“They can do what they want. The city owns the zoo. They could sell all the animals here. They could turn it into a golf course. We’re just little people — you and me.”

Hải, a zookeeper played by Lê Thế Lữ, offers this bleak assessment to 10-year-old orphan Thúy (Phạm Thị Hân) as they gaze at the elephant he has raised in the Saigon Zoo since its birth. Thúy has just run away from abusive conditions in her uncle’s rural factory to Saigon with little plan or understanding of the world, and found a kind mentor in Hải. The pair proceeds into the city, cruising through streets devoid of cars and motorbike helmets to pick up bushels of bananas for the animals before loitering across from a cell phone shop offering the “newest models” that even take photos and record videos. 

Photo via International Film Festival Rotterdam.

Filmed in 2006, The Owl and the Sparrow (Cú và chim se sẻ) is a valuable time capsule of early 2000s Saigon, when impoverished children roamed the streets selling flowers beneath neon lights, bowls of VND5,000 hủ tiếu were announced by the banging of metal sticks, bulky tube televisions blared nature documentaries on VTV in musty hotel rooms and piles of paper records, receipts and invoices cluttered office shelves. But more than that, it's a timeless story of the “little people” in a big city searching for compassion and acceptance. 

Photo via International Film Festival Rotterdam.

Set over the course of five days, the feature film follows Thúy as she befriends Hải and a lonesome airline stewardess, Lan (played by Cát Ly). After the girl introduces them to each other, the pair share an emotional moment as they stare out over the balcony:

Owl and the Sparrow is a fairy tale in the sense that it begins with characters in states of unacknowledged desperation. From the heartbreaking moments of Thúy only being able to witness happy parents in the speech her own voice grants to her toy dolls to Lan crying after yet another romantic rendezvous with a married pilot, the movie offers the gritty miseries and routine pains that constitute life. 

Photo via International Film Festival Rotterdam.

These eternal human sorrows extend to the impacts of the city’s commercial priorities. Early in the film, an executive from the zoo visits Huy to explain: “Times are changing, the city is developing quickly. The Zoo isn’t making any money. Operating costs are too high.” When Huy responds, “The zoo isn’t supposed to make money,” I hear echoes of every poet, musician, and painter I admire. This manifestation of the unbalanced fight between art and capitalism is part of what first resonated with me when I came across the film on YouTube soon after moving to Saigon. And in addition to my unabashed appreciation of the Saigon Zoo, I admired that the Saigon it presented, one of threatening enormity and furious rapidity, held the power to provide companionship and acceptance: a found family in addition to a home, something I didn’t realize I was searching for. 

Video via Hsanchia YouTube.

Capturing the natural feel of Saigon

“This is the one movie all Vietnamese need to see,” Kenneth Nguyen announced on his podcast The Vietnamese when interviewing Cát Ly several years ago. Upon hearing this, I came to a dead stop, ironically just a few blocks from where the movie’s final scene occurs. I hadn’t discussed the movie with anyone before, and was thrilled to discover others held the same love for it as I do. Kenneth and Cát Ly were both extremely generous and excited to chat with me about the making of the movie, what it meant for them, and particularly the special talent and humanity of writer/director Stephane Gauger.

“I remember him telling me, ‘I'm going to write this in four weeks,’” Kenneth, a long-time friend of Gauger and a member of America’s Vietnamese film community, shared about the origin of The Owl and the Sparrow. At that time, Gauger was living in Saigon, spending days at the Insomnia cafe between work as a gaffer for movies made with other Vietnamese Americans. Born in Saigon in 1970 to a Vietnamese mother and German-American father, he was essentially brought up by his older sisters in their Orange County home, according to Kenneth, which explains why an extremely tall, very white looking man spoke fluent Vietnamese and could integrate into the communities held deep within Saigon’s hẻms. This allowed him a deep understanding and respect for the city’s rhythms, characters, and opportunities which he captured with his guerilla-style film-making. Fueled by moxie and maxed-out credit cards, he dove in headfirst with full faith in his creative vision for the film.

Gauger on set. Photo via the Orange County Register.

While carefully scripted with little space for improvisation, The Owl and the Sparrow borrows elements from cinema vérité, or “truthful cinema.” In its attempts to capture scenes and events as they feel when experienced first-hand, that style of documentary relies on handheld cameras that shake and move as they focus on characters and unfolding action. The film’s imperfect angles and unstable framing resulting from this filming method create an intimacy and authenticity. Moreover, Gauger relied on regular citizens and bystanders to serve as extras in scenes filmed on public streets. These elements, along with his astute understanding of the city and its inhabitants’ lifestyles, allow the film to feel like a non-fiction chronicle of true life.

“My tastes are urban and contemporary,” he said in an interview with the Orange County Register. “I shot digitally, using the latest tools to create a new cinéma vérité for Vietnamese cinema. The themes I wanted to address were dislocation in the big city, and certain moods of loneliness. We have a modern single man, a modern single woman, and a fish-out-of-water character.

“He just put us in this natural spot of what Saigon nightlife is like […] He wanted people to feel like they were there, that’s his style,” Cát Ly recalled of her portion of the shoot. “It was just him and his handheld and there were definitely no permits. He was like ‘Cát, just do what you gotta do and I'll do what I have to do. It was crazy … I don't even think people even knew he was recording, honestly, because when he was recording, there would be just like two or three crew people around him, just walking the streets,” she continued with a laugh. Gauger had a degree in theater arts and French literature and maintained dreams of being a writer and director while working as a gaffer. He was in that role on the set of Journey from the Fall when he first met Cát. “He was just one of the sweetest guys,” she recalled, “and very noticeable because he's so tall… And just super sweet. We hit it off.” She made an impression on him as well, as unbeknownst to her, he wrote the script for Owl and the Sparrow, with her intended as the lead.

While Cát had acted before, at that time she was focused on her singing career in the US, where she had moved to with her parents as a young child. The filming of The Owl in the Sparrow was her first time back in Vietnam, and her entire stint was limited to 10 of the shoot's full 15 days so she could return to America to maintain her scheduled performances. They didn’t even have time for rehearsals or table reads. Despite these challenges, she was drawn to the project not for the minimal money it paid but because it sounded fun and she wanted to support Gauger, especially because of the compliment he paid her in writing the role with her in mind. The script also won her over because the story was more than a romantic love story: “To me it was a story of family love […] in the end, it's all about family. I think everybody needs that type of love. I think family love is the best. You can always rely on your family. They're always there for you.”

Lan and Thúy share noodles. Photo via IMDB.

Meanwhile, the young girl who played Thúy had no film acting experience and was discovered at an open call in Saigon. While in Vietnam, Gauger had cast the rest of the actors and assembled a local team to support the filming, even though the location that required permits was the zoo. The whirlwind shoot ended quickly with Cát Ly resuming her regular shows and Gauger tasked with editing and ultimately searching for distribution and screenings. 

The necessity of being ahead of its time

The Owl and the Sparrow’s success depends on the metrics you apply. After its January 2007 premiere at the International Film Festival Rotterdam, it played at more than 30 film festivals around the world. It picked up numerous awards, such as the Best Narrative Feature (Audience Award) at the Los Angeles Film Festival and the Best Narrative Feature at the San Francisco Asian American Film Festival, as well as three Vietnamese Golden Kite awards in 2009, including Best Film voted by journalists and Best Foreign Collaboration Feature. 

Gauger (in the ball cap) on set in Saigon. Photo via Thể thao & Văn hóa.

A true artist, he was most concerned with sharing his craft and vision independent of accolades and sales. However, Kenneth and Cát both speculated that he was disappointed that the film did not resonate more with the Vietnamese American community. “I don't think the Vietnamese American or Vietnamese diaspora around the world really understood the film,” Kenneth said. “They didn't get what they wanted: something slick and steady and polished. And if it wasn't that, they weren't going to be interested. [But] I think people wanted to give it a chance and the high-brow people understood it.”

The film’s subject made it harder to resonate with diaspora audiences, Cát said, noting its differences with the previous film they had worked on together. “Journey from the Fall had more impact on people because more people went through that: boat people escaping from Vietnam. The audience members can relate to that, I believe, more than The Owl and the Sparrow.” Moreover, at the time of its release in 2007, members of the diaspora were not interested in returning to Vietnam like the younger generations are now, and thus, the topic of exploring a developing Saigon didn’t have the same appeal as stories that spoke to their own lived experiences. Cát added that the movie would likely resonate more today, thanks to the audience’s familiarity with different styles of movie-making and a desire for a greater variety of style types.

While The Owl and the Sparrow may not have connected with Vietnamese American audiences as much as the director wished, it provided consequential inspiration and tangible infrastructures for filmmakers in the community. Kenneth explained that despite 12 awards, it couldn’t find distribution, a shocking reality that reflects the challenges for Vietnamese films at the time. This led Gauger and a group of peers to establish a distribution company and fund cinema screenings. This determined belief in his work and the importance of Vietnamese cinema impacted future writers, directors, producers and filmmakers who went on to high-profile successes. “We looked up to him because he gave us the power,” Kenneth said. “He gave us the power to say ‘Let's just go do it.’ There's that ethos: he never had money, but he got things made.”

The big, lovable, bold, huggable teddy bear at the center of it all

After The Owl and the Sparrow, Gauger worked on other films, including writing and directing the hip hop story Saigon, Yo (2011) and co-writing with Timothy Bui the screenplay for Powder Blue which starred Forest Whitaker and Jessica Biel. Tragically, he passed away unexpectedly in 2018 at only 48 years old. In addition to the decades of exciting contributions to cinema that no doubt lay ahead for him, Kenneth reflected on what his loss meant on a personal level. He was  “the glue” that held a community together. “They loved being around him. He smoked and he drank, but he was just this big, lovable, bold, huggable teddy bear.” 

Photo via Tuổi Trẻ.

“He was one of the most attentive ones, you know?” Cát said. “Every morning on set, he'd come and ask, ‘Cat, you ready for today? I know you got this […]  you need anything, let me know.’ He was just that kind of guy — genuinely sweet. I don't think I've ever seen him upset or mean; always a smile and always happy-go-lucky. That's the type of guy he was.” 

Gauger’s full-throated love of life and people allowed him to succeed as a filmmaker as well. “You give me five minutes to hang out with the director or writer and I can tell you if they're going to make a good movie that I like or not, because you can tell who's really living authentically, who's really putting their ass on the line and living a life that's genuine,” Kenneth said. “If they’re not in it for the adventure of living, or they're not living on the edge of emotion or traveling or whatever it is that really puts them on the map, living past the boundaries of their regular peers who go on to medical school or whatever; If they're not pushing the envelope, you can tell. Stephane was one of those guys who truly pushed the envelope.”

This empathetic embrace of the world informs the emotional core of The Owl and the Sparrow, particularly its focus on the “little people” and the humanization of orphans and the poor. Kenneth explained: “I think it's because of how he was raised with no money and he always struggled financially, so he had this bond with people who are less fortunate. He had this deep love for for society, for people who are abandoned, for orphans who didn't have family because he was half Vietnamese, half white… so he was able to kind of like traverse these two worlds and understand the world of the abandoned and the unwanted, and then also get to experience the world of what deep family values are like.”

Owl and the Sparrow intersperced documentary footage of orphanages. Photo via IMDB.

Similarly, the movie offers a warm-hearted view of romance. While it no longer feels true, for a long time, an airline stewardess in Vietnam was a glamorous profession occupied by women from prestigious families with connections to the military and the entertainment elite. This position contrasts starkly with a zoo-keeper, a low-paid job that involves shoveling animal shit. And yet, despite coming from different social classes, the characters in The Owl and the Sparrow connect. Kenneth theorized this reflected Gauger’s own romantic experiences. “I think in his mind, it's just like: these women, airline stewardess types, get themselves tangled up in hot messes with married men. ‘Why not date a guy like me? You know, why not date a good man? Why not date a poor man who can make you happy? Who's deep, you know.’ So I think it was very personal.” 

I relayed this theory to Cát who lent support, adding that Gauger used to talk to her about relationships and his difficulties with women. Such reality surprised her at the time, and she would remark, “Hold on, really? You’re like, the sweetest dude.” To which she remembers him responding, “Maybe that's why, Cát. Maybe I'm too sweet.” So perhaps it's no surprise that the zoo-keeper who speaks to animals with a heart of gold charms the airline stewardess who is finally fed up with being the mistress of a rich pilot.

While I will never have the chance to ask Gauger himself about this idea, he said in an interview before his passing: “These characters embody a little bit of me. There’s a little bit of me in every character that I write.”

Friends and fans left notes for Gauger after his passing. Photo via Zing.

The ongoing life of The Owl and the Sparrow

When I first set out to explore this film and its history, I wanted to dig deeper and offer a more expansive chronicle of its making. I wanted to unearth the rare photos of Gauger when he shocked Cát by dressing up in something other than a tanktop for a movie premiere. I wanted to track down Phạm Gia Hân to hear what she remembers from filming with this strange, loveable giant who spoke fluent Vietnamese and hear how Pete Nguyen developed such a soothing, emotion-wrenching score. I wanted to provide space for all the insights and funny anecdotes Kenneth and Cát so generously shared, such as how, if you look closely, you might recognize Lan is a bit shaky on the motorbike because Cát had actually never driven one before, let alone in Saigon’s manic traffic. 

Cát Ly rides a motorbike for the first time. Photo via IMDB.

Unfortunately, time and space require that some elements will continue unreported, for now at least. And in the meantime, you can watch the film for yourself. Gauger owned the movie rights, and the version with English subtitles available on YouTube is legal and does not deprive anyone of an income. If you’re really lucky, you can catch one of the occasional full cinema screenings, such as at 2023’s Saigon Film Festival.

Perhaps Kenneth summed it up best when I asked him to expand on his statement that every Vietnamese should see The Owl and the Sparrow. Reflecting on Gauger’s enthusiastic confidence and insatiable effort that made it possible, he said, “Everybody should watch it to see what kind of realities in life are possible when you put your mind to it.”

It was an ordinary Saturday summer afternoon in the late 2000s, and I was sitting in my mom’s office while waiting for her to finish her work, watching YouTube on one of the computers in the room. It wasn't just any video for kids, but a scene where a wolf downs a whole pack of cigarettes at once and blows the smoke into a locked telephone booth to try to suffocate a hare inside. That seemingly absurd scenario came from none other than Hãy Đợi Đấy!, one of my favorite cartoon shows.

Ну, погоди!, known in Vietnam as Hãy Đợi Đấy!, was a staple in many Vietnamese childhoods alongside other iconic children's media such as Tom and Jerry or Phineas and Ferb. It was one of the first series I watched once I became aware of cartoons’ existence, and unlike other Disney or Cartoon Network series, I could thoroughly enjoy it without having to understand the language, even though it was a Russian cartoon.

The earliest concept of the two main characters in Happy Merry-Go-Round.

The official series title card.

Hãy Đợi Đấy! was created for Soyuzmultfilm, a well-known animation studio in Moscow, by three prominent Soviet writers, Aleksandr Kurlyandsky, Felix Kandel, and Arkady Khait. It premiered in 1969 as a two-minute pilot featured in another animated anthology series named Happy Merry-Go-Round. It became a stand-alone cartoon show thanks to the public’s positive reception, with 16 episodes aired between the 1960s and the 1980s. Contrary to the Soviet-produced animated features at that time, which either contained adult-oriented themes or heavily educational messages for children, this series followed a slapstick comedy formula and a simple, repetitive storyline, starting with a Wolf chasing a Hare, the Hare managing to outsmart the Wolf, and the Wolf yelling in agony, “Ну, кролик, погоди!” (Hey, rabbit, just you wait!) at the end of every episode.

The Wolf's smoking habit has raised concerns amongst parents.

The cartoon sparked some controversies surrounding how the Wolf was depicted as smoking a lot for a children's show, and some were concerned that the violence might be harmful to children. Nonetheless, Hãy Đợi Đấy! still reached immense levels of popularity, both domestically and internationally, becoming a cultural symbol in the Soviet Union and Russia.

Những Bông Hoa Nhỏ on VTV was the first place where Hãy Đợi Đấy! appeared.

Hãy Đợi Đấy! came to Vietnam for the first time through the show Những Bông Hoa Nhỏ, an anthology program for children on national television that featured cartoons from different countries. Due to the lack of television content made for Vietnamese children during the 1970s and 1980s, the cartoon instantly became a sensation. Indeed, the scene of children in the neighborhood huddling together in front of a black-and-white TV, waiting for Hãy Đợi Đấy!’s familiar opening title card and song was a core memory for many. Many moments from the show were also deeply ingrained; notably the Wolf’s hilarious sprite with the memorable pink flower-printed boxer, the Hare’s laugh whenever it successfully evades the Wolf’s attack, or the Wolf screaming, “Nu, Pogodi!” at the end.

The samovar, a Russian tea-making utensil.

The fox's depiction is inspired by famous Russian singer Alla Pugachyova.

A scene from the special episode celebrating the Summer Olympics in Moscow.

While watching Hãy Đợi Đấy!, the audience may notice many Soviet/Russian cultural references sprinkled throughout the series. Some of those references include the samovar, a utensil frequently used in the Soviet Union/Russia to make tea; the Fox singer from episode 15 being a caricature of Alla Pugachyova, a famous Russian singer; episode 16 paying homage to the well-known European fairy tales among Slavic communities; an entire episode celebrating the 1980 Summer Olympics in Moscow; traditional clothes or dances; and many, many more.

The series on a stamp.

After the normalization of diplomatic relations between Vietnam and other countries like China and the US in the early and mid-1990s, many new goods were imported into Vietnam, including a lot more children's media from other cultures. From Disney movies to Chinese-speaking cartoon series with Vietnamese dubbing, Hãy Đợi Đấy! slowly lost its relevance in the Vietnamese market as its simplistic and crude style of animation could no longer compete against the glamorous animated features from big studios. Additionally, the death of Anatoli Papanov, the Wolf’s voice actor, was a blow to the show, and the two episodes created in 1993 using Papanov’s voice archives were a critical failure, resulting in Hãy Đợi Đấy! fading out of the spotlight. Nevertheless, for Vietnamese who followed the cartoon first when it was aired on Những Bông Hoa Nhỏ, Hãy Đợi Đấy! was a key childhood landmark. Its cultural influence in Vietnam is shown by the way “Nu, Pogodi!” became a household catchphrase for many Vietnamese people from Gen X, even though they do not know the language.

Boarding a boat.

On the Ferris Wheel.

Today, when I look at Hãy Đợi Đấy!, I do not see just the Wolf and the Hare’s endless chase and banter, but a bridge across time and cultural background. For people in my mom’s generation, there was the rare, childlike joy of watching something child-friendly in black and white. For me, there was a world of wonder that I immersed myself in every Saturday afternoon. It became more than mere entertainment, but a reminder of how stories and culture can transcend physical boundaries. I wonder if the writers and director of Hãy Đợi Đấy! knew the profound impact their creation had on members of an international audience, like me. 

It’s undeniable that Mười: The Legend of a Portrait has left a lasting impression in the minds of a generation of Vietnamese, as the first collaboration between Vietnam and South Korea’s cinema industries. Watching this contemporary classic in 2024, however, made me realize that Mười has not aged well.

Excitement in the early days of the Hallyu Wave

Mười was the first-ever horror film I watched in the theater, and the experience was memorable for many reasons. Beside the grown-up excitement of going to the movies alone with my teenage buddies, our encounter with Mười was made even more thrilling by the fact that the movie was NC-16 and we weren’t of age. Oh the simple joys of being young, when eluding the nonchalant eyes of the ticket clerk — who probably wasn’t paid enough to care that we were underaged — could make one feel like such daredevils.

The official poster of Mười.

When Mười was first announced in 2006, it was a project of many firsts, too. Tuổi Trẻ called it “Vietnam’s first commercial film with elements of mystery and horror”; the film was the first Vietnamese release scandalous enough to receive the NC-16 rating, but the media at the time was more celebratory about the fact that it was also the first collaborative release between Vietnamese and South Korean productions. The movie poster, featuring the two Korean leads clad in sleek áo dài, inspired much pride amongst Vietnamese cinema fans, who have long held the belief that our local film industry is well beneath that of Korea.

If the US and the rest of the world are only just getting a taste of the Korean wave in recent years thanks to the bombastic global success of Parasite and Squid Game, Vietnam and much of Southeast Asia fell under the Hallyu spell much earlier than that. The first South Korean drama to ever grace Vietnamese TV screens, Hoa Cúc Vàng (Marigold, 1992), was broadcast in Hanoi in 1996 and then syndicated in Saigon in 1999 to rapturous reception by Vietnamese female viewers. The next decade witnessed a popularity boom of Korean TV series in the country, marked by the release of notable classics like Cảm Xúc (Feelings, 1994), Người Mẫu (Model, 1997), and Bản tình ca mùa đông (Winter Sonata, 2002). This newfound enthusiasm for soap operas ignited a Korean fever that spread to all corners of pop culture in Vietnam, including cuisine, travel, fashion, and later, K-pop.

Mười was co-produced by South Korean mogul CJ Entertainment and Hãng Phim Phước Sang, one of Vietnam’s earliest film companies formed after Đổi Mới. The metaphorical handshake between the two was met with sanguine commentaries in the media; there was hope that it would be a sign of growth for the local cinema industry at the time, which was rife with cheap, raunchy slapstick comedies. In the 2000s, thanks to critically acclaimed titles like A Tale of Two Sisters (dir. Kim Jee-woon, 2003) and The Host (dir. Bong Joon-ho, 2006), South Korean horror became a well-respected brand in Asia, producing high-quality works that were on par with and distinctly different from their Hollywood counterparts. So a Vietnamese co-production with Korea like Mười was seen as a great honor, though the movie ultimately failed to live up to its Korean predecessors.

A Korean horror with Vietnamese set dressing

Mười: The Legend of a Portrait follows the story of two Korean characters, Yoon-hee (Jo An) and Seo-yeon (Cha Ye-ryeon), who were close childhood friends but grew apart as adults. Seo-yeon mysteriously moved to Vietnam shortly after Yoon-hee published her first novel, part of which was based on malicious rumors about her friend. Three years have passed, and Yoon-hee, now facing writing deadlines from her publisher, is enticed by the legend of Mười, a Vietnamese urban legend of a female ghost with demonic powers, and decides to visit Seo-yeon in Vietnam to research Mười for her new book. The long-lost friends meet again when Seo-yeon invites Yoon-hee to stay at her French-built villa in Đà Lạt while she investigates the tale of Mười, but ghastly truths start to rear their heads as Yoon-hee gradually discovers that her childhood buddy is much more involved in the legend of Mười than she first appears.

Cha Ye-ryeon (left) as Seo-yeon and Jo An (right) as Yoon-hee.

The contemporary timeline is interspersed with sepia-tinted flashbacks recounting the life and gruesome death of Mười (Anh Thư), a young girl living 100 years ago. Mười was the tenth and youngest child in a poor family in the Mekong Delta. She fell in love with Nguyễn (Bình Minh), a local painter, not knowing he was already married to Hồng (Hồng Ánh), an aristocratic lady with a sadistic jealous streak. Enraged to discover the tryst, Hồng and her henchmen broke into Mười’s house, tortured her, broke her foot, and obliterated her face with acid. Pushed to a dead-end, Mười committed suicide, but her forever-disturbed soul started possessing an unfinished portrait Nguyễn was painting of her, wreaking havoc on Hồng’s life. Under the pretense of rekindling their love and completing the artwork, Nguyễn lured Mười’s phantom to a pagoda. After he was done with her portrait, a group of monks appeared, using Buddhist chants to subdue her in time for the head monk to lock her soul into the portrait using a hairpin.

Bình Minh (left) as Nguyễn and Anh Thư (right) as Mười.

For the most part, as a horror film, Mười is a decent watch, albeit a formulaic and predictable one. Its simplistic tropes surrounding a love triangle and demonic possession make it easy to digest even for non-horror fans, and its straightforward script leaves little room for plot holes to spoil the fun. Cha Ye-ryeon as the willowy and enigmatic Seo-yeon is the single bright spot in the film, acting-wise, balancing vulnerability and eeriness with surgical precision. You can’t help but sympathize with her tragic life, even though a small part in the back of your mind is ever creeped out by her wide-set grin.

The demon that's sidelined in her own film

The word “collaboration” often implies a somewhat equal relationship between involved parties, but in the case of Mười: The Legend of a Portrait, the Korean end of the equation completely dominated the movie, while the Vietnamese facets were haphazardly done at best and sidelined at worst. For one, the script makes little effort to get the background historical and geographical details right. 

Even the gorgeously shot Vietnamese settings are riddled with logistical inaccuracies: the two Korean friends meet at Tân Sơn Nhất Airport in Saigon, drive to Seo-yeon’s Đà Lạt villa, and, in the next scene, are sitting on a boat on the way to visit Mười’s homestead in the Mekong Delta, which is somehow still very well-preserved for a thatched hut that was constructed 100 years ago.

This riverine scenic landscape must be a new tourist attraction in Đà Lạt.

The worst thing about Mười is that I can count on one hand the number of sentences each Vietnamese cast member is given. Even as the titular character, Mười doesn’t have a single line of dialogue, save for the screaming when she is tortured, and the demonic shrieks when she apparates to do the haunting. What’s more, every Vietnamese character is depicted in a bad light: Mười is a demon, Nguyễn is a cheating fuccboi, Hồng is a jealous sadist, even the random old lady on the street is a creep with a white eye. The only helpful character outside the main pair is half-Vietnamese, half-Korean, played by a Korean actress. Maybe the real horror of Mười is how this purported Vietnam-Korea co-production has repeatedly failed its Vietnamese cast and setting.

Hồng Ánh was completely wasted as Hồng. Still, even with the scant material she was given, Ánh's facial muscles did a sterling job.

In every piece of promotional material and throughout the film, Anh Thư wears a white áo dài, accentuating the striking contrast between Mười’s lived innocence and her bloodthirsty, mangled demonic form. Nguyễn, her painter lover; and Hồng, his vindictive wife, are also portrayed in different cuts of áo dài. The timeline puts Mười’s birth year at around the 1900s, making this liberal usage of áo dài impossible, because the first áo dài wasn’t even invented until 1934, let alone the form-fitting, high school uniform-style version Mười is always seen in.

Mười is so ahead of her time that she wears a contemporary dress 100 years her junior.

This historical error is even more grating to notice, considering áo dài is the only key element tethering the film to Vietnam, because there is nothing in Mười that’s inherently linked to Vietnamese culture. The central conflict revolves around a jealous crime of passion so generic one can switch out Đà Lạt with Chiang Mai or Kaohsiung, and áo dài with Thai pha sin or Taiwanese qipao to produce other Asian iterations, i.e. สิบ or 十.

Áo dài is used throughout Mười as a poor attempt to emphasize the Vietnamese element.

Nothing is as ostentatiously “Vietnam” as áo dài — perhaps with the exception of a bowl of phở, but it’s much harder to make supposedly Vietnamese characters wear phở — so international productions usually slap an áo dài on their Vietnamese characters, as a lazy shortcut to signify Vietnam-ness, without bothering to research the appropriate contexts when áo dài is worn in Vietnamese culture. Curiously, the 2000s also brought us two other Vietnam-centric Korean TV projects: Cô Dâu Hà Nội (Hanoi Bride, 2005) and Cô Dâu Vàng (The Golden Bride, 2007). Both feature South Korean actresses in Vietnamese roles, wearing áo dài everywhere and speaking gibberish Vietnamese. Ironically, in this era, Mười was the only depiction of a Vietnamese woman in a Korean production that didn’t fall under the stereotype of a foreign bride.

The dynamic between Vietnamese and South Korean media industries is akin to that of an older sibling and their wide-eyed baby sister. One always peeks at the other through the lens of hero worship, trying on their shoes and makeup while they’re not home, hoping to be like them when they grow up. The other thinks the baby sister’s antics are… cute, but almost never taken seriously. The creation of Mười: The Legend of a Portrait epitomizes this skewed relationship, in which one side tries too hard to please, and the other just doesn’t seem to care enough to put in an effort.

In 2005, I was in middle school. I had never had a cellphone nor known what the internet was — our home didn’t have ADSL until ninth grade. Life as a fledgling pupil in Saigon revolved around homework, catching the latest That’s So Raven episode on Disney Channel, and riding behind my dad’s back on our family motorbike every day to and from school. But something was about to change: 2005 was the year I went to the movies for the very first time.

I could have altered the narrative and lied that the first movie I saw was 1735 Km — wouldn’t it be poetic? I could have waxed lyrical about how a little-known indie flick opened my eyes to the world of passionate movie-making. Alas, my gateway introduction into the magical landscape of in-person cinema was a gratuitous Tết comedy called Khi Đàn Ông Có Bầu (When Men Get Pregnant). When you’re a tag-along appendage to your family’s movie nights, there’s little you could do about what to watch, so my cineplex cherry was popped to the raucous humdrum of crude reproductive-themed vaudeville.

It was in February, and I often think back to that moment, wondering if I had waited eight more months, would I have caught 1735 Km while it was still in theaters? Probably not, because I had no disposable income to my name and a road trip rom-com starring unknown actors wouldn’t be on a young teen’s radar. Obviously, the makers of 1735 Km preferred a less on-the-nose approach to title-crafting than When Men Get Pregnant, but the enigmatic number didn’t exactly rouse interest. The name alludes to the entire length of the North-South Railway from Hanoi to Saigon, a nod to the journey the protagonists go through for most of the film. There wasn’t any magic behind how I chanced upon the film in 2020, 15 years after its premiere: it was recommended by YouTube during lockdown, and I watched it. The magic, however, happened after.

The movie is a romantic comedy in the most literal sense, featuring trope-tastic shenanigans, toilet mishaps, lingering glances, musical montages, and love declarations. At kilometer zero, we meet Trâm Anh (Dương Yến Ngọc) and Kiên (Khánh Trình) as they are settling into their seats before the train leaves Hanoi for Saigon. Trâm Anh is a type-A banker who’s heading south to her Việt Kiều fiancé to meet his parents for the first time. Donning a pencil skirt and fast-talking on the phone in the introduction, Trâm Anh exudes no-nonsense assertiveness. She has goals, a travel checklist, and appears to not care for moony-eyed daydreaming. Kiên is an artistic free-spirit, the antithesis of Trâm Anh. He wears a loose-fitting tunic and carries a yellow bag filled with sketches. He studies architecture but has never been able to commit to a career, so he wanders where his passion takes him.

For the first half of the movie, as the train click-clacks its way to Huế, their ideals clash often during passing conversations. He scrunches up imperfect sketches and throws them out of the window; she disapproves. “If you don’t keep things safe, how will others know how much they mean to you?” she laments. “That’s okay. What matters is that I draw,” he appeases her. The script, penned by Kay Nguyễn, sounds stilted here and there, as if it was translated from English, but it is filled with sharp one-liners like this. A bodily function detour causes the couple to miss their train in Huế, and from then on, the road trip side of the film kicks into full gear as they hitchhike to Hội An, Nha Trang, and eventually arrive in Saigon. In true “opposites attract” fashion, they form an intimate connection, though could a few short, albeit memorable, days on the road together build enough momentum to knock our couple off their destined life trajectories? Well, you’ll have to see it to find out.

A movie of firsts

I meet Kay Nguyễn, the co-writer and then main scriptwriter behind 1735 Km, at a hẻm coffee shop that neither of us has been to before. Kay is now something of a household name in the contemporary cinema scene in Vietnam, having written, produced, and directed dozens of films. One of her most high-profile projects is Cô Ba Sài Gòn, a vintage-themed time-traveling story that caused a mild retro fever when it came out in 2017. She turns up wearing all black and a pair of sleek writerly glasses; had we not spoken before through Facebook messages, I would have found her intimidating, purely because of her decorated oeuvre. Any veteran has to start somewhere as a newbie, and Kay Nguyễn’s first-ever script was 1735 Km.

Photo via IMDB.

“Cost me too much therapy money on that movie lol,” she jokingly quips when I first reach out to her seeking more information on the film. In 2004, Kay was a 19-year-old arts student at Grinnell College in the US, studying art history and theory to become a curator or an auctioneer. She started writing about cinema for a website, because a friend was dating its webmaster and they desperately needed content. For a while, discussing and reviewing films turned into an enjoyable side project, until one day, a message arrived from Vietnam presenting a strange opportunity to write a script.

It was a member of the production crew for 1735 Km, and soon after, Kay took a gap year to return to Vietnam because “this is obviously more exciting right,” dedicating a whole summer writing and wearing as many hats as she could during the pre-production process because of the limited budget. Another writer was involved in the beginning but soon dropped out, and Kay worked closely with director Nguyễn Nghiêm Đặng Tuấn in pre-production stages, from traversing the length of Vietnam to scout scenic locations to working with the art department to create props.

The crew hit the road in March 2004. For all scenes inside the train carriage, everyone traveled alongside the characters on a three-car train: one locomotive and two wagons, one serving as the set and one as the makeup trailer, costume closet, staff nap room, canteen, and any other function one can think of. The train careened between Saigon, Nha Trang and Hanoi four times because Tuấn wanted the scenery to look right. 1735 Km had a small team, so crew members often doubled as extras — Kay “starred” as a train passenger and even the director himself played Hùng King in a fantasy sequence set in Huế.

Kay wasn’t the only crew member whose first career milestone was 1735 Km. It was also Tuấn’s first feature after graduating from the California Institute of the Arts. At the time, Dương Yến Ngọc, who plays Trâm Anh, was arguably the team’s most famous member. Ngọc had a small but well-received supporting role as a sassy fashion model in Vũ Ngọc Đãng’s pulpy blockbuster Những Cô Gái Chân Dài, released in the summer of 2004. Trâm Anh was her first main role, right off from the optimistic reviews of Chân Dài. Her on-screen paramour, Khánh Trình, mostly modeled prior to being cast as the ruggedly charming Kiên. On the technical side, the rom-com was the first movie of the now highly sought-after K’Linh in the director of photography role.

Charmingly offbeat and earnest

What the production of 1735 Km lacked in resources and experience, they made up for in passion and a youthful drive to prove themselves. To be completely honest, the resulting film is rough around the edges. One of its shortcomings is that it can’t quite decide what it wants to be. It is at times painfully, but earnestly, cheesy, but while you’re busy grimacing at the wooden acting, it throws in an eccentric encounter and you’re once again hooked. There are moments when the logic behind Trâm Anh and Kiên’s course of actions is shaky. But in spite of the flaws, there is an overarching touch of stalwart idealism and innocence that anchors 1735 Km’s emotional core, something that’s getting rarer to come by these days, and was non-existent among the film’s mainstream contemporaries back then — certainly not in When Men Get Pregnant.

In one of the movie’s most tender moments, Trâm Anh and Kiên walk shoulder-by-shoulder along Trần Phú Street in Hội An, surrounded by a kaleidoscope of lit lanterns. Kiên stops their conversation short, craning his neck to marvel at the old textures of the ancient town. Trâm Anh is, by her nature, unimpressed, though only at first. “But we can still see it by looking straight along the street, can’t we?” she queries. “Usually the ground-floor facades are altered too much by cafes and shops, only the upper floors still retain the original architecture of the historic town,” he explains. The camera pans upwards, sweeping past rows of rustic yellow balconies in contrast with a mesmerizing blue of the Hội An twilight. A contemplative score hums softly in the background.

Today, that sequence would likely be dismissed by critics as a schmaltz-fest, but I eat this up, so kudos to Tuấn. It’s a defining moment for their relationship dynamic and, by extension, the movie. It’s from this point that the pragmatic heart inside Trâm Anh starts melting as she begins to see the world from his perspective, quite literally. For once, Trâm Anh the neurotic itinerary planner discovers that there’s more to a journey than how to get from point A to point B the fastest, and there’s unexpected elegance in dilly-dallying. The moment speaks to 1735 Km’s resolute commitment to idealism and sanguine trust in the good-natured core of our interpersonal relationships, one of the things about the movie that endears me to it. Wouldn’t the world be a better place if we spent our time appreciating run-down buildings instead of meeting arranged-marriage fiancés?

For every moment of earnest philosophy in the movie, there’s a beatnik beat right after to keep your heart from softening too much. These could be anything from encountering apprentice monks playing pool in a dive bar to my favorite side “character” in the entire film, a groupie van filled with Japanese fans of Lam Trường. Waking up in Huế after missing their train, Trâm Anh and Kiên decide to tour the Imperial Palace, and find themselves hitchhiking to Hội An on a minivan chock-full of karaoke-singing, pink-shirted Lam Trường worshippers.

Kay says that the crew wanted to “make it extremely cheesy in a nod to pop culture,” and I think they succeeded — even though they couldn’t have known at the time — in creating one of the most intoxicatingly 2000s moments in cinematic history, all encapsulated in a small Toyota plastered from bottom to ceiling with photos of Lam Trường, his 2004 hit ‘Katy Katy’ blasting in from the car radio. Trường rose to fame in 1998 with the pop powerhouse ‘Tình Thôi Xót Xa’ (the crew tried to obtain rights to air this, but couldn’t, and had to settle for ‘Katy Katy’), and peaked in the mid-2000s. He emigrated to the US towards the end of the decade and disappeared from showbiz by the time the 2010s rolled around, so listening to the tune again unravels vivid memories one could only attain from living through that short era of his stardom.

Passion is a potent fuel, but is it always enough?

When Kay Nguyễn was brought on board, 1735 Km was nothing but a sliver of an idea: in their marketing vision, the producers wanted to create a tourism movie. The romantic connection drives the narrative, but playing background to that will-they-won’t-they is the picturesque, diverse, enthralling landscapes of Vietnam that unravel as the characters travel from north to south on the railway.

The movie was not expected to rake in piles of cash, due to the tiny size of Vietnam’s cinema market at the time. Major chains like CGV or BHD were non-existent; the whole country had some 10–20 cineplexes, and the general public was just getting their head around the concept of watching a film on the big screen, let alone embracing lofty ideals we proudly brandish today like “supporting local features.” “They knew they wouldn’t be able to recoup the money, but they went ahead and did it anyway,” Kay says. “Because they were passionate about it. We were all passionate about it.”

Photo via IMDB

They know they wouldn't be able to recoup the money, but they went ahead and did it anyway. Because they were passionate about it. We were all passionate about it.

1735 Km was a failure. Financially? Sad, but wasn’t unexpected. But nobody expected the general audience to collectively roll their eyes and grimace in confusion. “The box office was not that much already, but we were expected to at least have people call it cool or something,” she recalls. “The thing that hurt was the audience’s reaction. Everyone in Vietnam at that time was like ‘huh’? They didn’t understand [it]. It was hurtful.”

The overall consensus, both in the media and among movie-goers, was that the film was too weird, and the acting performances of Dương Yến Ngọc and Khánh Trình were panned, erasing any previous goodwill the former had amassed after Những Cô Gái Chân Dài. Since then, she has largely disappeared from cinema and only had small roles in TV projects. Trình got married in 2007 and has shied away from the limelight as he embraces a career in entrepreneurship.

The most prominent silver lining after the film came out was probably K’Linh’s career. Most viewers might not be able to appreciate the movie’s peculiarities, but everyone noticed how the camera did its job of capturing Vietnam’s quirks and charms with aplomb. His portfolio now lists a wide array of film projects, from indie flicks to blockbusters, and he frequently cites 1735 Km in interviews as the turning point of his professional life.

On Kay’s part, the critical and financial failure of the movie didn’t deter her from the movie business altogether, as we all know now. If anything, the journey of making it reaffirmed her interest in cinema. “Without that movie, I think I would not have gone into films. I would still engage in some creative businesses because it’s my thing, maybe a novelist or a journalist,” she contemplates. “Whatever that writes and pays the bills. This one was the threshold.”

When I ask if there are things she would like to change about 1735 Km, she answers without hesitating: “If you asked me one or two years right after finishing the movie, I would give your a list of things I would like to change, but it’s been 20 years and I’m older now. I have more perspective. I actually cherish every moment of it, like the little mistakes. They were out of innocence, out of love. So no.”

If you asked me one or two years right after finishing the movie, I would give your a list of things I would like to change, but it’s been 20 years and I’m older now. I have more perspective. I actually cherish every moment of it, like the little mistakes. They were out of innocence, out of love. So no.

Right production, wrong time

For what’s worth, I think 1735 Km holds up extremely well for its age — we wouldn’t be here if I didn't. Its downfall might be attributed to having the misfortune of being born in the wrong era.

Two years before 1735 Km, in 2003, Gái Nhảy (Go-Go Girls) by Lê Hoàng hit theaters in Vietnam. It earned VND12 billion nationwide, a meager figure by today’s standards, but was an unprecedented commercial success for the nascent cinema scene, which until that point was filled with state-sponsored films. These traditional features are not always bad, despite common beliefs, though most would agree that their subject matter tends to err on the solemn side, a quality that might get them made, but not necessarily watched.

Enter Gái Nhảy. With its skimpy jorts, reckless gyrating and excessive body glitter, the film had everything that its genteel predecessors avoided. Curious crowds hit cineplexes for the first time, resulting in astronomical commercial success and ushered in a new era for the local cinema industry, which was learning for the first time that there could be an industry.

Riding the coattails of the success of Gái Nhảy, local studios at the time churned out a smorgasbord of pulpy movies, each more scandalous than the next. These include Những Cô Gái Chân Dài (Long-Legged Ladies, 2004), Lọ Lem Hè Phố (Sidewalk Cinderella, 2004), Khi Đàn Ông Có Bầu (When Men Get Pregnant, 2005), Đẻ Mướn (Surrogacy, 2005) and Trai Nhảy (Go-Go Guys, 2007). They each attained varying degrees of financial success and notoriety, but all share a propensity for taboo — even though few treat their taboo subjects with the dignity and nuance they deserve. Studios learned quickly that sex sells, and that the audience is easy, so the sex, or evocations of sex, should more than suffice, and the quality is optional.

In October 2005, 1735 Km premiered with no sex nor big names, smack-dab in the middle of the racy renaissance that undoubtedly resurrected local cinema but also marred its name in the mind of more serious movie-goers, a tarnished image that we’re only starting to shake in the past few years. Humor must be straight-forward and blatant — famous male comics wearing plump prosthetic bellies, for example — so the unorthodox jokes in 1735 Km appeared out of tune and bewildering. Character-driven romance was rare outside of literature and television, where there is more room for the audience to get to know protagonists; the need to entertain and be entertained wasn’t as pressing in those mediums as in 2000s Vietnamese cinema.

Some of 1735 Km's most wacky lines.

Over time, we have gradually learnt to appreciate movie characters as humanistic reflections of ourselves, worthy of understanding and capable of inspiring contemplation, instead of mere vessels for escapist comedy. Romance movies featuring a pair of complex central protagonists are no longer outliers, but have thrived in recent years, at least critically and in the eyes of a small demographic of fans: Nhắm Mắt Thấy Mùa Hè (Summer in Closed Eyes, 2018), Thưa Mẹ Con Đi (Goodbye Mother, 2019), Trời Sáng Rồi, Ta Ngủ Đi Thôi (Good Morning and Good Night, 2019), and Sài Gòn Trong Cơn Mưa (Saigon in the Rain, 2020) are some standout examples. Most still can't produce the stellar commercial results their predecessors also yearned for, but have amassed a loyal fanbase, something that 1735 Km deserves.

In 2011, BHD Cineplex organized a Vietnamese film festival, screening a host of local features from the previous decade, including 1735 Km, and the reception was reportedly much more optimistic, Kay tells me. It speaks to the film’s enduring charm, something that manages to persist even until 2020. Today, it serves as a visual documentation of 2000s Vietnam, a strange time of paper Vietnam dong bills, cringe-worthy club fashion, and no motorbike helmet mandate. Obsolete setting aside, its central conundrum of whether to stick to a destined path or pursue an exciting new passion is a timeless struggle.

As much as I feel for its financial failure, I am selfishly glad that I missed both screenings in 2005 and 2011, because I wouldn’t have been able to connect to its emotional core or appreciate its vintage appeal then. I have seen 1735 Km five times, including two times as research to write this article. I finished the first watch deciding that I like it despite its imperfections; it was an irrational fondness that I can’t quite explain — there’s just something about it. It was only through sitting down with Kay to reminisce about the 2000s and living vicariously through the stories of her youth spent making this wild project that I managed to piece together what that something is. It’s an embodiment of a time we can’t get back, when it was still okay to make mistakes, to fall in love on a whim, and to take the leap not caring where we will land.

1735 Km is available in full with English subtitles on YouTube. Watch the movie here.