. This privatization ushered in a new era dominated by commercial films made to generate profits.

In the modern lexicon, “phim mì ăn liền” is often used derogatorily to describe slapdash filmmaking efforts.

Concurrently, technology innovations led to a change in filmmaking methods. After the introduction of VHS tapes, film studios began making shot-on-video films using camcorders, which were cheaper, faster, and easier to produce than traditional film stock recordings.

Đổi Mới also exposed young audience members to foreign pop culture via Hollywood blockbusters, Hong Kong martial arts films and South Korean soap operas. This presented a new challenge for local cinema, as the new generation’s taste in films had changed, and the average watcher's choices were no longer limited to the often war-centric narratives offered during the previous era.

Việt Trinh

Diễm Hương

Lý Hùng

These factors contributed to the emergence of the phim mì ăn liền era of Vietnamese cinema. These 1990s films were made to appeal to the masses, and thus sell more tickets. They were usually made quickly on a small budget and shot on video. The nickname “instant noodles film” was derived from the commonalities between the movies of this era and instant noodles: they were cheap and could be made quickly; they were easy-to-digest and lastly, instant noodles are seen as an affordable meal for when you’re hungry, which parallels how 1990s commercial films came about when audiences were hungry for a newer approach in cinema.

The stratospheric rise and fall of phim mì ăn liền

Moviegoers responded positively to some of the earliest instant noodles films, and many achieved box-office success. An average of 50 feature films were produced every year by the start of the 1990s, giving rise to Vietnam's first generation of movie stars. Thu Hà, one of the rare names from the northern region to find success in mì ăn liền, discusses the popularity of noodle flicks in an interview with VTV: “This type of film was everywhere in theaters. At that time, everywhere we went, the public always knew about it.”

Many photos taken of these actors were printed on calendars, notebook covers, and postcards. These are old artifacts preserved by collector Nguyễn Văn Đương. Photo via Thương Mái Trường Xưa Facebook page.

But the era was short-lived, and by 1994, the genre began to decline with no definitive causes identified. Some theories suggest it was the rapid, negligent filmmaking methods focused on cash-grabbing and the rise of television series that turned watchers' attention elsewhere. Film critic and researcher Ngô Phương Lan noted that the instant noodles flicks “oversaturated” theaters and the audience eventually lost interest due to “the lack of quality in terms of narrative and artistic values.”

After the heyday of phim mì ăn liền, the genre gave way to arthouse films and the resurgence of state-ordered war movies in the 1990s. In retrospect, this era of Vietnamese cinema evoked both negative and positive perceptions. Even today, every once in a while when there is a streak of low-quality domestic releases, the media would use the reference the term “mì ăn liền” to reiterate how the swift production of 1990s noodle films led to their downfall, as a warning to filmmakers.

Still, modern audiences cherish these films and are able to look past their production flaws. Perhaps, the nostalgic feeling of revisiting the A-list actors that they once loved and an increased understanding of the industry’s restraints at the time can make the low-budget craftiness of phim mì ăn liền seem charming to today's viewers.

This era is often credited with introducing fresh narratives and techniques, marking an important stage in the development of the nation's film industry. The 17^th Vietnam Film Festival in 2011 paid tribute to instant noodles cinema in its opening ceremony by including the era’s popular titles in the showcase of Vietnamese Cinema History.

Older Vietnamese might have vague memories of watching these movies, but it has been more than thirty years since the peak of instant noodles cinema. Luckily, thanks to the advent of YouTube, plenty of these 1990s flicks are available online. Given the sheer variety in both number and quality, I thought it would be helpful to look at a few pioneering works, some popular subgenres, a prominent filmmaker along with some wildcards.

1. The pioneers

The foundations of phim mì ăn liền can be attributed to two films. These two works achieved major box office success, and helped inspire and define the genres, tropes, styles, acting and overall feel of the works that followed.

Vị Đắng Tình Yêu (The Bitter Taste of Love, 1990)

This was arguably the most popular film of this era, the Mì Hảo Hảo of instant noodles film. Vị Đắng Tình Yêu is a bittersweet love story between Quang, a humble, nerdy medical student, and Phương, a passionate piano artist named. Phương experiences a downward spiral after a doctor finds a bullet fragment stuck in her brain, forcing her to give up her music career, because thinking too deeply about music could be the death of her.

This was the first instant noodles film that I watched, and I was initially distracted by minor issues. The transitions between scenes feel harsh and disconnected due to the lack of establishing shots. At many pivotal points in the narrative, the film resorts to quick and lazy expositions as opposed to more engaging scenes.

But when I look past these flaws and just accept them as the film’s outdated characteristics, the film turns out to be quite decent. The narrative explores Phương’s need to choose between following her passion or survival. Also, Quang’s gang of six friends has strong chemistry with one another. The actors’ authentic portrayal of energetic schoolboys balances the heavy tones of the film with comedic and wholesome moments. So while there are annoying craft and technical flaws throughout, it’s still worth a watch for its authentic and intriguing humanistic story.

Vinh Quang Cinema (formerly named Casino Cinema) displaying the poster of Vị Đắng Tình Yêu (left), one of the most popular phim mì ăn liền. Photographed by Raymond Depardon in 1992. Photo via Flickr user manhhai.

Representative of the genre: An iconic phim mì ăn liền starring the era’s most popular actors, and the abundance of technical flaws was probably the result of the rapid filmmaking methods. [10/10]
Overall quality: A decent story that needs to improve its filmic language. [6.5/10]
How it holds up today: The narrative and acting performances would still resonate, but the film’s weaknesses would create some irritation. [5/10]

Watch Vị Đắng Tình Yêu here.

Phạm Công - Cúc Hoa (1989)

This is a live-action adaptation of a popular poem by the same name. While not as well-known as Vị Đắng Tình Yêu, Phạm Công - Cúc Hoa was a box office success. It follows the life of Phạm Công, from the day he falls for Cúc Hoa and later marries her, to when they have children. Phạm Công must leave for the capital to serve in the army and encounters many difficulties, while Cúc Hoa struggles to raise their two children on her own.

While in the capital, Phạm Công is forced into marrying the daughter of authority personnel as his second wife. The film thus explores the themes of fidelity and family values, while critiquing the polygynous practices among the aristocrats of the old society. It’s a well thought-out narrative, but unfortunately, the issues lie in how the story is told. During the 2 hours and 35-minute runtime, it overuses prolonged musical montages with neither interesting visuals nor relevance to the plot.

From a technical standpoint, the film has a large amount of combat scenes that are hard to look past. The actors are very slow in their movements as if they are play-fighting. Overall, this film feels outdated, and would be better if it were shorter and more concise in its storytelling.

Representative of the genre: The only standout characteristic of this film compared to other mì ăn liền flicks is the duration, as most films of the era were usually 90 minutes long. [9/10]
Overall quality: A film with a good story, but too slow to get through. [5/10]
How it holds up today: It’s an attempt to make a historical epic that fails to either hide or overcome technical limitations. [2/10]

Watch Phạm Công - Cúc Hoa here.

2. The popular subgenres

There are two major themes in phim mì ăn liền: adolescent romance and historical drama. The former is the most dominant genre of the era, as these youthful love stories were accessible to young audiences, and filmmaking-wise, their contemporary narratives and settings make them easier to produce. For a closer look of this genre, the 1992 film Vĩnh Biệt Mùa Hè (Farewell, Summer) is my pick of choice, because it was not only a major box office hit, but also commonly regarded as a classic adolescent romance of Vietnamese cinema.

The second theme is historical drama. Prior to this era, the genre faced many ups and downs, but experienced a revival during the phim mì ăn liền period with multiple historical films gaining box office success. The 1991 box office hit Tráng Sĩ Bồ Đề (Bồ Đề, Man of Vigor), is considered one of the most impressive Vietnamese historical films in terms of technical quality.

Vĩnh Biệt Mùa Hè (Farewell, Summer, 1992)

Vĩnh Biệt Mùa Hè focuses on best friends Hằng and Hạ, as they navigate romantic relationships during their last year of high school. Hạ, the wealthier of the pair, falls for a humble guy from an impoverished background. Meanwhile, Hằng pursues a taboo love affair with a lecturer in her school.

This film is considered a classic for a good reason. It elevates itself above the familiar tropes of the “poor boy with rich girl” relationship and the teacher-student love affair via its storytelling devices. It begins as a conventional tale about young love, but moves beyond will-they-won’t-they tensions to explore the meaning of true happiness. It’s a very relatable coming-of-age story featuring carefully presented and fully fleshed-out characters.

The film also enjoys a unique visual style thanks to the consistent use of close-up shots which give the actors the chance to communicate their characters’ emotions through facial expressions. The actors’ deliveries of their lines, however, is cheesy, and their speaking is monotone. Even so, the narrative is strong enough to outshine these flaws.

Representative of the genre: The film has common traits of phim mì ăn liền in terms of technical quality and genre. The narrative is excellent when compared to its peers. [8/10]
Overall quality: An exceptional melancholy tale about adolescent love. [8/10]
How it holds up today: Even though the monotone dialogue might be a turn-off to some people, the coming-of-age story is good enough to remind you of your own teenage years. [7/10]

Watch Vĩnh Biệt Mùa Hè here.

Tráng Sĩ Bồ Đề (Bồ Đề, the Man of Vigor, 1991)

In the 10th-century of Vietnam, during the last years of the Đinh Dynasty, the royal family experienced internal disputes. The protagonist, a knight named Bồ Đề, is tasked with taking down a secret group conspiring to overthrow the throne.

This film showcases how instant noodle films often drew inspiration from wuxia movies. Tráng Sĩ Bồ Đề, like wuxia films, includes fast-paced, choppy sword fights, a skilled martial arts warrior living by specific code, and a story that takes place in the midst of a political conflict.

One would expect it to be a historical epic with large-scale combat scenes, but the film turned out to be more of a thriller focused on clandestine political activities in gloomy, secretive forests. This atmosphere creates impressive tension and intrigue. Still, the film’s historical setting and dependence on alter egos make the narrative hard to follow.

In terms of the martial arts elements, the choreography is quite well-done with combat mostly happening in the dark, probably to hide technical limitations. The fights thus come across as realistic. Overall, it’s a gripping historical thriller, with entertaining sword-fighting scenes that don’t feel outdated in any way, even though this film was made in 1991.

Representative of the genre: It has tropes of historical dramas of this era, but it’s more competent in hiding the technical limitations. [8/10]
Overall quality: A film that keeps you on the edge of your seat from start to end. [7.5/10]
How it holds up today: Excellent choreography that is still fun to watch 32 years later. [8/10]

Watch Tráng Sĩ Bồ Đề here.

3. The works of Trần Cảnh Đôn

The director’s chair for instant noodles films was graced by both established filmmakers and new faces. A remarkable personality among them, for me, is Trần Cảnh Đôn, one of the era’s most productive directors, with eight feature films made during the prime of his career from 1990 to 1994. Nearly all of them achieved commercial success, and due to his preference for casting emerging actors, many of his films became the launching pad for some of the decade's biggest names.

Director Trần Cảnh Đôn on set. Photo via Dân Việt.

Two works by Trần Cảnh Đôn are great examples of phim mì ăn liền. First, the 1991 romantic comedy Cô Thủ Môn Tội Nghiệp (The Pitiful Female Goalkeeper), Đôn’s first award-winning film, represents his early success during the instant noodles era. Second, the 1992 film Ngôi Sao Cô Đơn (The Lonely Star) is regarded as one of Đôn’s best works and the film that “sets the standard” for 1990s commercial films.

Cô Thủ Môn Tội Nghiệp (The Pitiful Female Goalkeeper, 1991)

Even today, the subject of women's professional football is rarely explored on film. It was even more niche in 1991 when Trần Cảnh Đôn took on the topic for this film. The story revolves around Thục Hiền, a girl obsessed with football. She has the opportunity to become the goalkeeper for a semi-professional team. Though, it results in a rejection by her would-be fiancé, his parents, and even her own mother.

The antagonists in this film are well-crafted and multi-faceted. Logical motives were established regarding why these three characters are adamant in their rejection of Hiền, as well as how they slowly evolve and grow. Unfortunately, the movie fails at the midpoint when it adds more characters including the football team’s coach and several of Huyền’s teammates.

From a technical standpoint, there is a glaring issue in the film’s usage of dubbed audio. The actors’ audio is too isolated and does not blend harmoniously with the environmental sounds. Unfortunately, this flaw is present throughout the film, making the watching experience less enjoyable. All in all, compared to other instant noodles films, it shares similarities in terms of technical and storytelling shortcomings, but the progressive narrative focusing on women’s football feels like a breath of fresh air.

Representative of the genre: Aside from the unique, niche topic, this film is your average phim mì ăn liền. [9/10]
Overall quality: Too ambitious in its character building, but it examines women in sports in an interesting way. [6.5/10]
How it holds up today: The progressive story might be interesting for modern audiences, but the audio issue is nearly impossible to look past. [4/10]

Watch Cô Thủ Môn Tội Nghiệp here.

Ngôi Sao Cô Đơn (The Lonely Star, 1992)

With Ngôi Sao Cô Đơn, once again Trần Cảnh Đôn brought something new to the table: a rare detective plot in the phim mì ăn liền landscape. The film starts with investigator Quốc in his office with some colleagues, admiring a musical performance by a singer named Mỹ Nhung on TV. A phone call drops the breaking news that Mỹ Nhung has been found dead in her own bedroom. Quốc embarks on a quest to solve her murder and soon uncovers the secret life behind the glamorous facade of the famous musician.

Just like the previous entry, Đôn attempts to showcase numerous characters as nuanced and complete individuals, and this time he succeeds. The chronicling of Mỹ Nhung’s life involves exploring more mature themes of women in the patriarchal music industry.

Beyond rich character development, it’s a stylistically strong film too. Suspenseful music, dark settings, a stern investigator who lights smoke at every chance he gets; it calls to mind a classic 1950s Hollywood detective movie. I wholeheartedly agree with the sentiment that this film “set the standard” for 1990s commercial films, as this is my favorite in the list.

Representative of the genre: The only similarity this film shared with others is the starring of popular actors in the instant-noodle era. Otherwise, the narrative, genre and overall production value is done too well to group it among its peers. [3/10]
Overall quality: My personal favorite film in this list. [9/10]
How it holds up today: It’s prolific in both storytelling and technical quality, it definitely will hold up if released today. [10/10]

Watch Ngôi Sao Cô Đơn here.

New 'Số Đỏ' Movie Announced, Directed by Phan Gia Nhật Linh, Starring MONO

2024-12-12T13:00:00+07:00

Another classic of Vietnamese literature is heading to the big screen in the near future.

Over the past week, film enthusiasts in Vietnam have been buzzing with the recently announced film adaptation of Số Đỏ (Dumb Luck), one of the most iconic literary works of modern Vietnam. According to Deadline, the project was first unveiled at the Asia TV Forum & Market in Singapore, to be produced by Fremantle, Beach House Pictures and Vietnam’s Anh Tễu Studio.

Written by Vũ Trọng Phụng, Số Đỏ the novel came out in 1936 first as a serial on Hà Nội Báo. The book is a searing satirical attack on the rising bourgeoisie living in Hanoi at the time, using puns, absurdisms, and delicious situational ironies. It chronicles the life of Xuân Tóc Đỏ, a lower-class nobody with a cunning talent for trickery and fronting. By capitalizing on the society’s westernization trend, he was able to infiltrate and ascend the social ladder into elite culture.

Read Saigoneer’s review of Số Đỏ here.

The movie version will be written and directed by Phan Gia Nhật Linh with pop heartthrob MONO — in his acting debut — playing the lead role of Xuân. Linh first announced a similar adaptation back in 2020, though no actor was attached at the time, and the whole project was likely shelved for four years due to the global pandemic. MONO, whose real name is Nguyễn Việt Hoàng, first rose to fame as Sơn Tùng M-TP’s brother, but has since made a name for himself as a charismatic Gen Z pop star. It remains to be seen whether he can do the rather complex role justice.

Số Đỏ will be a collaborative effort between Vietnam, South Korea, and Singapore. South Korean CJ CGV will distribute the movie, but a release date has not been confirmed at the time of writing.

From Cheap Flicks to Local Identity: A Brief History of Vietnamese Horror Films

2024-11-21T11:00:00+07:00

Horror films have been a part of Vietnamese cinema for a long time, since the heyday of the country’s film industry. But the genre's journey has been challenging. For one, its track record includes many films with low-budget production made in a rush for quick profit. Additionally, certain scary elements in horror films often face issues with age restrictions or require last-minute edits to secure approval for theatrical release. As a result, the horror genre in general has a mixed reputation among Vietnamese audience members.

When I began working on this article, I had a similar perception of the genre. My initial approach was to create a simple “Top 10 best Vietnamese horror films” list, selecting notable works from a pool of films that I expected to be underwhelming. However, upon observing the timeline of Vietnamese horror cinema, my perspective changed, because what I found most fascinating about this genre is its transformation over time.

So instead of a “best films” list, I aim to highlight key Vietnamese horror films from each decade, showcasing how the genre has evolved through different eras. The movies selected for this list may not be the best horror films ever, but their key characteristics and filmmaking approaches best reflect the trends and styles of horror cinema at the time they were created. Hopefully, by watching these films, viewers can gain a deeper insight into the strengths, flaws, and growth of Vietnamese horror cinema.

Horror film production before the 21^st century

A brochure introducing Lệ Đá (1971).

The earliest known attempt to create a Vietnamese horror film was Cánh Đồng Ma (Ghost Field, 1938). Written by Đàm Quang Thiện, a writer and doctor from Hanoi, the screenplay tells a psychological horror story about a series of murders near Hanoi’s Bảy Mẫu Lake. Due to a limited budget, it was co-produced with a Chinese investor, and filming took place in Hong Kong with an all-Vietnamese cast.

A newspaper ad showcasing Con Ma Nhà Họ Hứa (1973). Image via Nhạc Xưa.

The production faced major challenges as the Chinese investor pushed for a rushed release. They even altered the script without Thiện's consent, shifting the story focus to detective themes with action elements and alluring female characters. Cánh Đồng Ma hit theaters in 1938 in its altered state and unsurprisingly, it was heavily criticized by film fans, critics and even cast members.

After Cánh Đồng Ma, some articles state that there were other horror movies released throughout the 1930s and 1940s, such as Cô Nga Dạo Thị Thành (Ms. Nga’s City Stroll, 1939) and Khúc Khải Hoàn (Song of Victory, 1940). Unfortunately, these titles were made so long ago, that they are not available for streaming, and information about them is limited, so there is insufficient data to determine whether they can truly be classified as horror films.

It wasn't until the 1970s that Vietnamese horror films began to take clearer shape, with the release of Lệ Đá in 1971, marking an important milestone in the genre's development.

Lệ Đá (Tear of Stone, 1971) | Watch Lệ Đá here.

Lệ Đá chronicles the tale of two young lovers, Kỳ and Trang. After Trang tragically dies in a construction site accident, her spirit lingers still. Five years later, Trang returns, as her spirit inhabits the body of a recently deceased man. Trang, now trapped in the body of an old man, has to find a way to reunite with Kỳ to rekindle their lost love.

Lệ Đá can be watched in full on YouTube.

This film featured an all-Vietnamese cast and was directed by filmmaker Võ Doãn Châu. It was a box office success, largely due to the implementation of supernatural elements and the fact that it has the same name as a popular Vietnamese song. The cinematography also took advantage of Đà Lạt’s mist-filled scenery to create an unsettling atmosphere.

Another horror release that saw major success in the 1970s was Con Ma Nhà Họ Hứa (The Ghost of the Hui Family, 1973). Based on a popular Vietnamese urban legend about a rich family in Saigon-Chợ Lớn. The film was a box office hit, but unfortunately as of now, only the first 10 minutes of the film are accessible to the public.

Ngôi Nhà Oan Khốc (1992).

After the reunification of Vietnam in 1975 and the country put its main focus on war-centric propaganda films, it took a while for horror movies to make their return. Specifically in the era of commercial films in the 1990s, films such as Ngôi Nhà Oan Khốc (The Wailing House) and Chiếc Mặt Nạ Da Người (The Human Skin Mask) arrived. Both 1992 movies reportedly performed quite well financially, but there's unfortunately no publicly accessible way to stream them at the moment.

While it’s difficult to fully analyze pre-2000s horror films, as many of them have become lost media, there are notable motifs from this era that were inherited by films in the next generations, such as how Lệ Đá dives into the concept of death and the afterlife, while films like Ngôi Nhà Oan Khốc and Con Ma Nhà Họ Hứa popularized the use of haunted, mysterious houses as the central settings. Furthermore, Đà Lạt, with its foggy hills and old French-style villas, became a popular setting for horror films, probably because of its association with ghost stories and urban legends. This tradition of filming horror movies in Đà Lạt continued to thrive in the following two decades.

The 2000s, the decade of international influences

After the 1990s, the horror genre saw a long hiatus, likely due to the rise of commercial cinema, which shifted focus to genres like drama and comedy. Eventually, horror movies made their arrival in the new century in 2007, with two releases, Mười and Ngôi Nhà Bí Ẩn-Suối Oan Hồn. Both share a common pattern: they are heavily influenced by international cinema in various aspects.

Mười: Truyền thuyết về bức chân dung (Mười: The Legend of a Portrait, 2007) | Watch Mười here.

Mười follows South Korean author Yoon-hee, who is in search of inspiration for her next novel. Yoon-hee's long-lost friend Seo-yeon introduces her to the urban legend of Mười, which is about a girl who lived a tragic life and became a vengeful spirit after her death. Intrigued, Yoon-hee moves into Seo-yeon’s villa in Đà Lạt to research the topic, and soon uncovers many secrets about Mười, and a startling discovery about her long-lost friend.

Mười (2007).

This film is a collaboration between Vietnam’s Hãng Phim Phước Sang and South Korea's CJ Entertainment, marking the first Vietnam-Korea film partnership. As South Korean media is already popular in Vietnam and K-dramas are available on many families' cable TV, there was significant media buzz surrounding the film. As a result, it achieved impressive ticket sales, reportedly around VND30 billion.

But its biggest criticism also stemmed from this Vietnam-Korea partnership. The main characters are all Koreans with Vietnamese actors playing minimal roles, it ended up being more like a Korean film that has Vietnam as a setting, rather than a true collaboration between the two countries. Read Saigoneer's review of Mười here.

Ngôi Nhà Bí Ẩn-Suối Oan Hồn (Mysterious House-Haunted River, 2007) | Watch Ngôi Nhà Bí Ẩn-Suối Oan Hồn here.

Directed by Nguyễn Chánh Tín, this project isn’t a feature film but a two-episode showcase of the TV series that Tín wanted to produce: a 52-episode horror-drama anthology. This cinematic release was to help fund the production of future episodes and to attract potential investors for the series.

The first part of the showcase is Ngôi Nhà Bí Ẩn, which centers around a female director determined to create a documentary debunking the existence of ghosts. To do this, she moves into a house rumored to be haunted, but as eerie events unfold before her eyes, she finds her beliefs ruthlessly challenged.

The second part, Suối Oan Hồn, is a horror-thriller set in a barren land inhabited by only three families. Their peaceful lives are shattered as eerie animal howls begin echoing through the land every night, distressing them. Soon, they start witnessing terrifying, bloody visions that slowly drive them to madness.

The film was marketed as being inspired by the Alfred Hitchcock classic Psycho (1960). It incorporated several Hitchcockian techniques such as long tracking shots to build up suspense, and quick shots that jump between characters and their perspectives, immersing the audience in the characterss points of view. If the most iconic scene in Hitchcock’s Psycho takes place in the bathroom, Ngôi Nhà Bí Ẩn also features a jump scare in a toilet.

Ngôi Nhà Bí Ẩn-Suối Oan Hồn (2007).

The film's overt showcasing of Hitchcock influences drew some criticism. The filmmakers applied Hitchcock's techniques in a straightforward manner, without a fresh, creative spin, leaving the film feeling somewhat dated and unoriginal to those familiar with global horror flicks.

To sum up, the 2000s served as a period of learning from international horror cinema, and these two films exemplify how filmmakers adopted those influences. They drew inspiration from Hollywood, as seen in Ngôi Nhà Bí Ẩn-Suối Oan Hồn, and collaborated with countries known for more established film industries, such as in the case of Mười. Both films had moderate box office successes, and given their release period, they likely served as an introduction to Vietnamese horror cinema for many young Vietnamese from this current generation.

However, these films still have noticeable flaws in terms of production value, such as script quality, a lack of originality in their scare tactics, and most importantly, the presence of some Vietnamese identity on screen. These shortcomings would eventually be addressed by horror films released in the following two decades.

The 2010s, the commercialization of Vietnamese horror

Heading into the 2010s, things were looking up for the horror genre, with multiple releases earning praises for production quality, some of which even became big money makers. A key highlight was Quả Tim Máu, the highest-grossing Vietnamese horror film at the time whose success was so big that it kickstarted a new era of commercial horror movies.

Quả Tim Máu (Vengeful Heart, 2014) | Watch Quả Tim Máu here.

Quả Tim Máu follows Linh, who, after receiving a heart transplant, begins to experience unsettling visions and nightmares. This supernatural side effect causes her to sleepwalk all the way to the home of her heart donor, Phương. Touched by the hospitality of Phương’s family, Linh decides to stay with them for a few days, but soon, she uncovers the mystery surrounding Phương's untimely death.

Quả Tim Máu (2014).

Set in a haunted villa in Đà Lạt, the story revolves around the spirit of a person who died unjustly. While it uses familiar tropes from Vietnamese horror movies, it succeeded thanks to its well-executed visual effects, art direction and storyline. Directed by Victor Vũ, who is known for a variety of hits across genres, Quả Tim Máu broke box office records, making VND24 billion within three days of its premiere, an achievement that even Hollywood blockbusters couldn’t reach in Vietnamese theaters at the time.

Around the time when Quả Tim Máu was released, a few other horror works were also well-received, such as Lời Nguyền Huyết Ngải (Blood Curse, 2012) and Ngôi Nhà Trong Hẻm (House in the Alley, 2012). But what made Quả Tim Máu influential to many subsequent horror flicks was its bold casting choice of Thái Hòa in a lead role, as he was seen as more of a comedic actor. In the film, he added a touch of comedy and light-hearted moments to this otherwise frightening experience, and this approach soon became a model to emulate. Quả Tim Máu opened the floodgates for a wave of horror films with comedic elements.

Quả Tim Máu (2014).

While it's great that horror became more popular and gained more support from production companies, a number of later horror-comedy films attempted to replicate the success of Quả Tim Máu without fully understanding what made it work. As a result, while Quả Tim Máu carefully balanced horror and comedy, the films that followed its footsteps fell short with poorly executed jump scares mixed with characters constantly dropping one-liners.

By the end of the decade, the trend of horror-comedy had evolved in a new direction. The movies released during the final years of the 2010s began to tackle one previous shortcoming of Vietnamese horror cinema: creating scary stories that resonate with Vietnamese. A prime example of this is Bắc Kim Thang, the release of which foreshadowed the type of Vietnamese horror that would dominate the next decade.

Bắc Kim Thang (Home Sweet Home, 2019) | Watch Bắc Kim Thang here.

This film follows Thiện Tâm, who returns home in the Mekong Delta after a long period of medical treatment in the city. Upon returning, he finds out that his grandfather is becoming increasingly ill, and his sister has gone missing. But the strange thing is, the remainder of his family seems suspiciously indifferent about it.

Bắc Kim Thang (2019).

According to some reviews, while its narrative still could use some improvement, Bắc Kim Thang was applauded for its relatability in storytelling and world-building. Set in the 1990s, the film tackles the issue of chauvinism within family dynamics. The film's scenes of family meals and locations full of rivers and farmland all aim to portray an accurate image of rural life in southwestern Vietnam.

Bắc Kim Thang enjoyed success in ticket sales and was even showcased at Busan International Film Festival, one of the biggest film festivals in Asia. While not a flawless film, it was appreciated thanks to its exploration of themes that resonate with Vietnamese people, an approach that at least one review believed could set a precedent for future productions. Read Saigoneer's review of Bắc Kim Thang here.

While there was no actual explanation for why horror filmmakers started changing their directions, some deductions can be drawn from the film industry at the time. The 2010s was also a busy time for international cinema. A report in 2019 stated that Vietnamese theaters were largely dominated by films from abroad, with approximately 40 local releases compared to around 200 foreign ones. Perhaps, the saturation of foreign films in theaters led audiences and filmmakers to gravitate toward more locally relevant works.

The 2020s, time to find define Vietnamese horror

After a long pause due to COVID-19, the Vietnamese horror genre made its comeback by fully embracing the approach seen in Bắc Kim Thang, which focused on bringing the Vietnamese identity onto the screen. And the audience wholeheartedly welcomed it, an article from September 2024 pointed out that horror films were gaining significant popularity, with several major commercial successes. There are two standout films from this period, Kẻ Ăn Hồn and Quỷ Cẩu. Both films drew in many viewers, perhaps because they effectively integrated Vietnamese cultural elements in different ways, making them notable examples of the genre's evolution.

Kẻ Ăn Hồn (The Soul Reaper, 2023) | Watch Kẻ Ăn Hồn here.

This film unfolds in a remote village burdened by a curse that prevents anyone from ever leaving. On top of this, someone in the village is secretly brewing The Skull Wine, an ancient form of dark magic that requires the harvest of human blood and body parts. And as a series of murders takes place, it’s up to the villagers to identify the culprit.

Kẻ Ăn Hồn (2023).

Kẻ Ăn Hồn garnered attention for its art direction. As the story takes place in Vietnam during the 16^th–17^th century, traditional costumes are used, and meticulous set design brings the rural setting to life. The film also moves away from the usual scare tactics of its predecessors, avoiding excessive jump scares and saying goodbye to villas in Đà Lạt. Instead, the foggy mountains and surrounding forests create an eerie, mystical ambiance that adds to the film’s atmosphere. The soundtrack, featuring traditional Vietnamese instruments, amplifies the creepy elements. The inclusion of cultural elements in the narrative, such as children's folk songs and Vietnamese paper dolls, also brings a sense of horror that originates from a familiar place.

Kẻ Ăn Hồn (2023).

Released during a time when many local films were struggling in ticket sales, Kẻ Ăn Hồn unexpectedly achieved significant ticket sales. It surpassed Quả Tim Máu to become the highest-grossing Vietnamese horror film as of December 2023, marking a stellar comeback for the genre in the 2020s. Still, horror fans might be elated to find that Kẻ Ăn Hồn’s record was quickly broken by the next film on this list, Quỷ Cẩu.

Quỷ Cẩu (Crimson Snout, 2023) | Watch Quỷ Cẩu here.

Quỷ Cẩu revolves around a family running a dog meat vendor. One day, the father of the house unfortunately passed away in an accident while delivering dog meat. This leads to the eldest son, Nam, who lives apart from the family and doesn’t partake in the family business, to return home to attend his father’s funeral. After reuniting with his family, Nam starts having nightmares about his whole family being killed, and soon, the family starts experiencing disturbing, sinister occurrences.

The story draws from the northern Vietnamese urban legend of “chó đội nón mê” (The Dog in the Straw Hat), an ominous dog-like specter that can stand on two legs, wears a straw hat and holds a stick to support its walking. Its appearance is considered a bad omen, signaling misfortune for those who see it. Similar to the previously mentioned film, Quỷ Cẩu also weaves cultural elements into its narrative, but what sets it apart is its decision to reinterpret the urban legend within a contemporary context by addressing the ongoing issue of dog meat consumption in Vietnamese society.

Quỷ Cẩu (2023).

Quỷ Cẩu has a monstrous dog creature as the ghost figure. Even though the reception for it was mixed due to mediocre CGI that made the creature more goofy than frightening, it reveals how the filmmakers attempted to innovate rather than follow the conventional paths of older horror films. Thanks to its creative storytelling and contemporary themes, it quickly joined the small ranks of Vietnamese films that grossed over VND100 billion — a new high in the Vietnamese horror genre.

Conclusion

Vietnamese horror cinema has come a long way. From a period of learning from foreign films, the genre has carved out its own identity. The 2020s saw many sanguine signs in this genre, as we got to see filmmakers experiment with innovative storytelling methods that not only aim to scare audiences but also deliver the stories in a distinctly Vietnamese way.

By observing how these big-ticketed films put effort into creating high-quality works, I believe that they can lay a strong foundation for the future of Vietnamese horror. While there may be setbacks and mistakes along the way, future filmmakers will learn from them, improving the genre as they go along.

Women in Post-Đổi Mới Vietnamese Cinema: From Archetypal to Multifaceted

2024-09-02T10:00:00+07:00

In Vietnamese cinema, the female figure has long been employed to deliver macro-level messages rather than just mundane narratives.

The period from 1975 to 1986 marked a major transition in the history of local cinema. According to Lịch sử Điện ảnh Việt Nam (The History of Vietnam Cinema) by playwright Nguyễn Thị Hồng Ngát, this era saw a shift from propaganda productions to more realist films and projects with mass appeal. After đổi mới, local filmmakers have created compelling characters in roles like grandmas, mothers, and sisters to symbolize the resilience and courage of Vietnamese people as they adapted to the nation’s economic, cultural, and social changes.

The ups and downs of a nascent cinematic industry

In 1986, Vietnam transformed from a planned economy to a market economy, bringing about numerous shifts in the lives of citizens. Cinema was one of the mass communication mediums that strikingly reflected these transformations. If the colonial decades gave rise to documentaries and shorts, cinema projects during the rise of socialism in northern Vietnam ushered in some novelty.

Still, the majority of films then were still revolving around war times, labor, and manufacturing, such as Vợ chồng A Phủ (1961), Chị Tư Hậu (1963), Vĩ tuyến 17 ngày và đêm (1972), Em bé Hà Nội (1974), etc. This period gave us a number of talented filmmakers, even though film productions were tightly regulated in both content and execution by the Department of Cinema.

Chị Tư Hậu (1963).

In the south, though there were war-themed movies, like Từ Sài Gòn đến Điện Biên Phủ (1970), the cinematic landscape comprised broader genres like comedies, including Tứ quái Sài Gòn (1973) and Năm vua hề về làng (1974); and romantic dramas like Chân trời tím (1971) and Sau giờ giới nghiêm (1972). In 1975, a range of subjects were featured in local films, even though the most popular titles were mostly war-related, like Mối tình đầu (1977), Mẹ vắng nhà (1979) and Cánh đồng hoang (1979).

Following đổi mới, the market economy resulted in a boom in commercial films, most notably the advent of “mì ăn liền” (instant noodles) projects. These low-stake, accessible, cheaply produced, and easy-to-watch flicks became considerably popular, leading to the rise of Vietnam’s first generation of movie stars like Lý Hùng, Thu Hà, Diễm Hương, and Việt Trinh. Towards the end of the 1990s, the genre lost its mass appeal as art house flicks and foreign collaborations arrived. Projects about Vietnam but helmed by foreign auteurs of Vietnamese descent — such as Trần Anh Hùng (The Scent of Green Papaya) and Tony Bùi (Three Seasons) — were recognized by international film festivals.

“A mother, a wife, a soldier”

The Nguyễn Dynasty, Vietnam’s last period under absolute monarchy, was significantly influenced by Confucianism in how it governed the country. The spread of Confucius teachings became less influential the more southward one moved. Australian historian Barbara Watson Andaya, whose research centers on women’s history in Southeast Asia, wrote that Vietnam during this era wasn’t just dominated by patriarchal beliefs, so matriarchal orders were still followed, and the role of the woman was still respected.

Bao giờ cho đến tháng Mười (1963).

Films that came out before đổi mới often chose to elevate the role of women through their wartime contributions. In these cases, women were both brave fighters on the battlefield and dependable support behind the scenes. Standout characters included the mother and sister figures in Mẹ vắng nhà (1979), Em bé Hà Nội (1974) and Bao giờ cho đến tháng Mười (1984).

The majority of female characters featured in movies of this period were involved in the revolution, like those in Đến hẹn lại lên (dir. Trần Vũ, 1974) and Cánh đồng hoang (dir. Vương Hồng Sến, 1979). Many of these were well-received when sent to film festivals organized by the Soviet Union. Nonetheless, besides being celebrated for their war utility, motherhood and sisterhood, few female roles could escape their main use: to consolidate and promote wartime paradigms.

More resources but less mental freedom?

From đổi mới onwards, the role of Vietnamese women in film expanded from just revolutionary icons or reminders of a time of loss and trauma. They started taking on new purposes to reflect the hopes, personal ambitions and new image of the nation in a new age.

The economic reform in 1986 gave way to private enterprises. Women could return to markets to open stores, bringing about the development of street vendors and family businesses operated by female members of the household. Private companies and foreign-invested firms also helped increase gender equality in the workforce. There was a noticeable increase in the number of young women living in urban areas with a stable career. They were afforded more freedom in their choices of entertainment and socialization compared to the previous generation.

An artwork at the exhibition “Đổi Mới - The Journey of Dreams” as seen at the Vietnam Fine Arts Museum in 2016.

Nonetheless, in her article “Gender in Post-Doi Moi Vietnam: Women, desire, and change,” human geographer Lisa Drummond pointed out that even though the economic reform ushered in many changes in the life of Vietnamese women, it also accentuated gender issues that have long been present in the culture. Cultural gender norms and chauvinistic traits in the local society couldn’t be toppled in a day, even though they weren’t as ingrained as before.

During this period, the Vietnamese woman always felt she had to balance between traditional expectations and contemporary ambitions. She had to maneuver the family’s urge for a firstborn son in response to the state’s family planning policies, hide their sexual needs amid the morally oppressive climate of rural Vietnam, while harboring hopes for a better working environment and living condition in the new era of the market economy.

Private and reticent, but not losing their voice

These gender issues were depicted quite prominently in Cô gái trên sông (dir. Đặng Nhật Minh, 1987) and Mùi đu đủ xanh (dir. Trần Anh Hùng, 1993). How these cinematic works portrayed male-female dynamics and relationships between characters showed that gender norms were very clearly defined in our collective minds. As such, men are defined by powerful personae who are intelligent but irresponsible; while women are modest, reserved, faithful and selfless.

Đặng Nhật Minh is amongst the directors who contributed the most to the growth of Vietnamese cinema. As an auteur, he expressed much sympathy for Vietnamese women. After it was released, Cô gái trên sông faced significant censure to the point of nearly getting banned from screening, as it was deemed to be too “tarnishing” to the image of the soldier.

Cô gái trên sông pushed to topple long-established beliefs about women, how they love, and how they express that love.

A realist take on the war genre, Cô gái trên sông caused an uproar due to how it presented the revolutionist soldier as a player, and showed compassion for the main character, a sex worker. The synopsis revolves around Nguyệt, a prostitute living on a boat on the Hương River, and her quest to find a soldier whom she saved from enemy pursuit. When peace is achieved, she hopes to reunite with him, but her dream is shattered when that man, now a high-ranking official, completely brushes aside their connection.

In Cô gái trên sông, Nguyệt’s boldness proved the production’s push to dethrone long-established beliefs about women, how they love, and how they express that love. Besides, its portrayal of the revolutionary soldier as a heartbreaker and one from across the enemy line was faithful and provided a refreshing perspective for cinema at the time, especially when compared to the propaganda films of past centuries. Over the span of his career, even though the majority of Minh’s films were supported by the government, he found ways to edge by, expressing a strong personal voice and airing out his concerns for the country and its people.

Two of this works received support from the British and Japanese governments, respectively: Trở về (1994) and Thương nhớ đồng quê (1996). Both chronicle the journeys of women amid the nation’s cultural shifts in the market economy: urban women have access to spaces to unwind, socialize, and meet new people, enjoying a rich social life; while rural women lack opportunities to expand their social circles. Most of them were confined by strict moral codes and heavy expectations from society to fulfill their predestined roles as wives and mothers.

Mùi đu đủ xanh is a story about the passions and desires of women.

After 1986, Vietnam’s reopening to the world resulted in a number of cinematic works by foreign directors of Vietnamese descent being introduced to local watchers. Most notably, there was Mùi đu đủ xanh (1993), Trần Anh Hùng’s first-ever long feature. It became his most critically acclaimed work of the decade, clinching many international nominations and accolades.

Surrounding Trần Anh Hùng’s oeuvre, debates about “traditions” and “identities” seem never-ending. In Mùi đu đủ xanh, he portrayed an archetypal Vietnamese family, its time-honored customs, and palpable patriarchy via the role of the oldest son in the household. These family hierarchies were deeply entrenched in the minds of female characters, be it in the city or the countryside.

Trần Anh Hùng’s Mùi đu đủ xanh is a distinctively Asian love story — right beside the devotion of the woman lies the void of the man in the family. The plot follows Mùi, a young girl who moves to Saigon to be a live-in maid for a family of northern descent. Mùi, with her deep sensitivity, can detect the cracks and trauma in a seemingly harmonious household.

The mother and the grandma both have to endure the indifference and coldness of the family’s patriarchs. Their efforts and subtle sacrifices remain unsung. Even Mùi, when it comes to her own love journey, chooses to blend in the shadow, taking care of the one she loves from afar, as there’s already a fiance beside him, who’s superior to her in both appearance and poise.

The Asian woman’s affection is juxtaposed with the passion of western expressions of love.

In the movie, the Asian woman’s affection is juxtaposed with the passion of western expressions of love. It highlights how Mùi slowly overcomes the gender hurdles a rural woman often faces to step into the world of her crush, who was educated in the west and deeply influenced by its open lifestyle. In general, with the addition of diasporic films, especially those of Trần Anh Hùng, women in Vietnamese cinema after đổi mới became more multifaceted — at times, still modest, reserved, and obedient, but also strong-willed, progressive, and assertive when it comes to their own existence in the society.

The country shifts when women shift

In addition to highlighting gender issues of the Vietnamese society at the time, filmmakers also imbued their aspirations about the future of the country through women’s individual dreams. Two features that exemplified this trait were Lưỡi dao (dir. Lê Hoàng, 1995) and Ba mùa (dir. Tony Bùi, 1999).

Lưỡi dao came out during the apex of Lê Hoàng’s career, according to many critics. The film is set in 1975 in southern Vietnam, following the life of Nguyệt. After her family perishes during the war, Nguyệt comes to detest the revolutionary army. As her suspicion and fear abate through time, she discovers a shocking truth that forces her to choose between romance and honor. This character is a strong symbol of the efforts to heal wartime wounds, erasing decades of vengefulness that once plagued the nation.

Nguyệt is a strong symbol for the efforts to heal wartime wounds, erasing decades of vengefulness that once plagued the nation.

Meanwhile, Ba mùa, a feature film by Vietnamese American director Tony Bùi, sets up a Vietnamese landscape that’s admittedly quite romanticized, but still carries the spirits of the era. Released three years after the sanctions on Vietnam were lifted, it tells the stories of different female characters living in Saigon during this opening of the economy.

Ba mùa delivers segments that are colorful and sensitive to the intersection of old and new, traditions and modernity. Each woman in the movie represents a different value. Lan, a sex worker, seeks a wealthy life, trying her best to not repeat her mother’s miserable fate; she represents career ambitions and the preservation of youth. An, who was hired to pick lotus blossoms, touches the heart of her leprosy-stricken employer with her singing; she represents Asian intangible values, much like the pristine lotus that she collects.

Lan and An both strive for change, hopes, and the dream to continue living even after hurt and destitution.

If Lan is modern, pragmatic, and quick to leave behind the traditional mindset, An is a traditional woman, symbolizing the dissection of the old orders. Even though they come from different castes of society and make different choices, they both strive for change, hopes, and the dream to continue living even after hurt and destitution — just like how Vietnam was trying step by step to overcome an embattled history and its consequences to turn a new leaf.

Decades after đổi mới, these cinematic works are still recognized by the public and critics as the golden age of Vietnamese cinematic history. Their creators deftly brought the female figure out of revolutionary cinema’s entrenched archetypes. They supported female characters’ rights to live with their own concerns, issues, and dreams, ultimately painting a picture of a growing Vietnam amid a new era’s attitudes, standards, and refreshing perspectives about women.

Monotonous Viet-Dubbed K-Dramas Were the Soundtrack of My Childhood

2024-05-09T11:00:00+07:00

When I was growing up, my family owned a broken TV whose screen would unexpectedly go black while the audio continued to play. Turning it off and on again a couple of times would fix the problem, but it was such a hassle that sometimes we just let it be. It was stationed in our dining room, and my parents loved putting on Korean dramas when we were eating. So whenever I reminisce about my childhood, the sound of dubbed K-dramas always plays the background.

During the mid-2000s amig the Hallyu wave in Vietnam, K-dramas were widely broadcast. Always dubbed in Vietnamese, these early series relied on voiceover, typically a northern woman's voice, for all the dialogue. In the 2010s, more professional voice acting work started gaining popularity, allowing each character in the series to have a unique voice.

The voiceover lines back then were quite monotonous, so I wasn’t as fond of them as my parents were, preferring Japanese and American cartoons. However, I did continue to encounter K-dramas, albeit in a different way. My parents placed an old TV in my room at some point, so in addition to watching my favorite shows on it, I developed a habit of playing dubbed K-dramas to fill the silence while doing homework or other activities. The familiar voices of these family drama characters going about their mundane lives and having routine conversations put me at ease.

My Lovely Sam Soon (2005) and Winter Sonata (2002), two highly rated K-drama hits of the 2000s.

The habit stopped once I got a laptop that allows me to watch whatever I want. If I need background sound in my room, I can just go to YouTube and play lofi hip hop radio - beats to relax/study to. It's more convenient in general, but those old dubbed K-dramas are hard to find online.

Every once in a while, I would visit an older relative’s house and hear those recognizable dubbed voices again. Such occassions take me back to my family dinners and my teen-era bedroom, when the biggest worries in my life were finishing homework and preparing for tests.

On Returning to K-Drama, the Glue Bringing My Mom and Me Close Together

2024-05-06T10:00:00+07:00

Before Squid Game became an international phenomenon and put K-dramas on the world map, audiences in Asian countries including Vietnam were enthralled by Boys Over Flowers, The Medical Brothers, Terms of Endearment, Dae Jang Geum — all of which are classics that we still look upon with nostalgic affection.

My mother and I were deeply invested in K-dramas in the mid-2000s. If we found a series we both liked, we would remind each other to turn on the TV at airtime so as not to miss a single episode. Once the whole series had concluded, we would hunt down a bootleg DVD copy to rewatch it, often together. We would laugh at the subpar voiceover and weird Vietnamized names.

Growing up, a love of K-dramas was one of the few similarities Mom and I shared, making it a precious bonding opportunity that bridged a wide generational gap. We had incredibly different tastes when it comes to entertainment; she liked Vietnamese TV series, which were always too cheesy and absurd for my taste. I liked Disney Channel and American TV series, which are in a language she doesn’t understand with no voiceover, often featuring plots that are too complex or explicit. K-dramas were where we met each other halfway.

By high school, I had gradually grew bored of K-drama’s predictable plots, stereotypical characters and frequent use of cancer to add drama. The often histrionic performances that were once funny became tiresome. When Netflix was first introduced in Vietnam, I switched completely to American TV shows which struck me as more intelligent and interesting. For two or three years, I abandoned K-drama in favor of these English-speaking series. As a result, Mom and I spent significantly less time together laughing and talking.

I haven't been paying any attention to the new and trendy K-drama series like I once had, until Netflix added much more Korean-language content. Out of curiosity, I started watching again and saw how dramatically the genre had changed. It has grown out of overuse of cancer; and tragic, predictable love triangle setups, instead introducing more diverse themes with greater focus on visual quality and acting performance. K-drama is no longer just a go-to choice for sappy love stories.

These days, I enjoy well-made K-dramas among other series in different languages. But sappy K-dramas are still great when I want something fun, and lighthearted that won’t leave me pondering the implications of after the series ends. More importantly, they remain an opportunity for Mom and I to spend time together, laugh, and be reminded of how much we both loved them back then.

Indie Short Film 'Saigon Kiss' Is a Quintessential Saigon Queer Love Story

2024-03-07T15:00:00+07:00

Is there a meet-cute more characteristically Saigon than a motorbike breakdown and subsequent friendly assist from a stranger?

Such is the premise of how Mơ and Vicky, the romantic interests in the indie short film Saigon Kiss, encountered each other amidst this bustling city of 10 million souls. Saigon Kiss is the brainchild of writer and director Nguyễn Hồng Anh, and producers Nguyễn Thị Xuân Trang and Andrew Lee.

Director Nguyễn Hồng Anh (right) on set.

The film chronicles a chance encounter between martial arts instructor Mơ (Nguyễn Vũ Trúc Như) and dancer Vicky (Thương Lê) right on the street of Saigon — hawk-eyed Saigoneers would immediately recognize Thị Nghè Bridge as the venue for this budding romance to bloom. When Vicky’s scooter malfunctions, she is noticed by Mơ and receives the latter’s help to push the bike to a corner repair shop. While waiting for the fix, they get to talking and bonding over their life passions for martial arts and dance.

Nominating bridges as the most romantic venue in Saigon to meet new people.

Edited with a crisp, cozy palette that can pass for a Honda commercial, Saigon Kiss is a quintessential Saigon romance, from the setting, title, to how our queer leads meet. One could also argue that the fact that it’s a same-sex story is also very Saigon, the unofficial queer capital of Vietnam. A “Saigon kiss,” as the production team defines, is a small burn on the inner right calf, typically caused by accidentally bumping into the sizzling exhaust pipe of a motorbike.

Bonding over getting your bike fixed is way better than Tinder.

Saigon Kiss had its international premiere at the 46^th Clermont-Ferrand International Short Film Festival earlier in the year, where it clinched a Special Mention by the Queer Jury. This month, the short is heading to the BFI Flare: London LGBTQIA+ Film Festival in the UK. The team is currently working on a local release in Vietnam.

Nguyễn Vũ Trúc Như plays Mơ and Thương Lê plays Vicky.

“Saigon Kiss is an attempt to take a snapshot of a rapidly changing modern metropolis,” director Hồng Anh writes in the director’s statement. “Like the city, both protagonists, Mơ and Vicky, currently find themselves in a transitional period. Both struggle to find room for themselves to reflect. However, despite the ever-changing landscape and fast pace of this place, they find solace and tenderness in each other's company.”

Watch the short film's trailer below:

'Madame Pirate,' Film Project Based on Asia's Greatest Female Pirate, Sets Sail Again

2024-02-28T15:00:00+07:00

Zheng Yi Zao “started as a prostitute, resisted the authority of the Qing emperor, kicked everyone’s bottom, and then got away with it... also she has been ignored by history,” explains Vietnam-based filmmaker and photographer Morgan Ommer for why Taiwan was interested in funding a two-part film that tells the story of the leader of the world's largest pirate fleet.

Zheng Yi Zao, also romanized as Sheng I Sao (Trịnh Nhất Tẩu in Vietnamese), was born in 1775 in what is today's Guangdong Province, China. In 1801, she married a pirate named Zheng Yi, and when he died in 1807, Yi Zao took control of his force and continued to expand the fleet to roughly 400 ships and 60,000 pirates. Driven by money and power, they fought the 19^th century's greatest powers which included the British East India Company, the Portuguese Empire and China's Qing Dynasty. They also played an important role in Vietnamese history as the pirates of whom she eventually took command were commissioned by Nguyễn Huệ and the Tây Sơn against the Qing Dynasty, helping to defeat the Chinese invasion of 1789.

“The greatest pirate of all time was not a middle-aged white man with a beard and a parrot on one shoulder. The most successful pirate in history was an Asian woman who started from nothing, built an empire and then retired. Not many people know that, even in Asia,” Ommer told Saigoneer in 2022 as the film's first part, Madame Pirate: Becoming a Legend, was preparing to screen at SXSW that year.

Official movie poster via Madame Pirate's Facebook page.

Now, nearly three years later, he is readying for SXSW once again, this time for the world premiere of part two, Madame Pirate: Code of Conduct. Ommer told Saigoneer via email: “Episode 1 told the story of how she became a pirate. Episode 2 tells the audience how Zheng Yi Zao was able to manage 70,000 ruthless pirates. She was an extraordinary leader, respected and obeyed by her people. The code of conduct is how she achieved this. The code of conduct protected women. We tell the story from the perspective of one of the captives who discovers a completely different society from the one she knows on land.”

Episode 2 will continue Zheng's narrative with Taiwanese actress Yi Ti Yao, again taking the lead and a similar blend of live-action sequences filmed using virtual reality (VR) technology and animated sequences that establish a fairy tale-esque vibe. A behind-the-scenes feature helps explain the process. For this interation, Ommer and his co-writer and co-director, Taiwanese filmmaker Dan-Chi Huang, used a technology called 4DViews, which allows viewers to walk around the actors during the performance. “It’s like being on stage in a play and be[ing] able to walk around the actors during the play,” Ommer explained.

Madame Pirate's Episode 1 screened at SXSW in 2022. Photos via Madame Pirate's Facebook page.

Episode 1 enjoyed successful screenings at world-famous festivals including appearances at the Cannes Film Festival, Kaohsiung Film Festival and the Bucheon International Fantastic Film Festival. Ommer is hoping for a similar run for Episode 2 after the world premiere at SXSW. Readers interested in this novel approach to telling an intriguing story should keep a close eye on festival schedules near them and the film's Facebook page.

Hanoi Director's Debut 'Cu Li Never Cries' Wins Best 1st Feature at Berlin Film Festival

2024-02-27T17:00:00+07:00

After Inside the Yellow Cocoon Shell won the Camera D’or award at Cannes last year, this year, another independent film from Vietnam was honored at Berlinale.

Over the weekend, the Berlin International Film Festival, also known as Berlinale, unveiled the full list of prize winners after 10 days of activities and film screenings. Amongst the honorees is Cu Li Không Bao Giờ Khóc (Cu Li Never Cries) by Hanoi-based director Phạm Ngọc Lân, which won the GWFF Best First Feature Award over 15 other contenders from across the globe.

The Best First Feature category was first introduced in 2006, aiming to provide support for the next generation of filmmakers. The winner is awarded EUR50,000, to be divided between the director and producer, while the director will also receive a high-quality viewfinder. Cu Li Không Bao Giờ Khóc is produced by Nghiêm Quỳnh Trang and Trần Thị Bích Ngọc, and tells an intergenerational story of loss and uncertainties.

Nguyện (NSND Minh Châu, left) and Quang (Xuân An, right).

The plot revolves around Nguyện (NSND Minh Châu), a middle-aged Vietnamese woman who has to return to Berlin after her German ex-husband passes away to retrieve his ashes and a pygmy slow loris, or cu li in Vietnamese, the only thing he left her. Upon returning home, she discovers that her niece, Vân (Hà Phương) is rushing to have a shotgun wedding with her lover, Quang (Xuân An). The contrasting threads of solemn loss and precarious new beginnings intermingle in the film’s contemplative pace of storytelling.

Cu li is a small primate native to the Indochinese Peninsula.

Born and raised in Hanoi, Phạm Ngọc Lân graduated with a degree in urban planning at the Hanoi University of Architecture, before exploring his passion in filmmaking. The Cu Li film project has been on his mind since 2017. Lân is no stranger to Berlinale, however, as two of his short films — Another City (2016) and Blessed Land (2019) — were presented in previous festival seasons.

The Berlin International Film Festival (Internationale Filmfestspiele Berlin) is one of Europe’s three most prestigious film festivals, alongside the Venice Film Festival (Italy) and Cannes Film Festival (France).

From Trash to Treasure: How Sở Thú Studio Crafts Animated Stories From Scraps

2024-01-08T17:09:38+07:00

From old newspapers, coffee grounds, used styrofoam boxes, sticks, and more, Sở thú Studio, a collective of young creatives, has created many fascinating animation projects.

According to statistics from US-based Green Production Guide, on average, a major movie production can churn out about 225 tons of iron metallic scraps, 50 tons of construction debris, and 72 tons of food scraps. As a response to this wastage, the green cinema movement was born and has slowly made its way to the forefront of the global movie industry. This means that not only the resulting films should promote environmental protection messages, but the process of creating them must also contribute to their overall “greenness”: using equipment and tools that are environmentally friendly, reducing waste, and cutting down on power consumption, etc.

Several major entertainment companies, such as Universal Pictures, Walt Disney Pictures, and Warner Bros, have undertaken measures to make their film studios more sustainable by pushing for the recycling of wood, steel, and glass after a film finishes instead of sending them straight to landfills.

Young filmmakers and green cinema

The Sở thú Studio team.

Established in December 2021, the 20-member Sở thú Studio is Vietnam’s first animation studio with expressed interest in using recyclable materials. They all share an affection for animations, especially those with a green angle, and have come together to pursue their dream of turning local trash into movies.

Lê Mẫn Nhi, a producer at Sở thú Studio, shared with Saigoneer about her workplace’s founding. They met at the short film competition Màn ảnh Xanh (Green Screen) co-organized by the Vietnam Film Development Association and Netflix. “Not wanting our connection to stop at the competition level, we formed a group to continue making movies together. Sở thú Studio brands ourselves as an animation studio using recycled materials, including reusing discarded items as well as employing environmentally friendly props and equipment.”

Set production involves a number of recycled materials.

“The name ‘Sở thú’ [Zoo] sounds like a kickass rock band! Each member shares the temperament of a zoo animal, but we all have a love for filmmaking and a hope to create the greenest products possible,” Nhi explains.

For Sở thú Studio, animations are accessible to everyone and not just children’s movies, as watchers from different age groups will approach them with different thoughts and reflections. Finance remains the biggest hurdle for young filmmakers in their pursuit of cinema. Selecting green materials that can convey the soul of the movie is one thing, but those choices must also stay within a limited budget. The studio is always on the lookout for brands and organizations that share their vision to create animations.

A prop created by the team

An elegant debut

Vượt Thành Axima (Out of Axima) is the first-ever project by Sở thú Studio; it managed to clinch the third prize of the Màn Ảnh Xanh filmmaking contest thanks to a daring approach and polished production values.

The short has a runtime of four minutes and chronicles the journey of its protagonist Max to seek out con sáng (wisps), the only power source that can help heal his tree. The film setting is a barren Earth in a not-too-distant future: riddled with pollution and crippled by depleted resources. Minh Khuê, the short’s director, shares: “Cinema has the power to resonate. My team and I hoped that the short could tell an engaging story, cultivating in our viewers a seed of concern for our environment, so that, when the sun rises, that seed will germinate.”

Vượt Thành Axima was created using stop-motion, a technique involving stringing together a series of still images to simulate movements. The studio chose this direction due to the medium’s popularity and accessibility across age groups, thanks to the success of well-known works like Shaun the Sheep, Coraline, and ParaNorman. Stop-motion is also especially suitable for the employment of recyclable materials.

Stills from the short.

About 60% of the materials used in Sở thú Studio’s projects were recycled and turned into characters and set production. After a script is finalized, studio members start the process of procuring the needed materials from the humblest of beginnings: styrofoams from the landfill, coffee grounds from street coffee stands, burned coal from BBQ restaurants, etc. Depending on the material, they would process the ingredients accordingly, like smashing up used coal briquettes, mixing with water, newspaper, and glue to create “bricks” for the characters’ homes; old styrofoam boxes are washed and dried, then covered with old newspaper and painted over. Besides, filming tools are also fashioned out of common household appliances, like how a broom handle could double as a camera handle.

The production process.

Mẫn Nhi shares: “The challenge here is often the discovery that our reality is different than what we envisioned in our mind. The house of Max, for example, began with clay, but we felt the material wasn’t evocative enough, so we switched to used briquettes. It’s much more rustic and authentic.” In the film, a lot of the visual elements were inspired by real-life H’Mông culture, such as Max’s pink cheeks, colorful clothes, and the region’s unique stone homesteads.

The procurement team can source production materials from any humble beginnings.

Following the short’s completion, Sở thú Studio organized an exhibition to showcase the items and props featured in the film. They were even kept in their workspace as treasured keepsakes. The plants used in shots still thrive, and some props now beautify the team’s work desks. “Before we started, we knew that no matter which production, wastage is unavoidable. We try to minimize creating new trash by making use of old things.”

After Vượt Thành Axima, the studio is working with a number of third-party entities on “green” projects. Most recently, they collaborated with national broadcast channel VTV4 to create the animated short Kevin lạc trong thế giới văn hóa.

Trailer: Vượt Thành Axima.

Sở thú Studio hopes to inspire audiences to play their part in improving the environment. To them, making movies from such materials is not anything too major, but simply an act of living green from the smallest life choices, ones that everybody can do together, starting from their own routines — cut down single-use plastic, reuse second-hand items, or bring a water bottle for coffee orders, etc.

On 'Past Lives,' Duyên, and the Complexities of Vietnamese Diasporic Identities

2023-11-06T10:00:00+07:00

Past Lives left me bereft, much like how the reunion of main characters Hae-sung and Nora concluded at the end of the film — that is, without much conclusion at all.

Editor's note: This essay contains spoilers of the movie Past Lives.

Throughout the film, I saw bits of myself in each of the characters: the loyalty in Hae-sung, the ambition in Nora, the insecurity in Arthur; but as Nora’s emotions finally precipitated and spilled over at the end after Hae-sung’s departure, I was Nora but I was also me, heartbroken without knowing exactly over what.

Past Lives was released this summer and came to theatres in Vietnam at the end of September. I saw the film with a friend, a fellow Vietnamese American who now works and lives in Vietnam like I do. Unlike my friend, I was born in Vietnam, in the foothills of Đà Lạt and moved to the US when I was five, because my father qualified for relocation through the Humanitarian Operation Program. My circumstances were not quite the same as those of the main character and her family, but not completely dissimilar either. There were enough memories of Vietnam and the Vietnamese language to crystallize for me, as it did for Nora, a sense of a motherland and a complex relationship with the mother tongue that continue to inform my current identity and interactions.

The story follows the relationship between Nora and Hae-sung over more than two decades, from being classmates who saw each other every day to long-distant friends in their adulthood. At age 12, Nora immigrates from Seoul to Toronto with her artist parents and sister, leaving her childhood friend and crush, Hae-sung, behind in South Korea. They reconnect again twelve years later through social media and pick their relationship back up with regular Skype calls. Through these calls, we learn that Nora is living in New York as a writer, and Hae-sung is still in Seoul, earning a degree in engineering. Their relationship lingers in an indefinite category, because, though immersed in one another’s lives again, they are unable to visit each other. Eventually, Nora puts an end to their communication to focus on her life in New York and writing, and Hae-sung leaves to China for a language exchange program. Another twelve years pass before they reconnect again, this time in person. Hae-sung comes to New York to see Nora, now married to Arthur, a writer she met during an artist residency.

The film is undoubtedly a love story between two people who may have been entangled in layers and layers of in-yun, the Korean word that refers to the connection or fate of two individuals. It makes me think of the untranslatable Vietnamese word duyên, that accounts for the inexplicability of certain events or encounters happening. On another level, the film is also about the complex relationship between Nora and South Korea, between an individual in the diaspora and her native culture, which is perhaps another kind of love story. There is one version of “past lives” that refers to this possibility of reincarnation and destiny. And then there is another interpretation, where our past life is also the life “before,” delineated by passages by water or immigration into a new life. It is the latter meaning that loomed over me as I watched this film, as a Vietnamese American, so the return of Hae-sung into Nora’s life seemed to me like a return of first loves, in multiple senses, of a childhood crush, of a first language, of an earlier time, of another version of oneself.

Scene from Past Lives via GQ.

The reunion, an awkward first meeting in a park, aptly captures the multiple, inarticulable layers of in-yun — and of multiple timelines, of old and current selves — between the two characters. Director Celine Song captures the emotional depth of this scene and what it represents through a slow cinema style that lingers on the actors’ faces and dwells in long moments of silence. When Nora and Hae-sung finally see each other, they approach slowly, smiling and awkward. The words (in Korean) do not come easily, and their movements are punctuated by reluctance, because how do you interact with someone you have not seen physically for more than two decades, who is essentially a stranger in a different form than when you last saw him? As the two catch up while visiting littoral sites in New York, Nora makes silent observations about how her friend, now an adult man, has turned out.

She divulges these observations to her husband, Arthur, in the evening, who is beginning to feel like he is the inevitable obstacle in this contemporary love story. This is another remarkable scene in the film, because as the two talk, they are in different spaces — Nora in front of a bathroom vanity, Arthur outside of the door frame — each complemented by a mirror that reflects another angle of their face. Nora frames the meeting within casualness and distance, describing how strange it is that meeting her friend again, as an adult, she finds everything about him to be “too Korean,” from his views to his mannerisms. This description of being “too Korean” draws the line between who she is as a Korean of the diaspora and the Korean that is of Korea. The fact that she is surrounded by mirrors also tells us that this is a key moment of reckoning: this observation is less a comment on who Hae-sung is, but who she is not, no longer that 12-year-old girl with the same cultural references and experiences, but someone whose Korean identity has been diffused and transformed by and with North America. By virtue of calling Hae-sung too Korean, she is exposing an insecurity of her own identity in being “less Korean” than she ought to be, or at least, was.

This is a refrain that I am familiar with because calling someone or something “too Vietnamese” shifts the attention away from me, and the possibility of me being less than wholly Vietnamese. There’s a loss I feel about this, but at the same time, it is not a loss that I would want to recuperate, because I would not be who I am now, and I would lead a much different life. In this scene, Arthur asks if Nora finds Hae-sung attractive and she responds that, up until now, he had always been this boy in her memory and a face on a screen. It’s not so much attraction that she feels, but a longing, that she’s missed him. “I’ve missed Seoul,” she says. This line tells me this story is about more than Hae-sung and Nora, and missing Seoul is both missing the place, but also missing a certain time in one’s past. Like Nora, when I say I miss Vietnam, I am also saying I miss my life when I lived here, and the little girl I was in that past life.

There are moments where the viewer might feel bad for Hae-sung, having traveled all this way just to meet a crush who is already married. But if you see his effort to reconnect with Nora as someone too attached, or as an inconsequential search for an old love, you’d be missing the point of the film. In fact, the framing of the story is not at all about Hae-sung or his point of view, but Nora’s, evident in the slow, tender grazing of the camera over Hae-sung, like we are looking through Nora’s eyes taking in this sight of an old memory.

What little closure we get comes when Nora tells Hae-sung in a second meeting on the following day, that she is no longer the little girl he knew, but that the little girl is also not completely gone either. This scene takes place at a busy New York City bar, where Arthur is present as well. Amidst the activities of the bar, of Nora’s current life, Hae-sung comes to terms with what he’s learned about his friend during this trip: “The reason you left is because you’re you. The reason why I liked you is because you’re you. And who you are is someone who leaves.” Hae-sung lets go of whatever he imagined Nora to have been, and sees her in her present life. In this same scene, Nora is also coming to terms with who she was, and who she currently is. Leaving is an integral part of Nora’s identity, just like how movement is integral to the progression of time.

As Hae-sung leaves in a car to the airport, Nora walks back to her apartment alone, and upon finding Arthur waiting for her, she collapses into his arms crying. It's a crucial moment of reprieve, because all throughout the film, there is little that reveals how Nora feels about leaving Hae-sung, and by extension South Korea. Getting to see each other just one more time, which is the reason Hae-sung gives for looking for Nora in the first place, allows both Hae-sung and Nora to come to terms with what their relationship means to who they are today. Hae-sung gets into the car after a vague “see you then,” reminiscent of the last “bye” shared between them when they were twelve.

What Celine Song has done with this film is to imagine a longing for a distant place and past in the form of a childhood crush, a first love. But the film also looks to the future as well. The discomfort of feeling bereft is important and realistic, and closure, albeit not something we can always get, is perhaps something we can create or work toward. I think about my parents who were unable to get any immediate closure after their departure from an unrecognizable Vietnam. But as fate would have it, their daughter decided to return to Vietnam to teach indefinitely. In this new life I live, I am rewriting and adding to those already existing memories and narratives of Vietnam. For the Vietnamese abroad, it may take more than two decades to achieve any sense of closure, or even a second or third generation. The potential for this is captured in the last moments when Hae-sung says before he leaves, “What if this is a past life as well, and we are already something to each other in our next life? Who do you think we are then?” Indeed, what if there is a future — of alternative possibilities — already unfolding?

Meet DeeDee, the Studio Behind Netflix Docuseries 'How to Become a Cult Leader'

2023-10-08T13:00:00+07:00

With a frantic, rabid fury flickering in his eyes, Charles Manson swerves through technicolor 1960s Hollywood streets, the passengers in his convertible terrified by the crazed maneuvering of a man who would soon become one of America’s most infamous convicted murderers.

The scene, depicted via an energetic animation sequence, appears in the first episode of Netflix’s recently released How to Become a Cult Leader. Few viewers of the popular new show will think about Vietnam during the many stylish cartoon segments set in America, Japan and South Korea, interspersed amongst historic photos and videos as well as expert interviews. But every piece of animation, essential for bringing the story of famous cult leaders to life, was in fact created here in Vietnam by DeeDee Animation Studio.

Showreel via DeeDee Studios.

How to Become a Cult Leader, voiced by Peter Dinklage of Game of Thrones fame and produced by Los Angeles-based Six Point Harness, represents a milestone of visibility for DeeDee’s work, but it's hardly their first project. Since being founded in 2017, they have worked on local and international commercials, music videos, broadcast series and international NGO PSA campaigns in addition to a number of original short films, including the award-winning Broken Being.

It was via one of DeeDee’s original short films that I first learned of them. Their three-part re-telling of Truyện Kiều gained organic attention on social media and Saigoneer shared it via brief write-up. Thus, when my brother-in-law in the US was searching for a new animation studio to create the cutscenes for his video game company’s Justice League game, I knew who to suggest. After passing their name along, I received exceedingly positive feedback on DeeDee’s quality of work, professionalism and general attitude. Intrigued to learn more about Vietnam’s animation industry after we had covered Nam Hải Art, which does backgrounds for popular Japanese anime, I reached out to the DeeDee team. Over coffee and a later zoom call, I grew enamored with their inspiring stance on how artists can balance creative visions and commercial requirements and the potential of the animation industry in Vietnam.

Animated Scenes from How to Become a Cult Leader.

“We don’t see it as being put in a box; it’s being given a different field to play in,” DeeDee’s Co-Founder and Art Director Hà Huy Hoàng shared on a call last month regarding how the team of animators deals with being told by clients what styles and parameters a certain project must adhere to. All but the most fortunate artists in any medium must devise a way to monetize their talent, and this often means creating work for commercial entities with strict guidelines, but it was impressive to hear that DeeDee doesn’t just put up with this reality, but sees opportunities to grow because of it.

Familiar DC superhero depicted in the Justice League game.

By working for different clients with varied audiences and objectives, DeeDee’s 60-person team can expand its stylistic repertoire while securing the funds necessary to create passion projects, and working towards their own goals like creating Vietnam’s first-ever full-length animated film and having work included in the Oscars. Co-Founder and Studio Manager Lê Quỳnh Như noted that the team is able to produce work in line with North American cartoons, artistic European styles, and even anime-inspired adult styles. This diversity helps make DeeDee attractive to international partners, particularly because Vietnam is not yet known globally for its animation prowesses, and landing contracts involves introducing their abilities.

Vietnam is home to several other animation studios that share DeeDee’s commitment to animation as art and producing the highest level of work, Hoàng says, but many others are simply looking to meet minimum requirements for domestic or international markets and turn a profit. Such a mindset perpetuates the stereotype held by many in Vietnam, particularly among older generations, that animation is not a serious pursuit, let alone legitimate art. True to cultural stereotypes, it can be difficult to convince one’s parents for permission to study visual arts in general and cartoons are even tougher.

Hoàng was one of the lucky few to grow up in Hanoi with access to satellite television that broadcast Cartoon Network and Disney. He always loved drawing, but before he plunged into making it his career, he had to fail out of traditional engineering university. Ultimately, he succeeded in following his dreams by studying animation in California, explaining: “It’s just a fact that the US is the birthplace of animation as we know it today, as well as the biggest animation industry in the world with billions of dollars to be made off of thousands of animation productions, as well as a lot of schools that provide animation programs. So it’s not even a question that I would choose to go to the US for an education in animation.”

Members of the DeeDee team in their Hanoi office.

The animation skills and marketing fundamentals Hoàng brought back to Vietnam have proven instrumental for DeeDee as opportunities to seriously study and gain international-standard animation experience remain lacking in Vietnam. Many of DeeDee’s animators have no formal animation or even art training and are instead self-taught, fueled by a passion for cartoons and comics with portfolios built in their free time. Because the co-founders were all born and raised in Hanoi, the capital city is the logical location for the studio, but Business Development Director Sylvain Grisollet explains the recent establishment of a Saigon branch has been helpful because the southern city generally has a larger talent pool to draw from.

In addition to the regular training the leadership provides to junior team members, frequent movie nights, shared videos, comics and books that result from the office’s collective fandom help further incubate talent. Hoàng sums up the collaborative vibe: “DeeDee has a culture of support and pushing each other up, where everyone feels welcome and safe, where their voice matter and they can feel heard. That’s the secret behind every project at DeeDee really, they’re all the results of teamwork and putting everyone’s heads together to create and solve problems to make the best animation possible.”

Hot Wheels advertisement via DeeDee Studios.

In addition to learning from one another, each new project, whether client-based or independent, offers the team an opportunity to experiment with new visual styles, storytelling techniques and technical particulars. By delivering high-quality work and maintaining professional standards, they’ve also been able to expand their role in projects. For example, they originally worked with Six Point Harness for a short Hot Wheels finger skate commercial. Dissatisfied with the animation team they had initially partnered with for How to Become a Tyrant, Six Point reached out to DeeDee to provide the animations for How to Become a Cult Leader.

For the project, DeeDee received all the concept art and storyboards and simply had to animate them. However, in early discussions with Six Point, they revealed such competency and talent, that they were tasked with providing more of the original design and narrative elements for the follow-up, How to Become a Mob Boss, which will hit Netflix early next year. The high-profile Netflix release and expanded role in its creation should hopefully bring even bigger contracts to the Vietnamese studio as their projects slowly but surely grow in scope and complexity.

Scenes from DeeDee's award-winning original short Broken Being.

While noting some challenges due to the state of the global economy and the writer’s strike in America, Sylvain expressed optimism for DeeDee and Vietnam’s animation industry. “We’ve been in a sort of golden age of content for the past few years with the coming up of new content players, including platforms such as Netflix, Amazon, and Apple. But also comic book publishers, toy companies, and game developers who are now creating live-action and animated content to promote and expand their properties. More shows, including animated shows, have been commissioned than ever before,” he says.

This commercial potential is balanced by the creative opportunities DeeDee can explore with Hoàng noting his goals for the upcoming year include working on more original and independent projects. And indeed, the team is currently pitching an original television series for children at the moment. But regardless of what specific project the team is creating, client work or IP, Hoàng sounds overjoyed discussing it because, as he says, “I just want to draw — I love it.”

Review: 'Bến Phà Xác Sống' Is the 2nd-Worst Movie I've Ever Watched. I'm Sad It's Over.

2023-09-24T10:00:00+07:00

The day when the Saigoneer team organized a little get-together to watch Bến Phà Xác Sống in the cinema, I was running seriously late.

During the extended holiday to celebrate our national Independence Day, there were nary a soul on the Saigon streets, so my trusty motorbike and I were flying down the road at a concerning speed. As I zipped past bridges, swaying trees and cozy families on scooters along the Võ Văn Kiệt Boulevard, a solemn voice echoed in my mind: “What are you doing, speeding like that? What if something happens? Is Bến Phà Xác Sống worth losing a life over?”

That could have been the sobering whispers of my conscience or an apparition of St. Genesius — the patron saint of actors, plays, and cinema — himself centering me in a moment of reckless impulsivity. Enlightened, I took a deep breath, slowed my gear to a languid pace, and muttered a thank you to Bến Phà Xác Sống for reminding me of the sanctity of life. Very few films in the history of mankind are really worth dying for, and this bottom-rung zombie-themed schmaltz fest, even less so.

Huỳnh Đông reprises his role as bargain-bin Liam Neeson to spend more time finding his lost daughter in Bến Phà Xác Sống.

Exactly a year ago, Cù Lao Xác Sống, touted as Vietnam’s first-ever zombie flick, hit national theaters during the holiday weekend to universal ridicule from all corners of the internet. It was a subpar movie on nearly every facet of film-making, but magically managed to strike so delicate a balance between cringe and camp in an it’s-so-bad-it’s-good way that it made an ardent fan out of me. I, proudly, am a Cù Lao Xác Sống stan; read my review of the movie here. When it was announced in August this year that the oft-mocked but inevitable sequel Bến Phà Xác Sống would premiere soon, I began counting down to the day I can finally wallow in its glorious cinematic filth like a pig in mud, and write this review.

It’s bến phà time, bitches.

Me fighting off people who hate on Cù Lao Xác Sống.

Previously on The Real Housezombies of Mekong: A mysterious epidemic breaks out in the Mekong Delta, turning victims into comically impotent zombies who only bite when it’s narratively significant. Traditional medicine practitioner Công ‘bargain-bin Liam Neeson’ (Huỳnh Đông) loses his daughter, finds her, and loses her again to climactic betrayal by mother-on-a-mission Diễm (Ốc Thanh Vân). A pregnant character gives birth at the worst moment. A grandmother sacrifices herself to save her newborn grandchild by using the power of cải lương to distract a horde of zombies.

Maybe the real zombies are the friends we make along the way

Even though Bến Phà Xác Sống might be marketed as a sequel, it’s not a standalone addition to Cù Lao Xác Sống; rather, they are two halves of the same story, screened a year apart. Having seen both parts of the duology, I would argue it doesn’t really matter if you’ve watched Cù Lao, because is anyone really in this for intelligent playwriting and nuanced character portrayal?

The movie doesn't have enough bến phà to warrant it being in the title.

The sequel name, meaning The Ferry Port Zombies, is a formulaic repetition of the first part, but I was cautiously intrigued upon learning of its title. Traditionally, thriller movies where characters are confined to a small space tend to bring out heightened levels of horror, in the case of Snakes on a Plane or Train to Busan. Plopping our beloved Cù Lao characters on a floating Mekong ferry to fend off vicious zombies with nowhere to hide might yield some thrilling action sequences.

Alas, Bến Phà Xác Sống turns out to be a misleading title because the ferry and port take up very little of the movie’s running time. It’s like naming Spirited Away “The Amusement Park Pigs.” Our band of survivors are dying to get to the ferry port to escape the zombies. Oops, it’s overrun with zombies! Let’s go somewhere else instead. The entire faceoff happens in 10 minutes. Despite an army of hungry zombies cornering the group, everybody escapes unscathed thanks to a suspiciously well-timed save by other members.

Much of Bến Phà can be boiled down to this: a character gets lost, others drop everything to search for them, zombies attack, everybody is saved thanks to a last-minute appearance of somebody else. Rinse and repeat. There is very little time spent on developing this staggeringly crowded cast of characters and minimal effort expended to connect supporting roles to the main story, so I struggle to care if anyone survives. Considering their military-grade plot armor, at times I find myself actively rooting for their demise.

Diễm (Ốc Thanh Vân) begs Liam Neeson to save her daughter, but he turns the other way.

Luckily, outside the mind-numbing tedium of watching bland characters survive again and again, the sequel provides some much-needed explanation into the backstory of why Diễm kidnapped Liam Neeson’s daughter. As it turns out, the girls were in the same classroom when the zombies swamped the school. Diễm begged him to save her daughter, but Liam actually saw that the child was already bitten, so he just saved his daughter and fled. Angered by his alleged heartlessness, she captured her zombie daughter, kept her on a leash like a rabid pet corgi, and started planning her revenge against Liam Neeson by snaring his daughter, and preparing to feed the poor girl to her mad-dog daughter.

This culminates in a “torture porn” sequence set inside an abandoned abattoir that could have been nerve-wracking — or titillating, depending on who you are, no judgement here — had it not been so unintentionally hilarious. Diễm ties Liam Neeson up on a pig hook and smacks him while unleashing her virulent devil-spawn on his daughter, making him watch. This takes place after she spends five minutes giving a Villain’s Motivation and Backstory^TM speech while restraining the zombie daughter behind her back, as casually as holding a basket of harmless vegetables. The zombie girl never makes an attempt to bite Diễm throughout the exchange, and obediently, but rather non-threateningly, crawls towards Liam Neeson’s daughter. Of course, both parent and child are saved in the end by grandpa’s arrival at the 89^th minute.

Better in quality but less fun to watch

After Cù Lao Xác Sống hit national theaters last year, the film crew became the target of a considerable amount of criticism, both of the constructive kind and the mean-spirited kind, so the film production went into the making of Bến Phà vowing to address many areas of the feedback. Bến Phà, objectively speaking, showcases noticeable improvements in some aspects, such as sharper cinematography and tighter editing that could successfully build suspense in some scenes. The introduction of a villain lends some weight to the narrative and allows the actors some room to display their skills. The overall pacing of the movie is more consistent, as much of the offbeat humor and bizarreness that characterizes Cù Lao is absent, replaced by melodrama and attempts at action sequences.

These people all have names but no personalities.

This tonal shift, understandably, was employed in hopes of appeasing criticisms, but, at the end of the day, made Bến Phà much less enjoyable to watch. The storytelling stays steadfastly illogical and disorganized throughout both parts of the duology, so no amount of earnest melodrama could really save this sinking ferry. Still, even with a scatterbrained script, what contributed to the magic of Cù Lao was the high-wattage cringe at every beat, putting characters and zombies in situations so ridiculous they are endlessly entertaining: a full-throated cải lương session in the middle of a zombie outbreak, a flirtatious heart-to-heart at night while zombies are “sleeping” right outside.

Bến Phà is decidedly more joyless because of this reduction in campiness. I mourn the future I envisioned in my head where Cù Lao and Bến Phà would become the must-watch B-movie double feature of the 2020s, earning a cult following and yearly rewatch parties. Had the production team decided to send a big F-word to naysayers and leaned hard into the cringe, I think we could have in our hands something wacky and wonderful — for instance, giving cải lương the divine power to cleanse the zombie disease, or revealing that this whole world was a simulation à la Black Mirror.

Going out in style

Sitting through the first two-thirds of Bến Phà Xác Sống, I experienced a sense of dejection that often comes with meeting an old friend again just to see that they’ve changed for the worse. It used to be so bad it’s good, now, it’s just bad. I had resigned to my fate by the time the ending unraveled itself: the group finally manages to flee to a fishing boat, away from the claws of the zombies. Diễm and Liam Neeson face off; she threatens to turn his daughter, but he offers to trade space with the girl instead. Just when the zombie daughter is about to make the bite, she nuzzles into his hand — oh snap! Liam Neeson is infected due to a wound from a fight 10 minutes prior. Bến Phà Xác Sống decides to slice into this razor-sharp emotional tension with none other than a… music video. I howled with laughter right in the middle of the theater. Praise be to whoever edited this sequence! This is the juicy, over-the-top, breathtakingly cloying cringe content I came to this goddamn empty cineplex for! The musical montage shows the happy memories of Liam Neeson and his daughter before the pandemic, set to the tune of ‘Bàn Tay Của Cha’ performed by Hiền Thục.

A music video montage? Yes, please.

The music peters out and Liam, cradling a wailing daughter in his arms, begins to mutter a sentimental goodbye. If one can put aside the fact that this ending was lifted wholesale from Train to Busan, the emotional gravitas of this supposedly solemn moment is comically ruined by the fact that Liam can’t sob out five words without a dramatic “I’m turning into a zombie” facial spasm. He falls into the river and the credits start rolling, leaving viewers confused about the fate of the rest of the survivors, and that one tweenage zombie. Unfortunately, this may be the last we’ll see of this cast as it was confirmed that there’s no third movie.

The Xác Sống two-parter’s existence is emblematic of the state of the domestic film industry right at this moment: young, outward-looking, and eager to experiment with new ideas, but remains perpetually hampered by a lack of good scripts. It might not leave behind a respectable legacy, but it was side-splittingly entertaining while it lasted, serving as a vivid reminder that finding levity in a dire situation is key to survival, be it during a zombie apocalypse or a screening of the world’s worst zombie feature.

Review: ‘Bên Trong Vỏ Kén Vàng’ Is a Soul-Searching Mission in the Lâm Đồng Mist

2023-08-14T12:00:00+07:00

On the pastures of slow cinema where Andrei Tarkovsky, Tsai Ming-liang and Theo Angelopoulos reside, Phạm Thiên Ân's debut feature, Bên Trong Vỏ Kén Vàng (Inside the Yellow Cocoon Shell), has made its mark as a notable entry for its distinctly Vietnamese vistas, tones and essence.

To see myself crying while watching Bên Trong Vỏ Kén Vàng — which Ân is credited as director, writer and editor — is something I never thought was possible. When the film's lead, Thiện (Lê Phong Vũ), indulges an elderly woman (NSƯT Phi Điểu) in a chat about presence and reincarnation, all I could do was let the tears run. Maybe it was because of Madame Điểu's delivery, a perfect balance between impassioned and dignified that convinced me that everything is more reality than senility. Maybe it was because she echoed my late bà ngoại's belief that a person's return to this harsh plane after they have exited it, should that happen, could be a chance to save others from hardship.

Inside the Yellow Cocoon Shell is an expansion of Phạm Thiên Ân's previous award-winning short.

In a way, the newest Caméra d'Or winner Bên Trong Vỏ Kén Vàng is a return. The expansion of the 2019 short film Ân made, 14-minute Hãy Tỉnh Thức Và Sẵn Sàng (Stay Awake, Be Ready) won an award at Cannes as well. Yet, in the Bảo Lộc native's second and lengthier exploration of his world, more details are available. This version of the motorbike crash now specifies who has died, Thiện's sister-in-law Hạnh, and who has survived, Hạnh's young son Đạo (Nguyễn Thịnh). This version now has a proper central perspective, introduced in a tragicomic manner embedded in so many of life's designs — Thiện has to stop his massage session short of its “happy ending” because of the call about the accident.

Phạm Thiên Ân (middle) is a Bảo Lộc native, so he decided to base the story in his home province.

I must admit, explaining this film is not easy. Attempts to simplify and provide clarity can also be means to reduce and demystify it. There's a flow, simultaneously factly and divine, across all these following points, but I have to break it up so it might make sense: Thiện's journey from Saigon to Lâm Đồng Province to return Hạnh's ashes prompts him to relive matters that can make, or even have made, him somewhat aimless and reserved. He finds himself in an environment where faith is strong and the people's investment in it is unwavering. He again sees his girlfriend, Thảo (Nguyễn Thị Trúc Quỳnh), but in the robes of a nun. He also finds out where his brother, Đạo's father, is located.

It's best to enter Bên Trong Vỏ Kén Vàng equipped with the connotations behind the transformation a cocoon undergoes, as well as Ân's implication behind the imagery; he told French newspaper RFI in Vietnamese that the pupa within is “similar to a person's soul.” This is because Ân has really focused on the searching aspect of Thiện's soul-searching. This, in turn, validates how the endpoints of plot threads can be absent or undefinable. It even embeds time's immunity to manipulation to the runtime. Through Ân's vision, I get to see that, while Thiện and Đạo are the film's emotional hooks and the setting's enlargers, its anchor is in the navigating of concepts that humans have understood or have yet to. Perhaps that would explain why when Đạo asks Thiện where his mother is now, Đinh Duy Hưng's camera doesn't focus on nephew and uncle but instead the luminous hands of the alarm clock.

Thiện (Lê Phong Vũ) embarks on a journey to deliver his sister-in-law's ashes from Saigon to Lâm Đồng.

Speaking of the camera, I'm of the opinion that it also does more than its brethren in more conventional films. It doesn't just observe, but also gathers life. Per foreign critics and previews abroad, Bên Trong Vỏ Kén Vàng is an Eden of long takes, some featuring the most delicate tracks or pans as if they are imitating the winds of Vietnam's ethereal highlands. But even if the camera prefers to be stationary, it understands that dynamism and energy still exist through other bystanders, sounds and naturalism. Hưng's cinematography seems to be capturing existence as opposed to scenes.

Consequently, it feels apt to call everything that makes up Bên Trong Vỏ Kén Vàng — from technical aspects to its narrative themes — as “vessels” more than “components,” as they seem so willing to become secondary to grander, yet-established concepts. This seems to correspond better with the film's vision and an awareness of a higher power that, the closer to the end of the 182 minutes, I stop rationalizing and just accept. It's not that I have given up, but instead, I'm listening to the film. It seems to be advising me to be humbled by greater forces, named and unnamed or seen and unseen.

Catholic paraphernalia is often spotted in the movie, even though Yellow Cocoon focuses more on spirituality and faith than religion.

Does this necessarily make the film religious in design? Not necessarily, even when figures of Mary, Jesus and crosses are prevalent. In a memorable shot that might also be a nod to Tarkovsky's also nature-rich Solaris, a son of God figurine, submerged, is seen resting beneath brushing grass blades. There's also the feeling that, despite heavenly presences on walls at ceremonies, on shelves, above doors and the like, none of our characters has an overt or devoted connection to them.

This “giving in” nature also allows the illusory to cohabit and gain prominence. In one stunning sequence that epitomizes Bên Trong Vỏ Kén Vàng's dedication to aural excellence, Thiện rouses himself from sleep and wanders around under the heavy rain and darkness. Is this still Lâm Đồng, or a drenched purgatory? A camera that normally stays or trails now moves as if sentient. Is it as confused and exhausted as Thiện? Then comes respite, assuming the form of a tree with white butterflies as its leaves and flowers. Is this a variant of the unburnt bush that Moses comes across? The film doesn't answer this, it just moves on.

Bên Trong Vỏ Kén Vàng might not appeal to casual viewers due to its long running time and slow pace.

Bên Trong Vỏ Kén Vàng will alienate viewers because of its respectful ambiguity. They might wonder why Ân seems to adore the bumps and sounds along the road that surround Thiện's Honda Astrea more than the ride's point or resolution. They might register the elderly lady's words as, as Thiện was warned, elderly speak. I can't fault them for these interpretations, as the film does not ease itself into the deeper matters that the footage truly represents. Unlike the also lengthy Japanese Oscar winner Drive My Car, that also deals with deciphering one's place in life, everything in Yellow Cocoon, but especially its characterization, starts out as deep and naturally contemplative. In his performance as Thiện, I feel that Vũ shifts between uncertain and passive, as if it's the result of him being ever-prepared for the moment the camera and narrative focus on something else besides him. But when I pick up on the idea that Thiện is meant to be an avatar of Ân, Vũ's acting makes sense. As mentioned earlier, Thiện has been on a search, and not once has life stopped to confirm, deny, explain or guide him after he has gained or lost a thing. With that in mind, what gets portrayed is more human being than dramatic character.

Overall, Bên Trong Vỏ Kén Vàng gives me more confidence to interpret the gray that characterizes life. I hope its appreciators will feel the same, even if they might be hard to find. Aside from being a captivating and heartfelt experience, the film allows me to feel fine to never know where a stream starts and ends; I can just lie in it, with both ears underwater — just like Thiện — and know that there is a flow. Sometimes it's enough, the ability to view much of the world free from absolutes, from what one “do know” and “don't know.” Seeing as reality has yet to open itself to this notion, could this be the hardship my bà ngoại was referring to? If I do return, let me be your hero and break you out of the limitations that are cocooning you.

Bên Trong Vỏ Kén Vàng hits theaters in Vietnam starting from August 11.

Cannes Caméra D'or Winner 'Inside the Yellow Cocoon Shell' to Hit Vietnam Theaters in August

2023-07-13T15:00:00+07:00

Following its win at the latest Cannes Film Festival, Bên Trong Vỏ Kén Vàng (Inside the Yellow Cocoon Shell) will officially premiere in theaters across Vietnam next month.

Bên Trong Vỏ Kén Vàng is a feature film by Vietnamese director Phạm Thiên Ân. The movie had its world premiere at the 76^th Cannes International Film Festival back in May and went on to clinch the Caméra D'or (Golden Camera) award, 30 years after Trần Anh Hùng received the same award for The Scent of Green Papaya.

According to a press release from JKFilm, the movie’s production company, Bên Trong Vỏ Kén Vàng will have its national release in Vietnam on August 11. The story chronicles the journey of Thiện (Lê Phong Vũ) to return the body of his sister-in-law and her young son Đạo back to her hometown in Lâm Đồng after she passed away due to a traffic accident.

“Amid the enigmatic landscapes of Vietnam’s highlands, the specters from his past and his youth with his family gradually catch up with Thiện, prompting him to profoundly question his own faith,” the movie description reads. “Leaving the city behind to come back to an environment surrounded by deep forests and lingering mist, Thiện also plunges deeper into the labyrinth of dream and reality, struggling with his own existential crisis about what makes life worth living.”

The majority of Cocoon Shell was filmed in Lâm Đồng, Phạm Thiên Ân's own hometown. The mystifying hilly scenery of the mountainous land lends a contemplative, isolationist mood to the movie’s languid pace.

Phạm Thiên Ân was born in 1989. He graduated from Hoa Sen University, majoring in Information Technology, but decided to pursue his passion in filmmaking. Ân’s talent for the craft won him the second prize at the 48 Hour Film Project in 2014. Hãy thức tỉnh và sẵn sàng (Stay Awake, Be Ready), Ân’s 2019 short, was given the Illy Short Film Award in the Cannes Director's Fortnight section.

Watch Inside the Yellow Cocoon Shell’s trailer below:

[Images courtesy of STORII]

A (Non-Exhaustive) Ranking of 10 Vietnamese Queer Movies in History

2023-07-11T16:00:00+07:00

How would you define a “queer” film?

This question keeps echoing in my mind the whole time I spent working on this feature. The simplest approach is perhaps to look for films featuring LGBT characters, but one would discover quickly through watching that, just like in real life, movie characters often don’t put a label on their sexuality. At times, there are no heartfelt coming-out announcements, convenient Tinder sexuality toggle, or in-universe verbal confirmations.

There’s also one major problem with just blindly looking for queer characters in film: just because there are LGBT parts in a production, it doesn’t mean that the story is theirs to tell. Queer characters are not rare in Vietnamese media projects, from television dramas to stage skits, for the last three decades, but they more often than not occupy the jester role for comedic effects through crude physical comedy or gender-based raunchy jokes. Just queer presence is not enough; for me, a queer film must depict meaningful queer presence not tethered to the function of merely embellishing straight narratives.

In my rabbit hole of research on the definition of queer films, I stumbled upon a succinct nugget of wisdom from Helen Wright, the coordinator and co-founder of the Scottish Queer International Film Festival. When asked the same question above, Wright answered: “For me, a film is queer if it somehow counters or challenges heterosexuality. That could be through representing LGBTQ+ characters or it could be through a stylistic approach which is somehow queer or which counters hetero-film aesthetics.”

The queer films featured in this ranking certainly do not comprise all LGBT-themed productions from Vietnam, but they are some of the most prominent pieces of queer media out there in local popular culture. They are selected because they feature at least one queer-presenting lead character in a non-tokenistic way that either challenges heterosexual norms or celebrates queerness, or both! Some productions with standout queer parts like the gay fathers of Ngôi Nhà Bươm Bướm (Butterfly House, 2019) or the trans character in Đập Cánh Giữa Không Trung (Flapping in the Middle of Nowhere, 2015) are not included as they are not main characters.

10. Cầu Vồng Không Sắc (Rainbow Without Colors, 2015) | Director: Nguyễn Quang Tuyến

On paper, Cầu Vồng Không Sắc might sound like a much-needed addition to the canon of queer films in Vietnam: a solemn, somewhat grisly dramatic feature that serves as a cautionary tale for parents of homosexual children against rejecting them for who they are. Its overarching message of “homosexuality is not a disease” is appropriate for the time, but how this message was delivered left a bad taste in my mouth after watching. The two lead characters, both gay males, grew up together and fell in love to the chagrin of their parents. Tragedy strikes and the couple is fatally separated forever, driving the surviving half to insanity.

Even though the production deserves some credit for its attempt to build two conventional gay leads freed of stereotypical flamboyance, Cầu Vồng Không Sắc doesn’t actually treat them like real people. Outside their romantic connection, we know nothing about them. Their quirks, hopes, drives, motivations, and personalities are non-existent. For a film that was trying to destigmatize gayness, it only managed to accomplish the opposite — proving that gay people are only defined by their sexuality. The natural landscapes of Đà Lạt are nice to look at, but the cinematography indulges too much in music video techniques and an odd horror movie overtone. All in all, Cầu Vồng Không Sắc has a valid message, but delivered it in the most melodramatic, preachy, and contrived way possible.

Treatment of queer characters: Like soulless stick figures in an STD brochure. [1/10]
Overall quality: A bolero karaoke music video that won’t end. [2.5/10]
Cringe-o-meter: Over-the-top gay frolicking on fields of flowers to a pop-music soundtrack. [8/10]

9. Trai Nhảy (Gigolo, 2007) | Director: Lê Hoàng

The early 2000s marked the first time film productions in Vietnam could enjoy commercial releases, the earliest of which was Gái Nhảy (Bar Girls, 2003), written and directed by Lê Hoàng and released to unprecedented public interest. Following the box office success of his trilogy on Vietnam’s sordid nightlife, Hoàng put forth Trai Nhảy in 2007, a foray into… Vietnam’s sordid nightlife, just told via the lens of male sex workers.

Trai Nhảy chronicles the life of Tuấn (Ngọc Thuận), a straight street masseur whose quest for social mobility pushes him into the male companionship trade and the arms of cougars and Tony (Đức Hải), a gay, wealthy Việt Kiều. Lê Hoàng’s talent for scriptwriting is undeniable, as he managed to weave together taboo topics and humor into a compelling story that’s both enthralling and emotionally charged. Trai Nhảy’s queer representation, however, is obsolete at best and downright damaging at worst. Tony is predatory and touches Tuấn non-consensually while the latter was drunk. Towards the end, he also revealed a trip to carry out gender reassignment surgery in Thailand, a decision he made because he believes deep down gay men are women. Of course, to be fair, there’s a chance that Tony might be a pre-op trans woman experiencing gender dysphoria, but the film never makes any allusion to this possibility, so I’m inclined to believe that this is just garden-variety ignorance on Lê Hoàng’s part.

During an era when racy shock factors were the main draw for movie-goers, Trai Nhảy might have successfully lured in curious voyeurs eager to peep at Vietnam’s supposedly hidden corners, but it did little to promote public understanding and sympathy for queer Vietnamese.

Treatment of queer characters: As dated as using “bê đê” as an insult. [3/10]
Overall quality: Well-written script with a vibrant support cast and arresting score. [6/10]
Cringe-o-meter: Major misinformations regarding homosexuality and transgenderism. [6/10]

8. Lạc Giới (Paradise in Heart, 2014) | Director: Phi Tiến Sơn

As the only contender in the list featuring a canonically bisexual character, Lạc Giới is a hodgepodge of melodramatic shenanigans that could pass for a Mexican telenovela: a runaway inmate, high-speed chases, a bisexual love triangle, medical miracles, sensual seduction, and a herd of goats. Trung (Trung Dũng), a convict on the way to prison, escapes the police by seeking shelter in a goat ranch run by no-nonsense but sultry nurse Kim (Mai Thu Huyền). The desolate ranch in the Ninh Thuận countryside is owned by a faceless Việt Kiều man, who established the homestead as a safehouse-cum-sanitarium for his ill gay son Hải (Bình An) and hired Kim to take care of the place and Hải. Trung seduces Kim while also developing feelings for Hải. Scandal!

Lạc Giới is riddled with so many bizarre goat metaphors and illogical plot holes that Trung’s convoluted romantic dalliances seem vanilla in comparison. It does deserve credit for normalizing the queer relationship as Trung and Hải’s gay connection is never met with ridicule or bigotry by in-universe characters. Overall, the film’s tone, writing and storyline seem more fitting as an episode of the 2000s television soap Cảnh Sát Hình Sự rather than on the big screen.

Treatment of queer characters: Somewhat cloying but the normalization is welcome. [7/10]
Overall quality: Direct-to-video. [4/10]
Cringe-o-meter: Odd metaphors and imagery all around. [6/10]

7. Sài Gòn, Anh Yêu Em (Saigon, I Love You, 2016) | Director: Lý Minh Thắng

Borrowing from the format of anthology films like New York, I Love You and Paris, je t’aime, Sài Gòn, Anh Yêu Em sets out to tell an overarching story involving five pairs of interconnected characters living in Saigon, each with their own mini-narrative. It’s quite a win for queer representation that three out of the ten main leads are gay men. In one of the five segments, Đức (Brian Trần) returns to Saigon, years after being adopted into an American family, in search of his biological father. He met and formed a connection with Khánh (Cường Đinh), a bar proprietor. Another segment features Mỹ Mỹ (Huỳnh Lập), a gay man working in event planning, who lives with his mother Mỹ Tuyền (Phi Phụng) in their home salon.

Huỳnh Lập’s segment serves as the anthology’s comedic relief, though luckily not at the expense of his sexuality. The mother-son relationship has great chemistry, allowing them to nail both humorous and heartfelt sequences with aplomb. Đức and Khánh are pretty to look at but mind-numbingly boring with no chemistry and lackluster acting. Perhaps it’s a sign of progress that gay storylines today can just be dull instead of tragic, flamboyantly comedic, or an impassioned act of activism. With the exception of the mother-son pair and the cải lương-centric segment, the remaining three range from mediocre to downright unwatchable. In a nutshell, Sài Gòn, Anh Yêu Em has some good moments and decent queer representation, but is ultimately as meaningful a tribute to Saigon as an iPhở T-shirt.

Treatment of queer characters: On equal footing with the rest of the cast. [7/10]
Overall quality: Excellent set design and filming, but clichéd plot. [5/10]
Cringe-o-meter: The discrepancy between stage veterans and celebrity first-time actors could give you whiplash. [5/10]

6. Mỹ Nhân Kế (The Lady Assassin, 2013) | Director: Nguyễn Quang Dũng

In a world of boring routines and beige interactions, we have to be grateful for camp. It’s the core element behind why Eurovision, RuPaul’s Drag Race, and Mỹ Nhân Kế are so successful. Mỹ Nhân Kế is set in Đại Việt-era Vietnam and tells a fictionalized story of a band of female assassins who run an inn as a front for their criminal operation: fighting thugs and corrupted officials, killing them, and stealing their valuables. The gang leader is Kiều Thị (Thanh Hằng) who recruits other downtrodden damsels into her “family” and teaches them martial arts and sepak takraw(!?). They are also color-coded and fight using a wicker ball attached to a long string — think Sailor Moon-meets-wuxia-meets-ancient Vietnam.

Kiều Thị’s tightly run ship is rocked by the arrival of the mysterious Linh Lan (Tăng Thanh Hà), a seemingly harmless aristocratic noblewoman who was kidnapped by a band of thieves. She’s inducted into the group and develops an intimate connection with Kiều Thị. The sexual orientation of the two is never confirmed, but the homoerotic undertone is palpable and it was heavily implied that Kiều Thị had a female lover who had left the group. The murderous bed-and-breakfast is based on a gorgeous oceanside lot in Cam Ranh, Khánh Hòa, so the sparkling central Vietnam sea is featured extensively, though at times, the film seems more like a stage play due to the single location setting. Still, Mỹ Nhân Kế is thoroughly entertaining because it’s so ridiculously campy! The sepak takraw balls are not just weapons, our girls employ them in every aspect of their life, from cleaning a table with flair to playing beach wicker ball. Fight scenes are surprisingly well-choreographed, and the female characters are nicely fleshed out, despite some technical shortcomings.

Treatment of queer characters: Woman-loving-woman girl boss FTW. [7.5/10]
Overall quality: A lot of fun, though the last fight is way too long. [6.5/10]
Cringe-o-meter: Some wooden acting but overall acceptable. [2/10]

5. Yêu (Love, 2015) | Director: Việt Max

In his directorial debut, Việt Max chose to adapt the Thai LGBT classic The Love of Siam for the Vietnamese audience, albeit with a female couple instead. Even though this was also the first time Chi Pu and Gil Lê were given lead roles, they delivered commendable performances as childhood friends-turned-romantic partners with an air of first-love innocence that feels fresh and heart-warming. Lesbian couples are a rare species even in the cinema landscape now, so to have a full-length woman-loving-woman story done with such care and sensibility is a treat.

The plot, nonetheless, shows the movie’s age when it comes to Vietnam’s perception of gay people. In one scene, Nhi (Chi Pu) tries to reject her ex-boyfriend Hoàng (Bê Trần) by openly admitting that she has feelings for Tú (Gil Lê). Unbeknownst to her, a catty classmate has recorded the entire interaction and uploaded it on Facebook, effectively outing Nhi to the entire university cohort. The next day, Nhi becomes the target of much virtuous pearl-clutching and malicious gossip on campus — this would never happen in today’s Vietnam, especially not in the college setting amongst Gen Z. All told, Yêu is an instant queer classic that offers feel-good warmth, decent acting, and relatable characters who are easy to root for.

Treatment of queer characters: As sweet and pure as a childhood pouch of frozen yogurt. [8/10]
Overall quality: A complete story with distinct cinematic language and well-crafted narrative, even though the plot is not too inventive. [7/10]
Cringe-o-meter: A few supporting characters have stiff acting, but luckily they are too minor to matter. [1/10]

4. Lô Tô (2017) | Director: Huỳnh Tuấn Anh

Lô Tô is a fictional adaptation of the award-winning documentary Madam Phụng’s Last Journey by Nguyễn Thị Thắm. While its predecessor is widely consider an instant classic in the admittedly limited pantheon of Vietnamese LGBT media, Lô Tô is a surprisingly solid addition in its own right thanks to the powerhouse performance of Hữu Châu and other supporting cast members. Châu plays Lệ Liễu, the leader of a nomadic troupe of lô tô performers traveling across the Mekong Delta to set up bingo game nights and other festival attractions. All of the performers are trans women, each with their own personality and demeanor, though united by their outcast status in society.

Even though there’s an undercurrent of tragic misfortune throughout the troupe’s story, every trans character is wonderfully written and acted. They’re incredibly humorous, contemplative, and kind despite their circumstances. It’s a joy to watch the banter between the characters and a chilling experience to witness the craftsmanship behind Hữu Châu’s depiction of Lệ Liễu. The two straight characters, while having specific functions to bolster the story of Lệ Liễu, are underwhelming amid the fantastic queer cast. Even though it’s literally in the name, the movie is stingy when it comes to displays of actual lô tô calls and performances, a major missed opportunity.

Treatment of queer characters: Complex and nuanced with so much humanity to give. [8/10]
Overall quality: It manages to hold its own compared to the source material thanks to sublime acting and a charming cast. [7/10]
Cringe-o-meter: The (almost) rape scene is redundant and detracts from the main story. [4/10]

3. Hot Boy Nổi Loạn (Lost in Paradise, 2011) | Director: Vũ Ngọc Đãng

Hot Boy Nổi Loạn is a bit of an odd addition to the timeline of Vietnamese cinema due to its non-traditional structure: there are two storylines shown in tandem, but the characters of the two do not interact or relate to one another, even though they share similar themes. The queer narrative revolves around the murky lives of Saigon’s gay sex workers through the lives of Lam (Lương Mạnh Hải) and Đông (Linh Sơn). On his first day in Saigon, Mekong Delta native Khôi (Hồ Vĩnh Khoa) falls victim to the pair’s trickery and loses all his money. The rest of the story explores the convoluted dynamic between the three.

Bleak is probably the overarching tone that Vũ Ngọc Đãng employed to depict queer characters in Hot Boy Nổi Loạn. Khôi escapes his hometown due to his parents not accepting his sexuality, and has to resort to menial jobs in Saigon to survive, sleeping in squalid group homes and bathing in public bathhouses. Lam picks up johns on the street, lures them to remote fields to rob them at knifepoint, and suffers from the fatal consequences of his crimes. Đông is a manipulative, abusive red flag with abs. Gay sex workers and homosexuality are depicted in a straightforward manner with neither shame nor praise, albeit not with pride either. At the end of the day, Hot Boy Nổi Loạn isn’t here to wave the rainbow flag or tiptoe around taboo subjects, its aim is to delve into diverse and real aspects of the queer experience in Saigon, even if sometimes those are as murky as Saigon River water.

Treatment of queer characters: Like a tear-streaked, cum-stained heavy sigh. [7.5/10]
Overall quality: Major nostalgic values and much arthouse sensibilities. [8/10]
Cringe-o-meter: Lam has a tad too many pseudo-philosophical lines with cringy delivery. [3/10]

2. Song Lang (2018) | Director: Leon Lê

When Song Lang first came out, debates broke out on local social media regarding the nature of the relationship between the two leads and whether they portray a same-sex couple. Dũng (Liên Bỉnh Phát) is a loan shark’s brutish collector who goes about town antagonizing borrowers into repaying. Once, during a trip to vandalize a victim’s cải lương theater, Dũng encounters Linh Phụng (Isaac), a cải lương performer with a daredevil streak who stands up to Dũng’s intimidation. The two become friends after Dũng defends Phụng from drunk diners, bonding over their love of NES games and shared childhood traumas.

Song Lang has perhaps this list’s subtlest queer representation, in that the main male characters are not in a relationship, do not share physical affections, and never mention their sexual orientation at all. In Song Lang, intimacy is built up through heartfelt conversations, creative resonance, and just the pure desire to be good for the other person. Those seeking out Song Lang in hopes of watching LGBT fan service on screen will be disappointed, but the film’s queerness is honestly the least impressive aspect of it. Song Lang was the most stylish film to hit local theaters in the 2010s, presenting a meticulous, nearly dioramatic depiction of 1980s Saigon, down to every movie poster, VHS tape, and tablecloth. The cải lương excerpts featured are not only a treat to watch, but also foreshadowing devices that run parallel to the main narrative.

Treatment of queer characters: If only Song Lang spent just a bit more running time to explore the attraction between the leads more. [8/10]
Overall quality: Gorgeously shot and elegantly styled. [9/10]
Cringe-o-meter: [0/10]

1. Thưa Mẹ Con Đi (Goodbye Mother, 2019) | Director: Trịnh Đình Lê Minh

Is there any surprise that Thưa Mẹ Con Đi is at the top of this ranking? It’s the most recent entry in the list and also one that demonstrates the most nuanced, authentic, and open-minded treatment of queer characters, in addition to superb cinematic sensibilities and stellar acting performances. We’ve come a long way since Trai Nhảy in 2007, and Thưa Mẹ Con Đi’s existence shows that the industry is on an optimistic upward trajectory when it comes to LGBT-themed films.

The movie revolves around the big family of Văn (Lãnh Thanh) with Paris by Night veteran Hồng Đào as Hạnh, the matriarch and Văn’s mother. After studying in the US, Văn takes Ian (Võ Điền Gia Huy), his Vietnamese American partner back to the homeland to visit as the couple tries to navigate how to come out to the family and convoluted domestic politics. The script deftly juggles many issues plaguing contemporary gay Vietnamese like coming out, expectation to continue the bloodline, gay bashing, and lack of privacy in big households. Văn and Ian’s relationship and personalities are well-fleshed out and believable. At its core, Thưa Mẹ Con Đi is both a queer story and a family story, and what lends it authenticity is how it recognizes that in Vietnam, freed of the religious bigotry and legislation that often haunts other nations, queer acceptance is intertwined with the family.

The only saddening aspect about Thưa Mẹ Con Đi is how it underperformed in the box office, despite positive reception from both viewers and critics. Is the Vietnamese public still averse to explicitly LGBT media products or was this a marketing blunder? No matter what the underlying reason is, the lack of commercial viability might pose major hurdles to the growth of LGBT films in the future.

Treatment of queer characters: With complexity, humor, and warmth. [10/10]
Overall quality: Pitch-perfect performances from the supporting cast of veteran actors, an emotive score, and a deeply resonant script. [9/10]
Cringe-o-meter: An on-screen depiction of gay bashing might be triggering for some. [1/10]

Filmmakers Trần Anh Hùng, Phạm Thiên Ân Win Awards at Cannes Film Festival

2023-05-31T08:00:00+07:00

At the 76^th Cannes International Film Festival, Phạm Thiên Ân's Bên trong vỏ kén vàng (Inside the Yellow Cocoon Shell) was awarded the Camera D'or while Vietnamese-born French filmmaker Trần Anh Hùng won the best director prize for The Pot-au-Feu.

After receiving standing ovations when shown as part of the festival's Directors’ Fortnight category, Bên trong vỏ kén vàng received the Camera D'or (Golden Camera) which is given to the best first feature film. The only Vietnamese-language movie at the festival this year, it tells the story of Thiện and his journey to bring the body of his sister-in-law to her rural highland hometown after an accident in Saigon.

The director explained to Dân Việt that the film is an exploration of the differences in daily life and rhythms between the city and Lâm Đồng as well as a rumination on one's search for purpose in life.

"'Inside the Yellow Cocoon Shell,' is a spellbinding tale of the soul’s unfathomable desire for the other-worldly, that does itself border on transcendental in its filmmaking and gradual blurring of apparent truth and suggested fantasy," noted film critic Josh Slater-Williams in a praise-filled review for IndieWire last week. While critics have emphasized that the three-hour film will most appeal to art house enthusiasts, its cinematography and probing questions were widely praised.

in 2019, Phạm Thiên Ân was awarded Canne's Illy Short Film Prize for the 14-minute Hãy Tỉnh Thức và Sẵn Sàng (Stay Awake, Be Ready). Born in 1989 and raised in Vietnam, he moved to Texas recently with his family to continue making films.

Meanwhile, the festival last week was also a triumph for Trần Anh Hùng, best known for his 1993 film The Scent of the Green Papaya which won the Camera D'orthirty years ago. Set in 19^th-century France, The Pot-au-Feu lovingly obsesses over foodie culture, including an unprecedented 40-minute cooking scene. It is loosely based on Marcel Rouffe’s 1924 novel The Passionate Epicure.

"This film is my declaration of love to the French, to the French’s spirit which is so magnificent," Trần Anh Hùng said during the film's premiere on Wednesday. The 60-year-old filmmaker, who moved to France at the age of 14, noted in a recent interview with Variety that he "would love to make a film in Vietnam with an entirely feminine cast."

There is no word on if or when either film will be available for screening in Vietnam.

[Top photo via BBC]

Review: Wow! This Brochure for Vietnam Tourism Has a Plot and a Romance.

2023-05-11T14:00:00+07:00

I was prepared to hate A Tourist’s Guide to Love on sight. As a movie setting, Vietnam has been burned by foreign productions one too many times, so I often find myself dry-heaving whenever any international project announces its intention of portraying Vietnam on screen.

The trailer for Netflix’s latest travel romantic comedy A Tourist’s Guide to Love didn’t inspire much confidence. An American tourist visits a strange and exotic location in the Far East and magically finds enlightenment thanks to the help of robe-wearing, otherworldly locals — the premise sounds exactly like Eat, Pray, Love and the myriads of destination romances it spawned, i.e. vapid with a whispery kiss of orientalism. Still, I am but a blind moth drawn to the destructive blaze of terrible romcoms, and there’s a tiny part of me that secretly wonders how our nation’s backyard would appear in a bona fide Netflix production, so one Saturday in April, I allowed myself to be guided to love *gags*.

Sinh (left) and Anh (right) are our trusty guides on the road to find love in Vietnam.

Our heroine, Amanda Riley (Rachael Leigh Cook), is a travel executive for American luxury travel agent Tourista. Her boyfriend of five years suddenly announces that he has taken a job in Ohio and wants to put their relationship on pause, despite her expectation that he would propose. Heartbroken, she dumps him and takes on a company mission to do an undercover inspection trip to Vietnam to scope out family-run tour company Saigon Silver Star as a potential acquisition. Here, Amanda joins a tour group led by free-spirited guide Sinh Thạch (Scott Lý), whose uncle owns Saigon Silver Star, and slowly falls for him as they, and a handful of perky travelers, traverse the length of Vietnam. The trip, whimsically chauffeured by Sinh’s cousin Anh (Quinn Trúc Trần), includes shopping in Bến Thành Market, walking under lanterns in Hội An, sampling street food in Hanoi, beaching in Đà Nẵng, and a spontaneous detour to Thôn Chàng, Sinh’s hometown, to meet his bà nội (Lê Thiện).

A Hallmark carbon copy with a whiff of durian

Cook, a romcom veteran, aces the part with practiced ease. Amanda is a textbook Hallmark female lead, a girl boss from the city with a flair for orderliness who’s sorely in need of some adventure. Under Cook’s deft hands, Amanda’s neuroses appear relatable and her wide-eyed appreciation of Vietnam’s supposed hidden charms seem genuine. Considering the script’s allergy to nuanced characterization, Cook has done an admirable job making Amanda likable, even though she constantly refers to herself in the third person as “Amanda Riley.” By the end of the movie, “Amanda Riley” feels less like a person and more like a Harry Potter spell, so I would strongly advise against taking a shot every time a character says “Amanda Riley” on screen.

Bà nội (Lê Thiện) is cheeky and warm, a bright spot in the story's otherwise dull events.

Lê Thiện and Quinn Trúc Trần also thrive despite their narrative constraints, imbuing their performances with infectious warmth and positivity. It’s comical, however, to witness the lengths to which the movie will go to demonize Amanda’s boyfriend in order to get us to root for the main leads to end up together. John (Ben Feldman) is a forensic accountant; his Instagram handle is @Forensic_John; he loves flight reward points; and I guess a production assistant accidentally burned the rest of his character description page. Ben, if you’re reading this, after Superstore and The Perfect Man, you really don’t deserve this, fire your agent.

Ironically, even @Forensic_John has more chemistry with Amanda than Sinh, played by newcomer Scott Lý. For the majority of the running time, Sinh mostly functions as a Tourism Edition fortune cookie dispenser, dropping nuggets of travel wisdom like “Embrace the mystery,” “Travel is good, it forces us out of the comfort zone,” and “Sometimes traveling is soaking in the atmosphere.” To be fair, there’s a certain earnestness to Sinh that I appreciate in spite of the wooden acting, not to mention the fact that this film is perhaps the first-ever foreign production to cast a Vietnamese male actor in a lead role that calls for any smidgen of sex appeal. Previously, Saigon-based indie drama Monsoon featured a main character of Vietnamese descent, but cast British-Malaysian Henry Golding instead.

Cleaning altarware together is a great way to bond with your future granddaughter-in-law.

Knowing the quirks of the formulaic romcom genre, I think A Tourist’s Guide to Love actually does an acceptable job when it comes to the “Love” component of the deal, but those unfamiliar with the geography of Vietnam should take its “Tourist’s Guide” with a generous amount of caution. As someone who frequently travels by bus in Vietnam, I can’t believe these poor American tourists were subjected to a staggering 41 hours of traveling on the road across the length of Vietnam, and not even on a sleeper bus.

The tour starts in Saigon; Anh drives the group to Hội An; they swim in Đà Nẵng and visit the Mỹ Sơn Sanctuary; Sinh suggests a detour to his home village in Hà Giang; and finally, they come down to Hanoi on the last leg. If Google Maps is any indication, that itinerary amounts to over 2,200 kilometers of sitting on a bus over bumpy rural roads. Does A Tourist’s Guide to Love violate the Geneva Convention? Does their travel insurance cover hemorrhoid treatment? While it’s not impossible, I doubt that any tour company in Vietnam would suggest this miserable road trip to their clients, especially when air travel is so convenient and cheap.

A happy ending for Vietnam tourism

Putting aside the script’s many logistical hiccups and formulaic characterization, what’s left to see in A Tourist’s Guide to Love? The answer is Vietnam, which emerges as the clear winner both in the movie world and in real life. Sure, Amanda Riley and Sinh have a happy ending and share a chaste tongueless kiss outside the Hanoi Opera House. Whatever. What gets me going is the fact that we finally get the happy ending we deserve.

Amanda Riley (Rachael Leigh Cook), an experienced tour executive, is shocked to learn about Mỹ Sơn Sanctuary for the first time.

Amongst their foreign-language titles, Netflix’s Vietnam track record has been disappointing to say the least. The Spanish comedy Thi Mai, about a trio of middle-aged women who travel to Vietnam to adopt a child, has a tacky dog meat gag right in the trailer. Spike Lee’s critically acclaimed Da 5 Bloods portrays Vietnamese characters with the same tropes that have been tired since Apocalypse Now — who can forget that cringe-worthy chicken scene? A Tourist’s Guide to Love has managed to stay away from stereotypes and cheap racist jokes, apart from that time when Amanda first encounters Sinh and immediately starts using Google Translate, assuming he doesn’t know English.

Still, in an effort to remain inoffensive, at times, it overcorrects by making the tourist group too agreeable to the point of creepiness. Every new activity, destination, and scenery announced by Sinh and Anh is met with unbridled enthusiasm and nary a question nor complaint. I would have said something if my tour guide fails to book me Bà Nà Hills tickets that I paid for, and instead decide to ship me halfway across the country to a stranger’s house, even though that stranger turns out to be an adorable grandma. It’s almost like they are not real tourists, but paid actors hired to hype up Vietnam tourism. Wait.

This is probably the least fussy group of tourists in the history of Vietnam tourism.

Jokes aside, A Tourist’s Guide to Love has one hundred percent delivered on its promise of being a tourism romance thanks to the decadent feast of travel montages that would make any national tourism board shed tears of joy. Orgasmic bites into gỏi cuốn in Bến Thành Market, a rare win for durian, flirting over National Geographic-esque bundles of incense sticks, cozy family time making bánh chưng for Tết — this movie is the best promotional video for Vietnam tourism on the market right now. As much a decent job as Rachael Leigh Cook did as an actor, she was better as a producer on the film, because the production team demonstrated valiant efforts to depict Vietnamese culture accurately and Vietnamese landscapes in the best light possible. The soundtrack of hip V-pop songs is a welcome touch. Another tiny detail that pleases me is the fact that Amanda’s áo dài fits her well, and she looks radiant in that slow-motion reveal, the rose details on the dress matching the actual rose blossoms in the shot perfectly.

For much of the film’s running time, Sinh spouts a lot of bullshit travel platitudes, but one line stays with me: “I know some Americans think of Vietnam only in terms of war, but it’s just a small piece of our history.” Intentionally or not, this is the one sentence that boils down the movie’s ultimate message about Vietnam to the world — not just in the realm of tourism, but in general — one that I think many can resonate with. A Tourist’s Guide to Love is inoffensive and naive to the point of boredom, but, at the end of the day, it means well.